The grimoire was torn and bound in stitched flesh. The pages hummed with power.
Briar's fingers brushed the open script, and her mouth moved before she could stop it. A single word left her lips, and the forest bent. Wind tore through the trees. Stones cracked. Fire danced along the circle at her feet.
Magic. Real, uncontested. Hers.
Corva lunged forward and slammed the book shut.
"Are you mad?" she hissed. "Words have weight. Say the wrong one, and you unmake more than yourself."
Briar blinked. "I didn't think—"
"No," Corva snapped. "You remembered."
They stared at each other.
"I didn't mean to."
"But you did."
That night, while Corva slept, Briar crept back to the book. She opened it to the same page, heart hammering. Slowly, she whispered another word.
The ground beneath her feet glowed.
And far away, something ancient opened its eyes.