Babylon, Year 11.
The tribe descended into disarray.
The death of the first male wizard sent ripples of panic through the hearts of men. Fear, long simmering, now boiled over.
"Flee! This is no longer the Babylon we knew—this is damnation!"
"The age of Gilgamesh is over. The era of the Hero King has passed. We now live in a dark age ruled by terrible witches!"
Terrified, many chose to abandon their homes, fleeing into the wilderness, preferring to face the savage beasts of the wild than remain under the shadow of the witches.
"Circe must be judged!"
In the heart of the tribe, Medea and Cassandra stood together, faces grim. Rage flared between them. They had calmed the tribe's warriors, but their decision was clear: Circe could no longer be allowed to run unchecked. If confrontation was necessary, so be it.
It was time to act.
With four more witches having emerged in the past years, the balance of power had shifted. Now, they could stand against her.
Or so they believed.
But when they moved to confront Circe, they were horrified to discover that she had, in secret, grown vastly stronger than either of them.
The battle that followed forced Medea and Cassandra to fight as one. Even together, they could barely match her.
While the two righteous witches had kept their emotions in check—restraining their desires to preserve balance and order—Circe had embraced her instincts, surrendered to her passions, and allowed her powers to grow without limit. She was unbound, and as a result, she had become something far greater… and far more dangerous.
---
Babylon, Year 16.
In the sacred glen of Ameya, beneath a veil of morning mist, the three witches once again gathered in the hallowed spring.
From a distance, the scene was tranquil. Birds sang. Petals floated gently across the surface of the water. The three women bathed, laughing softly, as if everything were well. But beneath the surface of serenity, power coiled like a serpent.
For six years, Circe's strength had grown incomprehensible. Even with their combined might, Medea and Cassandra could barely hold her back.
"So?" Circe asked softly, stirring the crystalline water with her snow-pale hand. Her gaze shimmered with seduction. "Are you still unwilling to try it? To live without chains? Why keep sealing yourselves away from desire, when indulgence can be the path to awakening?"
Medea reclined in the spring, speaking with calm dignity. "No, Circe. Your path leads to ruin. If we follow you… what becomes of the tribe?"
Circe's expression turned thoughtful. A spark of vision lit her eyes. "We will lead the tribe—as goddesses should. Women will defend. Men will serve. Each month, we'll take a few virile men to pleasure us, just once. Then they die, blissful and content. A small price for paradise."
"That's tyranny," Medea said quietly. "No different from the Hero King Gilgamesh in his worst days, or the savage Sumerians who tried to rewrite the laws of the world. That is not civilization. That is regression."
She looked into Circe's eyes and asked, "Do you know why history is recorded? Why the great Hero King commanded it so?"
Circe tilted her head, curious. "Why?"
"So that we may remember. So that we may understand the trials of those who came before us—and learn which paths lead to light, and which to shadow. Your path leads backward, into savagery. It echoes the fall of Sumer."
Medea's voice deepened with warning. "Do you not fear calling down another Great Flood?"
Circe flinched.
Even now, as her power surged through her, the thought of divine wrath struck a chord. She could slay the Arrah Beasts without effort, but she was nothing compared to Gilgamesh in his prime—nothing compared to the one who had stood against Fenba the Colossal.
Her breath caught, her thoughts teetering.
Then she laughed.
"Ahaha… don't try to frighten me, sister." Her voice was sweet, dangerous. Her flawless body shimmered beneath the surface. "I'm not provoking the Creator. I'm not annihilating races or wrecking ecosystems. This is an internal affair—human politics. He wouldn't care."
A sly smile touched her lips. "Your cultivation is slow and joyless. Mine is swift… and delicious. Why mourn a few dead men?"
"Because your power is corrupted!" Medea snapped. "And you've already lost your way. Power must be refined—not stolen through indulgence!"
Circe's smile faded. Her expression turned cold, bittersweet.
"I never wanted to hurt you," she whispered. "In all these years, you two were my only true companions. We three sisters… we were everything to one another." She looked at them with longing. "I only want to share my joy with you. Once you've tasted it, I know you'll understand."
Boom.
A chilling force pulsed from her.
The spring water trembled, distorted by an icy wave of spiritual energy. A formless, oppressive pressure rolled across the glen.
"If I can't convince you… then I'll make you understand." Circe's voice was like winter wind. "I will force you to embrace men!"
Medea and Cassandra paled. "You've grown this powerful?"
Then—they came.
From the trees, four other witches stepped forth.
Each wore robes of fine fur and fresh flower crowns. In their hands were staffs of black wood, engraved with ancient runes. They had not come by chance.
Medea had summoned them. Together, all the tribe's witches stood united against the one who had strayed too far.
Circe must be stopped.
BOOM!
A second shockwave erupted. Circe's aura blazed like wildfire.
The pool churned violently, its surface roiling with unnatural energy. Ripples warped the light, and stunned fish floated lifeless to the surface.
"So… this is the power of a witch?"
The voice was soft. Curious.
It came from the edge of the trees.
A creature none of them had ever seen before stood in the shadows. Its feathers were black as obsidian, its three eyes glowing faintly with strange light. A vertical third eye blinked in the middle of its forehead.
A crow.
But not of this world.
"Who dares?!" the witches cried, their unity breaking as their spiritual senses surged.
Their power filled the glade like a storm. Any intruder—man or beast—who dared gaze upon them in such a sacred, vulnerable moment would suffer instant death, their minds shattered by mental backlash.
Yet the crow stood, untouched.
BOOM!
In perfect synchronicity, all seven witches launched a collective spiritual assault. It was a wave of sheer destruction—lethal enough to slay a great beast in the blink of an eye.
It struck the crow.
And vanished.
As if swallowed by a void.
"What… is this?" Cassandra whispered, horror on her face.
Even Circe recoiled. "How… did it survive that?"
The crow tilted its head. Calm. Unshaken.
"It is the power of meditation," the creature said, perched high upon a branch.
The wind rustled through the leaves, carrying the weight of something ancient, unknowable, and vast.