The forest closed around the coven as they fled the village, branches clawing at their cloaks, the ground soft and treacherous beneath hurried feet. Isolde led them deeper into the wilds, her grip on the black feather tight—a reminder of the power that now haunted their every step.
By nightfall, they found refuge in a mossy hollow beneath ancient oaks. Here, far from prying eyes, Isolde gathered her witches. The moon hung low, silvering the leaves and casting their circle in a pale, protective glow.
"We are not the first to be driven out," Isolde said, her voice steady despite her exhaustion. "But we will not be the last. Our craft endures because we adapt, and because we remember."
She knelt and drew a new circle in the earth, careful and precise. The others followed, each taking their place according to tradition—Maiden, Guardian, Fetch, and more, each role vital to the life of the coven25. The Maiden, Maelis, set out small offerings: bread, salt, and a sprig of rowan. The Guardian took up watch at the edge of the clearing, senses sharp for any threat.
As the ritual began, Isolde raised the feather. "This is our warning and our charge. We will carve runes in hidden places, whisper our story to those who listen, and write our truth in the Book of Shadows for those who come after." She glanced at Maelis, who nodded solemnly, understanding that the burden of memory would one day be hers to bear.
They chanted softly, weaving protection around their camp and binding their memories to the land. The circle glowed faintly, a sign that their magic still held—even in exile.
In the days that followed, the coven moved from forest to glen, always wary, always watching. They left signs for other witches—marks carved into tree bark, bundles of herbs tied with red thread, warnings in the old tongue hidden beneath stones. Sometimes they found sympathetic souls, other times only suspicion and fear.
But their story began to spread, carried on the wind and in the whispers of those who dared believe. In secret, other covens took up their warnings, adding them to their own rituals and tales135. The legend of the storm and the shadow grew, a thread of dread and awe woven through the tapestry of the Old Religion.
And so, the witches endured—circles within shadows, memory within secrecy, hope within fear. They could not stop what had awakened, but they could ensure that, somewhere, someone would remember.
Far away, Sagar felt the ripple of their magic and smiled in the dark. The game was only just beginning.