Each year, the coven burned Galatain Wood.
It was a ritual of sorts, a marker between the seasons. They purged the old growth from last year, dry and decayed, to make room for the warm and sun-dappled summers. A different section of forest burned every year, preemptive destruction to prevent disaster.
The witches of the coven would march through the woods, clearing out the racoons and redcaps, foxes and fae, wolves and wisps. All were welcome in their home and haven, the Grove, until they had a chance to do their work.
They thanked the forest’s residents for their sacrifice.
Then, they began.
The process was started by digging trenches: channels in the earth carved in the shape of old Druidic chants. The symbols spelled their blessing, their gratitude for the forest’s bounty, and their wish for renewal. The women of the woods prayed to Sylene, the Triple Goddess, and they infused the channels with theirpower, filled them with bark and brambles.
And then…
Snap.
The spark.
The flame.
They set it ablaze.
All young witches learned as children that this was the way in the forests of Hestia—cycles of birth, death, and renewal. The High Priestess taught them that growth could only emerge from the ashes, knowledge passed down through the generations as new priestesses were born.
Thus, Selvie knew that sacrifice was necessary.
But that didn’t make it any easier to watch her brother die in her arms.
Wick bled out as she sobbed into his tunic, the village of Rosemouth watching in horror. She wasn’t supposed to be there; it had all been an accident, her presence unneeded and unwanted. Events had spun out of control, and she couldn’t help but fear that she was to blame.
Wick was dead.
No going back.
Hands grasped her shoulders and tried to tug her away.
“He’s gone,” a young man’s voice said. “We need to go.”
She didn’t know this man.
All she knew was that the brother she barely knew was dead.
“Lo maata vaha, noye pavhoaan andra. Pavhoaan, voaka, akaa,” she murmured in Druidic, the words stilted and stuttering. It was Sylene’s chant of rebirth—the words the Galatain Coven repeated over a loved one’s deathbed to send their dead to the next life. She didn’t know what else to do.
It was meant to be a blessing, to soothe those left behind…but her words dried like ash on her tongue.
She shrugged off the person behind her and clutched Wick tighter, her nails snatching at his tunic as she reached in her mind’s eye for the power always at her fingertips. The nebulous energy of the Triple Star glowed bright white, nearly blinding her in the vision. She opened her mouth to breathe in that power, wrenching it into her grasp like she could harness it for her own purposes, even though the coven had always told her not to. Maidens were meant to be cautious with how they wielded power, not to hold it all at once.
But with Wick dead in her arms, she forgot the coven’s teaching.
She forgot the importance of order, of the divine cycle.
She forgot everything but her desire for her only remaining family to live.
“Live!” she commanded, opening her eyes.
And abruptly, the white light went out.
It was like the moon itself had vanished, replaced only with a blank void. Screams erupted all over Rosemouth. This was the real world, but she couldn’t see a thing. She held Wick’s corpse closer as she looked around, her eyes blind to anything and everything…
…except for a set of twin embers glowing in the shadows.
She fixed on those embers, realizing quickly that they were eyes—and that they belonged to something in the shape of a man. Its lips parted and sharp white teeth sparkled in a too-wide mouth, tendrils of smoke reaching out to embrace her.
“Selvie,” it whispered, her name on its lips intoxicating and horrifying. “Thu wistas ta dranen.”
You know what to do, it said.
And it was right—she did know.
It was lending her its power and she didn’t care about the price.
She let in the shadow’s power, and she felt the creature with ember eyes wrap her in a cold embrace. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once, a rush of pure energy—like plunging into icy water. The whole world cried out, the earth shaking beneath her, the hair on her arms standing on end as she threw her head back and screamed.
The clamor ended suddenly.
The shadows began to clear.
And Selvie caught her breath as everything she knew unraveled.
Villagers lay in crumpled heaps across the town square, groaning and bewildered. It seemed that everyone had fallen under the same spell—the whole village of Rosemouth taken by an arcane hysteria. Selvie took a shuddering breath and looked down at her brother—her twin, who she’d been separated from for too long—hoping against hope that she would see gold eyes the exact same shade as hers looking back.
Relief washed over her.
His eyes were open, alive.
But that relief turned to horror when she realized they were black as night and veined with threads of copper…just like her hands, still clutching his tunic.
She jerked away and scrambled back, scratching at her arms to get rid of the accursed ink. The marks remained, tattooed onto her skin, a reminder of the power that she had brought to Rosemouth to save her brother. Wick got to his feet, moving in stuttering, cracking shudders, as she looked on in horror.
“Thank you,” he muttered—two simple, jarring words.
Then he walked into the night, leaving Selvie with inky black hands and the horrible knowledge that she had brought some other creature into her brother’s skin.