The fog was thicker than ever.
It curled low across the earth, coiling like living breath, and shimmered faintly beneath the light of the twin moons. Aelira tightened her grip on the dagger Elandor had given her—moonsteel etched with runes only partially deciphered. It didn't feel like a weapon. It felt like a memory.
The deeper she went into the woods, the heavier the air grew. Every step was a test. The veil between worlds was thinning—she could feel it in her bones, in the ache beneath her sternum, in the whispers riding the wind.
"Saelwyn," the forest breathed.
She didn't flinch anymore when she heard that name.
She had accepted it, and the power it came with.
But not the pain.
Not the betrayal.
Not yet.
Her boots crunched softly on wet leaves, and her breath came in clouds. The silence was absolute—too still for the wilds, too aware.
And then—
A flicker. A shape.
She turned sharply.
At first, she thought it was mist. But no, it was a figure.
Nessa.
The girl stood just beyond the trees, her red cloak blending into the silver mist like blood in water.
"Nessa?" Aelira called cautiously.
The figure didn't answer.
She took a step forward—and the world shifted.
Her foot didn't land on leaves. It landed on stone. Cold, etched stone.
She looked around.
The forest was gone.
The mist, too.
She stood in a circle of ancient stone pillars, each carved with sigils older than memory. At the center lay a shallow pool of water, black as night, reflecting nothing.
The Ritual Circle.
Her breath caught. Not from fear—but recognition.
She had stood here before.
Long ago.
And died.
A flicker of warmth spread through her chest. She clutched at her ribs, gasping as the mark beneath her skin pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
"Welcome back, Saelwyn."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
She spun—too late.
A hand closed around her throat.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
Mother Vyra.
---
The High Priestess stood before her, not aged a day. Her raven hair twisted into the same wicked crown of black thorns, her golden eyes sharp as razors.
"You never should have returned," Vyra hissed, voice like silk over bone.
Aelira struggled, clawing at the invisible force that held her. Her feet left the ground.
"But you did," Vyra whispered, circling her like a vulture. "You came back with your pretty new name, your fragile mortal skin, your borrowed allies…"
She leaned close, her breath ice on Aelira's face. "Did you think you could escape what was owed?"
With a flick of her fingers, Aelira was thrown across the ritual circle. She hit the ground with a grunt, rolling to a stop beside the obsidian pool.
The reflection that met her eyes was not her own.
It was Saelwyn's.
Bloodied.
Burning.
Screaming.
Her voice echoed back from the water: "You let them kill me."
---
A crack split the air.
Aelira screamed—not from pain, but from the sudden rush of memory flooding her.
Chains.
Chants.
Kaeln's voice begging her to understand.
The fire consuming her bones.
Then nothing.
Then darkness.
And now this.
She looked up, eyes wide with horror—and clarity.
Vyra raised both hands, and the stone circle blazed to life. Pillars burned with unnatural fire, and the sigils ignited in cruel crimson. "You brought your magic back with you," the Priestess said, almost admiring. "But not your mind. Let me fix that."
The air trembled.
Aelira tried to stand, but pain lanced through her skull. Her hands shook as the dagger slipped from her grasp.
And then—
Kaeln.
He appeared through the fog like vengeance itself, sword drawn, eyes wild with fury.
"Enough!" he roared.
Vyra turned, lips curling in amusement. "Ah. The executioner returns. Still groveling at her feet, I see."
Kaeln didn't answer. He launched himself at her.
Their clash was thunder and fury.
Vyra caught his blade with a snarl, darkness radiating from her palms.
"Still too weak," she mocked.
Kaeln growled, twisting the blade until it scraped her skin. Blood—black and burning—hit the ground and sizzled.
Aelira crawled to her knees, vision blurring.
She reached out.
The dagger answered her.
It leapt to her hand like it had been waiting.
"Come on," she whispered. "Not Saelwyn. Not Aelira. Just… me."
The blade pulsed.
Her mark burned.
And with a scream, she drove the dagger into the earth.
The entire ritual circle screamed with her.
---
The explosion knocked all three of them back.
Vyra staggered, face contorted in shock.
Aelira rose slowly, hair whipping around her like a storm. Her eyes glowed with moonlight and memory.
"You don't control me anymore," she said.
Vyra sneered, raising her arms again, but Kaeln moved first.
His blade sliced through her defenses, just as Aelira threw fire—white and gold, not red—from her hands.
It struck Vyra in the chest.
She shrieked as the flames consumed her, not with death—but with banishment.
Her form unraveled into smoke, sucked toward the pool.
As she was dragged into the blackness, she hissed, "This isn't over, Saelwyn…"
"No," Aelira whispered. "It's only beginning."
The pool sealed shut.
The circle fell silent.
---
Kaeln dropped to his knees beside her.
"Are you alright?" he asked, breathless.
She looked at him, face streaked with ash and tears. "No," she said. "But I will be."
He reached for her hand.
She let him hold it.
Only for a moment.
Then she pulled away.
"There's more," she said softly. "More than her. More than us."
His jaw tightened, but he nodded. "I know."
She looked out toward the forest, where the veil had thinned.
Where the old magic whispered.
Where something worse waited.
"I'm going to find it," she said. "Whatever lies beyond the veil. Whatever truth they buried."
Kaeln rose. "Then I'll walk with you."
She shook her head.
"No. Not yet."
She turned away, and he let her go.
The wind carried her name as she vanished into the trees—not Saelwyn, not Aelira.
Just… her.
A girl reborn.
A witch remembered.
A storm, rising.
The forest pulsed around Aelira, as if it had drawn breath and held it. Her footsteps were silent against the mossy earth, the only sound the frantic beat of her heart as she fled through the trees. Moonlight slashed between branches like jagged blades, chasing her shadow. Behind her, Kaeln's voice still echoed, but she didn't dare stop.
Not until the world around her shifted again.
One step. Two.
Then the ground was gone.
She fell forward, landing hard on her hands and knees—only to realize she wasn't in the woods anymore.
Stone. Cold, wet stone beneath her palms.
Aelira blinked and rose slowly, glancing around. The air had changed, thicker and more ancient, like it hadn't been touched by breath in centuries. She stood at the edge of an underground cavern lit by flickering sconces that hadn't been lit moments ago.
The chamber was circular, vast, and eerily familiar.
At the center stood a stone pedestal, and resting atop it—a black mirror.
She didn't want to move closer, but her feet obeyed something older than her fear. As she approached, the mirror rippled like the surface of water, responding to her presence.
It called to her.
Aelira reached out.
The moment her fingers touched the glass, images burst forth in a flood. Flames. Chains. A scream torn from her throat in another time. Kaeln, younger, terrified, his hands bound in silver. A circle of witches chanting in unison—"Blood returns to blood."
And in the center of it all, Saelwyn, regal and broken, her face bleeding moonlight.
Aelira staggered back. Her chest heaved. The mark on her shoulder burned.
"I remember," she whispered.
And with those words, the mirror cracked—splintering with a sound like breaking stars—and the images vanished.
But the memories remained.
---
When she emerged from the cavern, dawn had begun to bleed into the sky. The woods were still, the air thick with the scent of rain and rosemary. And standing at the edge of the clearing was Kaeln.
He didn't speak. His expression was unreadable. Not anger. Not relief. Something older, more broken.
Aelira's voice was hoarse. "Why didn't you tell me everything from the start?"
He stepped forward. "Because I made a promise once. To Saelwyn. To protect what was left of her—even from herself."
Aelira swallowed hard. "And what if I don't want protection?"
"Then I'll give you truth," he said. "All of it."
She nodded, though her knees shook. "Start talking."
Kaeln took a breath, the kind that felt like a knife in the lungs.
"You were burned at the stake for betrayal. But not of the coven. Of the Circle's High Matron, who demanded your obedience. You defied her. You tried to stop a ritual that would have destroyed half the northern realm."
Aelira blinked. "Why would I do that?"
"Because you fell in love. With a man not of the coven. A forbidden soul." He looked at her then. "Me."
The words cracked through her like thunder.
"I tried to save you," he continued. "I failed. The spell they used on you… it fractured your soul. Scattered it. I swore I would find you, even if it took lifetimes. And now, here you are."
Aelira's throat tightened. "And the others? The witches in the village—do they remember?"
"Some do. Some are waiting. Not all want your return."
She wrapped her arms around herself. "So what now? I claim some ancient throne? Lead a coven that wants me dead?"
"No," he said softly. "You claim yourself. The rest will follow."
---
Days passed. The cottage filled with whispers. Witches began to gather—some out of curiosity, others out of fear. The mark on Aelira's shoulder glowed stronger with each sunrise, and her power—once a distant hum—now crackled at her fingertips.
One night, by firelight, a woman arrived. Pale-eyed, her cloak stitched with sigils Aelira couldn't read but somehow understood.
Her name was Maeryn.
"I knew Saelwyn," she said, staring into the flames. "And I can teach you what she never lived long enough to remember."
"Why would you help me?" Aelira asked.
Maeryn turned her gaze to her. "Because you're not just Saelwyn. You're what she could never be—free."
Training began before dawn and ended after dusk. Aelira's body ached, but her magic flowed truer with every spell. She learned to call wind, to command roots, to summon light from her fingertips.
She also learned to see the truth in others—and to sense danger before it struck.
Which is how she knew, before the crow cried three times, that betrayal was near.
---
The first attack came without warning.
A fire at the edge of the forest. A sigil carved into the door of the cottage. A child found weeping with a spell-bound tongue. Someone had summoned a Watcher from the old world—a beast made of shadow and bone, cursed to hunt witches.
It was meant for her.
But it was Kaeln who took the blow.
She watched in horror as the creature lunged, fangs bared, and Kaeln threw himself between them. Blood sprayed. His body crashed against the trees.
Aelira screamed—an ancient, soul-twisting sound that split the sky.
The Watcher froze. The earth trembled.
And in a voice not entirely her own, she raised her hands and called its true name.
The creature turned to dust.
Kaeln lay broken, unconscious, but breathing.
Aelira dropped beside him, tears streaming down her face. Her hands hovered, unsure. "Don't you dare die," she whispered. "Not after everything."
He stirred, barely. "I told you… I'd find you."
Then he passed out.
---
That night, Aelira stood on the hill above the village, her hair whipping in the wind, the stars glowing with warning.
"I'm done running," she said to the night.
Maeryn joined her. "Then you'll need allies."
"I don't need a coven," Aelira said.
"No," Maeryn agreed. "You need an army."
Aelira turned to her. "Then we call them. All of them. The outcasts. The exiled. The ones who remember Saelwyn and never stopped waiting."
"And the ones who fear you?"
Aelira's eyes burned like twin moons. "They should."