The memorial service was held in the central cathedral of Avoc. The bishop himself had wanted to officiate, but he was, to put it mildly, reined in. The only priest Grandpa could tolerate in life was Father Martin, who was practically part of the family, though he bore a completely different surname. Martin was the same age as Bryce, and he never gave Grandpa an inch, regularly unloading such constructions of sacred texts on him that it was hard to tell whether he was blessing or cursing him.

This time, Father Martin kept things simple, and his speech was clear to everyone. In life, he and Grandpa had often argued about where his soul would go after death. Martin left the final word for himself, sending his old friend straight to heaven.

Bryce spoke next. “Spoke” was the right word – his speech was far less sincere but far more relevant given the upcoming elections. While the crowd in the church wasn’t directly tied to the clan council, public support for candidates still mattered. And Bryce had it.

Several times, I discreetly touched the hilt of the dagger under my jacket and scanned the hall, hoping Ferrish would sense Simon somewhere among the crowd. Logic told me the bastard was already far away, but I couldn’t help myself. Logan quickly grew annoyed with my fidgeting and elbowed me in the ribs. His bloodshot eyes and sniffling nose, likely the result of his wild night, made him look like the perfect grief-stricken relative. In contrast, I, with the bruises under my eyes, looked like an angry goblin in a suit.

After the church service, Grandpa’s body was loaded into a shiny new hearse and taken back to the clan enclave. That ceremony had been for the people of the county – it would make the papers and be mentioned on the radio. But the real event was just beginning.

Everyone who belonged came together: the Kinkades, the McLillies, the Ferons, the Baileys, the Boyles, and other less common names. Men, women, and children who could endure a three-hour trek through the forest on the old paths – about four hundred people in total. The sea of clan colors was overwhelming. Large blue and green tartan patterns dominated nearly every skirt, ceremonial kilt worn by the older generation, and most of the berets sported by the younger ones.

We didn’t stay at the house long. The coffin was quickly transferred from the hearse to the hands of the younger generation. Logan and I were excused from the duty, as close family in mourning, and given places in the procession immediately behind the coffin and Grandpa’s children. The elders led the procession in front of the coffin, setting the pace for the rest of us.

We were headed to the Ancient Stones – one of five places of power scattered throughout the forest. This particular one was tied to the element of earth and had long served as the clan’s burial ground.

The procession stretched out like a snake, and the noise of the crowd scared away all the animals, even those that usually didn’t fear humans. The ash and maple trees gradually gave way to beech and birch, and the ground grew rockier. The path wound upward along a slope hidden beneath the trees. Soon, the first pines appeared. As the deciduous trees disappeared entirely, the slope leveled out, and the pines began to thin as well.

Here, the earth gave birth to stone instead of trees. Occasionally, some of these stones would come to life, taking on beastly or humanoid forms, and wander the forest, leaving chaos in their wake. We hunted such elementals down and broke them apart into a dozen valuable ingredients. There were no elementals now, though. The place of power had been checked yesterday, and the mineral “seedlings” had been removed to preserve the solemnity of the moment. My ring of stone skin had been recharged here.

At the center of the clearing, no stones grew. In the very heart of the place of power, the earth had already turned to stone. That’s where Grandpa’s coffin was placed.

The elders took seats on the surrounding stones and waited for the tail of the procession to file into the clearing. It took a good half hour.

Grandma Lough was the first to rise, followed by the patriarchs of the Baileys and the Ferons, then the McLilly and Kinkade grandmothers – all of them gifted and over eighty, yet still able to move without assistance. At the last funeral, Grandpa Gregor had stood among them. Now his place was below.

The elders formed a circle around the coffin and bowed their heads in respect. The youth who had carried the coffin laid it on the stone ground and stepped back from the circle. The polished wooden box was no longer needed, so it was moved aside onto one of the large, charred boulders.

“Bremor,” the elders intoned in unison, adding a drop of power to the word. I knew the rest of the clan quietly repeated the ancient words to themselves, and the magic eagerly responded. This incantation wasn’t the refined, structured spellwork of modern times. It had been spoken here thousands of times since the distant ages when magic was raw, unpolished, and as honest as these boulders.

“...our blood, our flesh, our spirit! Accept the one who will no longer walk your paths.”

The stone shimmered faintly, and Grandpa’s body began to sink into it. The descent happened in complete, solemn silence. It felt almost reverent. I forgot how to breathe, only taking a deep breath once Grandpa’s long nose disappeared beneath the stone.

That was it. Really, that was it. Now I’d never see him again. Grandpa, damn it all!

I felt panic creeping in, but a sharp smack to the back of my head snapped me out of it.

“What the hell!?” I protested, turning to Logan. Only he could reach me.

“What?” my cousin asked, genuinely confused. His hands were clasped so tightly his knuckles were white.

I looked around, trying to figure out who else it could’ve been, but everyone’s serious expressions revealed nothing. No one else had seen it? The blow had been strong, like the last one I got from Grandpa after breaking the fang of a thunder bear.

The elders gave their final respects, bowing to the now-empty spot, and turned to the coffin. The crowd stepped back from the wooden box. It was no longer needed – not exactly something you’d reuse.

Uncle Bryce ignited a small orange flame in his palm. Every warlock in the clan who could perform similar tricks followed suit. Some flames were red, others blue. For some, they were massive fireballs; for others, tiny sparks. If it had been night, it probably would’ve looked beautiful.

Bryce moved his hand, and his flame pierced the lacquered planks, leaving scorched holes behind. Other flames, sparks, whips, and jets of fire joined in. A magical explosion of colors descended on the pine box, tearing it apart like cardboard, roaring into a column of flame, and reducing it to ashes in seconds. The wind would carry those ashes across Bremor.

Usually, the official part of the funeral ended there: everyone would head back to drink their fill of ale and whiskey. But not today. Today, one more question was to be settled here: who would take Gregor Oliver Kinkade’s place as the next head of the clan and inherit the title of Earl of Bremor.

Once again, Grandma Lough was the first to act.

“I’m not going to make any fancy speeches – we’re not in Parliament,” she quipped, referencing the prime minister’s recent speech that had been replayed on the radio all week. “Everyone knows why we’re here. Though for many, this is a new experience. The last time I attended such a vote, I was still a young girl.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Grandma McLilly interrupted. “You were pregnant with your fifth back then. It’s not exactly an immaculate conception.”

“Well, I had my experience, but I still had plenty of fire left in me!” Lough shot back with a grumble, eliciting chuckles and lightening the mood. I wouldn’t be surprised if the sharp-tongued grandmothers had planned this.

“Don’t interrupt, Clara,” Lough continued. “Now then, I’m asking those with the right to vote to step forward.”

The crowd began to shift. I clapped Logan on the shoulder, stepped back into the second row, and quickly moved to claim a stone I’d spotted earlier before someone else could climb onto it.

“Bryce,” Lough said, pointing to the center of the clearing where Grandpa’s body had just been swallowed by the stone. “Step forward.”

Next, she called Sean Feron – Simon’s father – and then William McLilly. The first stepped forward with his head held high, while the second immediately declined.

“I’m out,” William said. “I can handle two grandkids, but the clan’s too much for me.”

“Just wait until the great-grandkids come along,” Grandma Lough teased. “Then you’ll regret not ducking out sooner.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd again. William smiled but shook his head firmly.

“Your call,” Lough nodded. “Any other volunteers? These three were chosen by the elders, but if anyone feels unjustly overlooked, speak up... No? Excellent. Shall we vote immediately, or waste time jabbering? We could shout and throw papers at each other like they do in Parliament these days.” She addressed the candidates standing in the center.

“Let our actions speak for us,” Bryce replied. He was well aware of how strong his reputation had become after killing the werewolf that had torn Grandpa apart.

“Pfft,” Sean scoffed.

For him, this was the last chance to seize the initiative and win over the voters. Yes, his reputation was weaker, but he was a full fifteen years younger than Bryce, and that was a significant margin – time enough for everything to change. Sean was still eager to grow as a warlock, while Uncle Bryce hadn’t hunted for Ferrish since he turned sixty.

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I tensed. What if Feron said something that gave him away? But Sean began with the usual accusations.

“Your actions show that the Kinkade family has gained too much power.”

“That power serves the clan,” Bryce said firmly.

“Power serves the powerful. Fourteen gifted warlocks in the Kinkade family.”

“Hey, I only made one of them!” Bryce joked.

The crowd chuckled. Someone clapped Evan on the shoulder, and he raised his hand.

“I made two!” my cousin declared proudly.

“Amateurs, I’ve got three!” Magnus McLilly shouted.

Grandma Lough didn’t let the discussion devolve into chaos, though she had her own way of shutting it down.

“Quit yelling like you were the ones giving birth to them! Thank the women!” she said, and the crowd erupted in laughter. “Sean, if you’ve got something to say, say it plainly. Old fools like me don’t get subtle hints. And you – don’t turn this into a circus,” she added, pointing a gnarled finger at Bryce. He raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Right, if we’re not wasting time babbling, someone get Grandma a seat. Youth, make some stools for the elders.”

A few young men who regularly worked at the place of power drew symbols on the ground, chanted a spell, and conjured a few stone stumps. Within a day or two, the magical flows would wear them back down to the earth, but they’d last long enough for this meeting.

Grandma Lough sat down on her “chair” and nodded to Sean.

“You want plain talk? The Kinkades don’t let other families grow.”

“Nonsense!” Bryce shot back, and many voices in the crowd supported him, though there were some murmurs of agreement with Sean.

“Name one example.”

“My son,” Sean said. “Everyone knows what promise he showed!”

The weight of those words made me uncomfortable. Not everyone, but enough people were looking at me to make it clear who he meant. I hated bringing up that story.

“He could’ve become a great warlock, a pillar of the clan...” Sean continued, but Logan cut him off.

“A great arsehole, maybe!”

My cousin was even more infuriated by that history than I was. People had expected a lot from Simon and forgiven him even more. Then Grandpa started training me. At ten years old, I matched Simon’s achievement – I opened my central energy node and began developing my Spiritual Core. Simon was no longer the only unique one, and he didn’t like it. That’s when he started coming after me.

The two-year age gap and his extra time practicing energy techniques made it easy for him to dominate me. Logan trained with us back then, but he didn’t show any particular talent. The problem was, he had a constant “big brother protector” complex. So, we both regularly got beaten up together.

By the time I was twelve, I was fed up with enduring that bastard and his goons. After they broke Logan’s arm in yet another fight, I decided to get even. Scare the jerk so badly he’d remember it for life.

I spent a whole week preparing: planning tactics, designing traps, figuring out which potions and amulets I could “borrow” from Grandpa without getting caught and which I’d have to acquire through friends. I chose the old herb shed as the battlefield. Simon had gone quiet after getting chewed out for Logan, but once he lost his temper, he went back to his old ways.

In the first conflict, I lured his entire gang into the shed and let them beat me up. The next time, I put all my effort into escaping – and I succeeded. Then it was back to the shed and another beating. The idiots didn’t even realize I was using the same hunting techniques our teachers had taught us, trying to drill a specific reflex into them.

The last trip to the herb shed I planned for late evening, catching them completely off guard. First came the hunting nets, then darts with sedatives before they could make too much noise. I gave Simon a dart with a stronger dose, considering he was the most advanced energy practitioner. Once his lackeys passed out, I tied them up, loaded Simon onto a wheelbarrow, and dragged him into the forest.

For a twelve-year-old boy, even with a developed Spiritual Core, it wasn’t easy. I had to drink a stamina potion to manage it. Speed was crucial. I left more than enough tracks, especially for an experienced hunter to follow. Parents usually checked on their children’s safety closer to nightfall, so the threat of being caught hung over me like the Sword of Damocles.

Too bad it didn’t fall – things turned out much worse instead.

I stripped Simon, tied him to a tree, and started a fire using kerosene to quickly build up big flames. I stuck a poker into the fire to heat it up and then brought Simon back to consciousness with one of the stolen elixirs.

I didn’t scare him for long, mostly just with the poker once it was glowing red. Then I pulled out the dagger.

There are many ways to become a warlock. The only prerequisite is a developed Spiritual Core, which a sympathetic spirit marks with an ethereal seal. But how you earn that spirit’s favor – that’s another matter entirely. Ferrish required you to stalk, catch, and kill a dangerous and powerful beast. When I informed Simon that he would be my beast, the boy wet himself. I got my revenge in full.

I should’ve stopped there. But his fear was so intoxicating, the vengeance so sweet, that I decided to finish the performance. I actually appealed to the ancient spirit, asking it to accept my "prey." Ferrish didn’t appreciate the humor. He considered Simon a legitimate offering. That’s when both Simon and I realized that a single, precise strike would make me the youngest warlock in the clan’s history.

What’s more, Ferrish didn’t just reward me – he let me choose one of three spells based on techniques I’d used during the hunt: Binding, Sleep, or Stamina. It was an extraordinarily generous gift, and I rejected it outright. The thought of accepting didn’t even cross my mind.

Ferrish isn’t inherently evil. I don’t think he even comprehends the concepts of good and evil. So he took my refusal as a deception. Spirits are unpredictable beings, and their wrath is terrifying. I hadn’t prepared any defenses, so I was completely at Ferrish’s mercy. My heart seized, fire consumed my chest, and I screamed. Simon laughed. Ferrish didn’t like that, and soon Simon was screaming alongside me. Then we both passed out.

We woke up in the hospital, our spiritual cores sealed along with our elemental sources and third eyes. Ferrish hadn’t just blocked our main energy nodes – he also marked our subtle bodies. From that point on, animals feared me, and Simon was perceived as prey.

That incident led to a lot of trouble. I was even put on trial. It was a tough year. But there were silver linings.

Grandpa continued pushing me through energy practices, figuring I could break the seals by the time I was forty. Logan decided to support me and, unexpectedly, made a breakthrough in his own development. A year later, Simon ran away from home, and Logan accepted the spirit of an old wolfhound into his core, becoming a shifter. A lamb at home, a lion in battle. He’d never been timid before, but afterward, he became completely fearless.

I had plenty more to say about Simon, but there was no way I could voice it here, in front of the entire clan.

“How symbolic, coming from a Kinkade,” Sean sneered angrily. “Do you think you’re better than everyone else, Logan?”

“At least I didn’t get star fever like Simon did!” Logan shot back. “The elders may not know, but my generation remembers what a bastard he was. He broke Peter MacLilly’s window and forced Liam to take the blame. Remember the shed fire? That wasn’t Ronald and Malcolm – it was Simon, Ben, and Rupert. Not to mention he constantly bullied, shoved, and hit people. He wouldn’t leave Duncan alone. You should be grateful Duncan didn’t cut his throat.”

Sean turned green with rage, but Grandma Lough clapped her hands together sharply.

“Logan Gregor Kinkade! Show some respect for your elders!”

“I always respect the elders – as long as they don’t spread lies!” Logan snapped back.

“The council already ruled on the incident five years ago,” Bryce said calmly.

“When Kinkade was head!” Sean snarled.

Uncle tried to focus attention on the negativity in his opponent’s words.

“So, you want the position of clan head just to settle old scores?”

But Sean wasn’t a pushover.

“Not denying your guilt, are you?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Uncle asked, turning to the crowd, “who here was present at the council meeting back then? Is there anyone Father pressured to bury the matter? Did he strong-arm anyone?”

“The case was thoroughly investigated!” declared David Boyle, but Martha Bailey immediately countered.

“Thoroughly? Ferrish was dismissed after just a few questions!”

“Oh, brilliant as ever, Martha. You make it clear how foolish you are,” Boyle retorted sharply. “The Kinkades took on the burden of summoning Ferrish themselves and didn’t flinch. I didn’t see the Ferons showing that kind of initiative. They could’ve summoned him too, asked their own questions.”

“Silence, all of you!” Grandma Lough barked, amplifying her voice with an amulet. “You’re acting like actual MPs! Should we hand out wigs and robes to you as well?”

“Well, you’d make a decent Speaker,” Grandma MacLilly teased.

“Damn right I would! I’d straighten out Parliament in no time, unlike that Thatcher. Enough empty talk! What will you do for the clan?” Grandma Lough asked the candidates.

This time, Sean jumped ahead of Bryce.

“I’ll ensure that everything is fair! That every member of the clan has equal rights and opportunities! That family ties are the last thing anyone considers!”

Something about his speech reminded me of the prime minister’s recent address.

“Let the council handle fairness,” Bryce said mockingly. “Rights and responsibilities are their domain, too. As for me, I’m planning to import golden koi from the Far East and establish a fish farm at Thunder Loch. Ailie experimented with their swim bladders in some potions, and the effectiveness tripled – particularly for basic cold remedies. But that’s with imported materials. We need to see how well the fish adapt to our magic.

“I’m also looking into importing moon deer from America and planting amaryllis in the Living Thicket. Plus, it’s time to set up a new brick factory in Glembatrick. The old one can’t keep up. Lord Peabody’s abandoned his duties, and now people are importing building materials from the neighboring county. We’ve got a great opportunity to enter the market. That’s all for now – we’ll see where things go from there.”

Well said. Grandma Lough clearly approved, and Bryce had successfully shifted the focus away from Sean’s accusations.

“Shall we vote?” the elder who had claimed the role of Speaker asked.

The other elders nodded and got up from their stone seats. Lough passed the honor of overseeing the vote to Grandpa Kink, a shifter who had bonded with the spirit of an eagle in his youth and still retained excellent vision despite his age.

“Raise your hands for Bryce,” Grandpa Kink announced. “Eugene, don’t bother – you lost your voting rights last week.”

The old eagle shifter slowly turned in a circle, scanning the crowd, then delivered the result in a solemn tone.

“Hmm... Forty-six.”

“Now for Sean…” He turned again.

“Hmm... Forty-one.”

Grandma Lough spoke again.

“Any objections?”

Sean shook his head and extended a hand to Bryce with a forced smile.

“Congratulations,” he said.

“Thank you,” Uncle replied.

Sean stepped out of the circle, pushed through the crowd, and headed home without staying for the oath ceremony. Not even his wife followed him.

Uncle Bryce once again claimed the crowd’s attention, and I used the opportunity to slip away after Feron. His retreat struck me as suspicious.