Page 98 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

She pulls back to look at me, and her eyes have gone sharp, certain, lit with a kind of resolve I haven't seen in her before.

"I don’t want it to end…”

And then thunder cracks — not outside, but around her, low and resonant, rolling off her skin like she's become the storm instead of its target. A growl tears loose from her throat, feral and magnificent, lightning sparking faint blue along her arms as she straightens away from the wall, fully clothed again in the space of a breath, power gathering visibly beneath her skin.

"Reina—"

"I can hear it now," she says, and her voice carries an edge that wasn't there an hour ago — steady, commanding, absolutely sure. "The storm. I'm not fighting it anymore. I'm part of it."

I pull my own clothes back into order and reach for her hand, and the second our fingers lock together the bond surges bright enough that I swear I can feel the storm itself answering her through it.

"Then let's finish this," I say.

She nods once, thunder rolling soft and low around her shoulders like something obedient now instead of something hunting her, and together we step back out through the fissure, back into the trembling chamber, back toward the relic — and this time, when she raises her hands toward it, there's nothing in her voice but certainty.

39

REINA

The chamber trembles violently beneath us, cracks spreading across the stone floor like a wound the earth can no longer contain. Above, the relic hangs suspended, pulsing in wild, erratic bursts — its light flickering, stuttering, weakening by the second. The storm outside screams in response, as though it knows what is slipping from its grasp, and the entire coastline seems caught between survival and destruction.

Finn stands beside me, his hand wrapped firmly around mine. The contact grounds me in a way nothing else could, steadying the part of me that wants to come undone. The sea surges violently against the cliffs overhead and thunder tears through the air — but then another sound rises above it all. Laughter. Harsh and broken and desperately hollow.

Aldric.

I turn to find him sprawled across the stone floor near the relic, his clothes soaked through, his face drained of colour. Years seem to have settled upon him all at once, stripping away everything that once made him formidable. The confidence is gone. The pride is gone. What remains is exhaustion, and beneath it, something far more permanent. Defeat.

His laughter echoes through the chamber a second time, and no one joins him. Not Finn. Not Gideon. Not the townspeople crowding the tunnel entrance at our backs. Every person in the room has gone silent, watching and waiting, as though unsure whether what they are witnessing is real. Aldric slowly shakes his head, then drops his gaze to the floor.

"It was supposed to be mine," he says, his tone barely reaching the air between us.

Finn steps forward, his jaw tight. "What's yours?"

Aldric's eyes drift toward the relic, burning with something that goes far beyond want. The obsession in his gaze is ancient, settled deep into the lines of his face. "The future," he replies, as though it were the most reasonable answer in the world.

The word earns nothing but silence. He laughs again, bitterly this time, and finally turns to look at the crowd — at the people who once trusted him, at the town that once followed his every word without question. His expression twists into something between contempt and performance.

"You all wanted prosperity," he mentions, his voice carrying through the chamber. Several townspeople exchange uneasy glances. Aldric points toward them, and his voice rises. "You wanted wealth. You wanted Moonhaven to matter." Nobody answers, but he doesn't seem to care. The words pour out of him regardless, like a man who has been holding them too long. "I gave you all of it."

A fisherman near the entrance steps forward, his shoulders squared and his voice cracked open with grief. "My brother died."

Aldric barely glances at him. The indifference that crosses his face is so complete, so unthinking, that it chills the room faster than any confession could. The fisherman's fists clench at his sides, his jaw working around the weight of years. "My brother died," he repeats, and the words crack this time, splitting open to reveal everything beneath — the pain, the grief, the questions that were never answered.

Aldric finally looks at him. Then looks away, as though the man simply no longer matters. That single gesture says more than any speech he could give.

Gideon moves forward slowly, and his expression has never looked harder. "Tell them," he says, his voice low and controlled.

"You already know," Aldric replies with a short, humourless laugh.

"Tell them," Gideon repeats, and this time it is not a suggestion. The command settles through the chamber with the weight of something immovable, and the townspeople wait, the storm rages above, the relic pulses in the dark — and finally, Aldric speaks.

"The hurricane wasn't an accident," he mutters quietly.

The words slam through the room like a physical thing. Shock spreads immediately across every face — people staring, shaking their heads, others beginning to whisper in disbelief. Aldric closes his eyes briefly, then continues. "I created it.".

Suddenly a deafening silence follows. No thunder. No movement. The confession hangs above everyone, heavy and impossible, and for a long moment the chamber simply holds its breath. A woman near the back gasps audibly. Another begins to cry.

Aldric doesn't react. His gaze remains fixed on the floor. "The relic amplified everything," he murmurs, his voice growing quieter. "I only needed to guide it."