Snow fell like powdered silk, blanketing the rooftops of Myrrhwood in a gentle hush. The winter evening carried a festive stillness, broken only by bursts of laughter, the chiming of bells, and the distant crackle of bonfires. It was the night of the Witch Festival, the village's most sacred celebration — a night that honored the legacy of magic, unity, and survival.
Lanterns swung from every tree and post, glowing amber and blue, enchanted to flicker like captured starlight. Wreaths of holly, lavender, and frostmoss adorned every door, their spell-scented leaves humming softly to ward off ill spirits. Snow sprites danced through alleyways, weaving trails of sparkling frost, harmless and playful.
In the heart of the village, inside a warm stone cottage nestled beneath a tall silver pine, a young girl stirred a pot of creamy stew.
"Careful now, clockwise!" came the voice of Granny May, bent over a bundle of herbs at the chopping block. "No one wants sour stew on Festival Night."
"I am going clockwise," Ymir said with a giggle, turning to the old woman. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, and golden strands of hair had slipped loose from her braid. "You always say that."
"I always say it because it's always nearly wrong," Granny May sniffed, though the corner of her mouth twitched with amusement.
Ymir was barely fourteen, but already her magical aptitude shone through. She moved through the kitchen with eager energy, setting platters with practiced precision. Her crystal-blue eyes, so striking against her warm skin and golden hair, mirrored those of the woman now stepping through the curtain from the back room — Elysia, her mother.
Elysia was tall and composed, wearing a long indigo gown woven with silver thread. Runes shimmered faintly on her cuffs, whispering softly in a forgotten language. She carried herself like someone born of both moonlight and steel — graceful, kind, and utterly powerful.
"The stew smells divine," she said as she passed behind Ymir, brushing her hand gently across her daughter's back.
"I added the snow-root myself," Ymir said, proud.
"Granny May didn't stop you?"
"She tried."
"Of course I did," the old woman grumbled, placing sliced herbs into a dish. "Snow-root's tricky. But I'll admit, this might be the best it's ever tasted."
From the hearth, laughter erupted from the main room where Grandpa Kosolv, Uncle Marrek, and Old Tanner — all three elders of the village and notorious for their festival debates — sat with mugs of honey-spiced wine, arguing about the symbolism of this year's fireworks display.
"I heard the mayor's son enchanted a phoenix to fly out of the sky and explode mid-air," said Kosolv.
"A phoenix?" Marrek scoffed. "Every year with the phoenix. It's always a phoenix."
"Well, it's a classic," Tanner shrugged. "You can't argue with tradition."
Their voices blended into the music and warmth of the evening. The home was full of chatter, footsteps, clinking mugs, the sharp scent of roasting herbs and warm bread, and the subtle crackle of ever-burning firewood. It was comfort. It was joy.
The meal was served with ceremony. Platters of roasted meats and winter vegetables, shining fruit preserves, and pies dusted with frostberry sugar filled the long wooden table. Guests bowed in thanks before eating, as was the tradition, invoking blessings for a bountiful winter.
Outside, laughter echoed down the snow-covered paths. Children cast floating lights into the sky, and elders played bone-dice under glowing spell-lanterns. Enchanted flutes created music that shimmered through the crisp night air, drifting upward toward the stars.
After the final course — a pudding charmed to shimmer in hues of blue and violet — the guests stood, offering well-wishes and blessings before filing out toward the festival square for the fireworks finale.
"Go on ahead," Elysia told them. "We'll catch up shortly."
Once the cottage had emptied, Ymir and her mother cleared the last of the dishes together, humming an old festival song. Though they were running late, there was no rush in their movements — they were two hearts beating in rhythm, a daughter and mother bonded not just by blood, but by shared magic and love.
"We should go," Elysia said at last, drying her hands.
Ymir paused at the door. "Wait — I forgot my jacket."
"No time to run back. Summon it."
Ymir grinned and lifted her hand, fingers slightly curved. She traced a sigil in the air with her fingertip, whispering a single word. From the other room, her thick blue coat stirred, then rose and flew into her hands, landing softly against her chest.
"Well done," Elysia said. "Very precise."
"Granny May said my form is better than hers when she was my age."
"She's not wrong."
They stepped outside together into the cool night air. The village glowed — a patchwork of flickering light, enchanted frost, and soft white snow. The festival square was already alive with music and movement. A great bonfire blazed at its center, surrounded by villagers dancing and singing in circles, hands joined, voices raised. Overhead, light spirits — summoned for the occasion — drifted like glowing petals on the breeze.
Then the music quieted, and a hush swept over the crowd.
A single flare shot into the sky.
And then another.
The first firework exploded in a bloom of red and silver, like a rose blossoming in the heavens. Gasps rose from the crowd. More followed — a green dragon spiraling through clouds of stars, a burst of golden snowflakes that drifted down harmlessly and melted against skin.
Ymir's eyes were wide with wonder, her breath misting in the cold. She clutched her mother's hand, her heart full of awe.
"I want to do that one day," she whispered. "Make beauty like that."
"You will," Elysia said softly. "You already do."
A sudden wind stirred the snow.
Then — a flicker in the sky.
A firework veered sharply, off course. It sputtered, twisted, and fell — trailing smoke too thick, too dark.
Then came another.
And another.
Too fast.
Too low.
Too real.
The crowd began to murmur, then gasp as the first impact struck — a thunderous explosion on the far side of the village. Fire engulfed a row of houses, sending debris skyward. People screamed. Children cried. Confusion turned to horror.
Above the tree line, dozens of figures emerged — tall and cloaked in crimson robes, their faces masked in silver. Their movements were silent, precise. They raised staffs and blades inscribed with ancient symbols that pulsed with violent power.
In a synchronized motion, they attacked.
Fireballs crashed into roofs. Ice spears flew through the air. Bolts of raw energy crackled from their hands, striking villagers down. The square erupted into chaos.
"Ymir, run!" Elysia shouted, spinning around and pulling her daughter through the crowd. "Now!"
They sprinted through the snow, slipping between fallen tents and shattered carts, trying to reach the safety of their home. But before they could, one of the cultists landed before them, floating inches above the ground.
He extended a wand — and launched a volley of ice shards straight at them.
Elysia reacted in a blink, casting a barrier of golden light that caught the shards with a deafening crack.
Another figure emerged from the shadows and hurled a curse at Ymir.
Elysia turned sharply, countering the spell just in time — but that moment of distraction was fatal.
A third cultist unleashed an ice explosion, aimed directly between them.
The blast sent Ymir flying through the air.
She struck the ground hard, her ears ringing, vision blurring. The last thing she saw was her mother, backlit by fire and magic, arms raised in defiance, lips shouting a name she could no longer hear.
And then —
Darkness.