Some spells are cast with words. Others with fear.
---
The halls of Bloodroot House had always echoed with whispers, but tonight, the silence screamed louder.
Beneath the great obsidian dome, candles flickered unnaturally—flames stretching toward the ceiling like they longed to escape. Shadows danced on the stone walls, forming twisted figures that looked too alive. The coven's senior witches had gathered here under strict summons. No apprentice or outsider was allowed within ten steps of the inner sanctum.
The air itself felt heavy—like it knew something was coming.
And sitting at the head of the black stone table was Mother Vyra.
She did not speak. She didn't have to.
Around her sat the witches whose names were spoken only in low voices by those who feared power more than death.
Mireth Flamehand, with her laughing eyes and cruel mouth, toyed with a strand of fire as though it were silk.
Selia Ashhand, tall and composed, her fingers always twitching—ready to burn lies out of anyone.
Irah Mossbone, the oldest, who claimed she had seen Saelwyn's first circle rise and fall. Her cane clacked with each step, but her mind was sharp enough to cut.
And behind them, silent as fog, stood Lenore Vex, who never spoke with her mouth, only in dreams. Her eyes were glassy and faraway, as if she was always listening to someone you couldn't see.
Tonight, even Lenore looked uneasy.
---
"Three wards failed last night," Selia said at last, breaking the silence. "One over the eastern forest path. One above the scrying well. And one on the catacombs."
"Sabotage?" Mireth asked casually, examining her fingernails.
"Worse," Irah said, voice hoarse. "Awakening."
Mother Vyra's gold eyes didn't blink.
"Do you think it's her?" Selia asked. "Saelwyn's heir?"
"She has no heir," Vyra said at last. "Only echoes. And echoes, if left unanswered, become thunder."
"Then what do we do?" Mireth asked. "We tested the girl—Nessa. She carries no power."
"She carries something," Lenore murmured suddenly, her voice cold and distant. "Not power. Memory."
Everyone turned toward her.
"Whose memory?" Irah asked.
Lenore didn't answer.
Instead, the door creaked open.
Nessa entered the room, her cloak far too thin for the chill that lingered. Her hands were still bandaged from the marking ceremony, and her brown eyes darted between the witches like a rabbit in a wolf den.
"You called for me, Mother?" she asked softly.
"Come forward," Vyra said.
Nessa obeyed, though her hands trembled.
---
Vyra rose from her seat. She circled Nessa like a hawk, slow and silent. Then, without warning, she stopped behind the girl and pressed her palm between Nessa's shoulder blades.
Magic sparked. Nessa gasped, nearly collapsing.
"What do you feel when you dream?" Vyra asked.
"I—I don't remember."
"Try harder."
"I see fire," Nessa whispered. "A circle. A woman's voice. And sometimes… I feel like I'm someone else."
Vyra's golden eyes narrowed. "Saelwyn?"
"I don't know who that is."
A lie. Everyone in the coven knew the name. It wasn't spoken often, but when it was, it curled in the air like smoke—dangerous and forbidden.
"Send her back to the dorms," Vyra said at last.
Selia raised a brow. "So soon?"
"She'll return when she's ready to remember."
---
As Nessa left the chamber, the witches began to murmur.
"She's hiding something."
"She's afraid. That makes her dangerous."
"Or useful."
"Or both."
"Another Saelwyn?"
"No. Not powerful enough."
"Yet."
---
Behind the curtain of conversation, Lenore Vex stood still, her eyes glowing faintly.
She had walked through Nessa's dreams the night before.
She had seen the child's hands reaching out toward flames.
And in the reflection of the fire… was Aelira's face.
Not Aelira now. Aelira then.
Saelwyn.
---
Back in her chamber, Nessa sat alone on the floor.
She pressed her palm against her chest and felt it: a faint warmth beneath the skin. Not fire. Not magic. Something ancient.
And every time she closed her eyes, she saw the same thing—
A circle of witches.
A woman burning.
And her own face, watching from the shadows.
---
Elsewhere in the coven…
The younger witches were restless.
Some whispered that the "marked one" was cursed. Others believed a new rebellion was brewing. Everyone felt it: the old magic stirring in their bones.
A girl named Thara, barely seventeen, clutched her spellbook to her chest and muttered, "They say Saelwyn was betrayed by her own circle."
Another, Jilenn, older and bitter, replied, "Then maybe this circle should be afraid too."
A laugh came from the corner. Dara, silver-haired and sharp-tongued, smiled with amusement. "You think Saelwyn's soul returned to seek justice? No. If she's back, she'll want revenge."
The fire crackled behind them. One of the girls muttered a warding charm under her breath.
Just in case.
---
Vyra stood in the highest tower alone that night, staring into her scrying mirror.
She saw movement in the woods.
A flash of silver-black hair.
A flicker of violet eyes.
Aelira.
But someone else stood beside her.
Not Kaeln.
Something darker.
A shape cloaked in shadow.
A creature not seen in centuries.
Fangs. Wings. Hunger.
The forest is waking up.
Vyra's voice was a whisper now. A warning not even she could silence.
"She's not returning alone this time."