Winter's breath clung to the capital like a shroud, filling every alley and corner with a pale mist that coiled between the flickering lamplights. The noble quarter slept under veils of snow, while the slums below hummed quietly with life — the muffled sound of carts, the distant echo of laughter, and the faint rhythm of survival.
In one of these half-forgotten corners of the capital stood a newly restored workshop — once a derelict warehouse used by smugglers, now cleaned and fortified with heavy locks and covered windows. Its owner was not a noble nor a merchant, at least not in name.
She was known in whispers as Lady Mirrele, the woman with the half-mask. Morgan's other identity in the underbelly of the capital.
Beneath the pale light of a hanging lamp, Morgan — or rather, Lady Mirrele — stood before a large wooden table littered with ledgers, maps, and strange tools. Her mask, elegant yet simple, covered the left side of her face, tracing the shape of her cheekbone with silver edges. Her right eye, sharp and cold, gleamed faintly in the light.
In the weeks since the Ivory Manor's success, her other identity had taken root. As Morgan Ivory, she was a respectable landlady and business woman, catering to nobles and merchants seeking comfort. But in the underbelly of the capital, Lady Mirrele was a rising figure — a quiet broker of information, a supplier of secrets, and a potential power no one yet dared cross.
The children she had rescued from Big Rat's old gang now formed her informant web. Some acted as errand runners, some as stable hands who listened and reported, others as street peddlers with sharp eyes and quicker tongues. Her small network grew under the guise of servants and urchins, trained to watch, listen, and vanish. Her ability also help her in spying and gathering information.
And tonight, she was preparing to expand even further.
Morgan traced her fingers across the table, brushing aside a set of papers. Behind her, shadows flickered — not cast by light, but by magic. Dozens of dark moths hung in the air, their wings glimmering faintly like smoke. With a slow exhale, she raised her hand and gave a small, silent command.
The moths moved.
They swirled, then separated into lines — graceful, precise, and utterly under her control. Each fluttered in perfect synchronization, as though they shared one will.
Morgan smiled faintly. "Stable… less predictable… and stronger than ever before."
Her practice had gone far beyond the moth constructs she once used. In the weeks following the Ivory Manor's opening, she'd pushed herself every night — experimenting, exhausting, refining. She'd succeeded in summoning centipedes, beetles, even spiders made of solid shadow. She could maintain their forms longer, command them more intuitively.
But animals… animals remained unstable.
She looked toward the corner of the workshop, where an incomplete shadow construct twitched weakly — the malformed shape of a small cat, its body flickering as if half-dream and half-matter.
Morgan sighed. "Not yet. I can't hold it together."
Still, she persisted. She always did.
As she closed her eyes, her breathing steadied. Her magic pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat, circulating faster, smoother — until the air around her began to hum faintly.
Then, it happened.
A sudden, rising heat bloomed in her chest — not the heat of exhaustion or fever, but something deeper, primal. Her eyes shot open as the energy surged through her veins, wild and unyielding.
The shadows around her quivered.
"What—?" she hissed, grabbing the edge of the table. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her limbs tingled, her lungs burned — yet there was no pain. Only raw, surging power.
The air shimmered with threads of black light. The moths she'd summoned scattered, their forms unraveling, replaced by streams of glimmering dust that circled her like stars caught in a storm.
Then, realization struck.
Today was Morgan'sday of adulthood.
She remembered the passages she'd read in the story and snippets of the novel's memory she carried — how witches often experienced a surge of magic every time they reach their adulthood. Very few can evolve their ability like some of the witches under Roland's employ. But there's more, during a witch 'Day of Adulthood' there magic accumulate, it increase and become stronger. But my ability is stirring, changing, becoming more than what it usually is.
"Is it..... evolving?"
In the novel, Anna experiences this same awakening. During the day of her adulthood she also experiences evolution of her ability.
The Taquila witches called it "High Awakening." Others like Roland called it evolution of the witches power. Most thought of it as a curse, for many witches who could not bear the flood of power simply… perished.
But Morgan's lips curled faintly.
"Not me."
Her training, her constant use of magic, her relentless control — they had forged her like tempered steel. She could feel the magic, yes, but it did not overwhelm her. It filled her — reshaped her from within.
The shadows in the workshop thickened, dancing across the walls. Morgan's eyes glowed faintly violet as she raised her hand.
The moths returned — hundreds, thousands — but not as shadows this time. Each one had weight, substance, a texture like silk and chitin. They filled the workshop, forming clouds that pulsed in time with her breath.
Then, she willed them to change.
The moths melted together — becoming centipedes, snakes, ravens — each one emerging as if carved from ink and moonlight. Her control deepened, her connection sharpened.
She gasped as realization hit her:
She could now summon any insect or animal construct she desired.
Her magic had evolved.
And more — she could shape these constructs, mold them into new forms. She stretched her hand toward the swirling black tide, and from it rose a monstrous figure — the body of a stag, its head crowned with moth-like antennae, its flanks crawling with luminous runes like patterns that pulsed like veins.
Her voice trembled, partly awe and delight.
"…I can shape them."
The beast bowed its head, silent and obedient. Morgan could feel its pulse — her pulse — resonating within it.
Her magic also increased.
But as the power coursed through her, something else stirred within. The light gathered at her fingertips condensed into a single orb of flesh-like texture, beating faintly. It pulsed, then stretched, forming a cocoon — soft, wet, and radiantly red.
Morgan froze.
"A… cocoon?" she whispered.
It hovered before her, alive, resonating with her magic. Beating like a heart that pushes the blood to the veins. As she focused, she realized she could pour her magic into it — store it. The cocoon absorbed her energy, shifting in texture and density until it hardened into the shape of a small bird.
When the cocoon cracked open, the bird fluttered out — soft, warm, and real.
It felt alive.
Morgan reached out, and the bird perched on her finger. She could feel its heartbeat. Its feathers were faintly cool, its eyes intelligent. It chirped once before dissolving into threads of magic that sank back into her skin.
Her lips parted in astonishment. "A construct… that lives…"
This was her sub-ability — a once-in-a-lifetime gift that came only during the witch's day of adulthood. A cocoon of creation, capable of birthing true magical constructs — ones that were not mere shadows, but living extensions of her will.
But the surge of magic did not end. Power continued to flood into her—relentless, wild, like a torrential downpour crashing against fragile glass. She could feel every pulse, every current, pressing against the limits of her body. Her veins burned with light, her skin tingled with pain.
She had already reached her limit.
If the magic kept pouring in, it wouldn't strengthen her—it would tear her apart.
Desperation sharpened her focus. She raised her hands and let her instincts guide her. The magic that once raged within began to shift—no longer forcing its way into her veins but flowing outward instead. Threads of energy spilled from her skin, weaving together into something tangible.
A pale, flesh-like cocoon began to form in front of her, pulsing faintly with a heartbeat not its own. It grew with every surge, feeding on the torrent that once threatened to destroy her. The air thickened with a low hum as excess magic streamed into the cocoon, filling it, storing it—like a living vessel, a battery of flesh and power.
Morgan could feel the pressure ease. The wild current that had nearly broken her now coursed steadily into the cocoon, its fury tempered by her will. Slowly, the torrent began to fade, the storm within her quieting until, at last, the flow stopped.
Only then did she lower her hands. The cocoon pulsed once more, alive with the faint echo of her magic—her creation, her safeguard against the chaos she had barely survived.
As the last surge of energy settled, she dropped to her knees, gasping. Steam rose from her skin, and the workshop's shadows fell still. Her heartbeat steadied, her magic calmed, and silence reclaimed the room.
She sat there for a long while, breathing in the cold air, sweat dripping down her brow.
Then, slowly, a small smile curved her lips.
"So this is what it means… to become a Senior Witch in Taquila's standard."
She took a moment to observe the changes within her. Her magical capacity had expanded—vastly, almost exponentially. Before, she could summon only a handful of moths, their fragile wings lasting no more than half an hour before fading into dust. Now, she could call forth thousands at once, each one steady and vibrant, sustained by a flow of magic that no longer wavered. The difference was staggering. The air itself seemed to hum faintly when she reached out, as if the world had begun to recognize her presence.
Her gaze shifted to the cocoon before her—the one born from the storm of power she had barely contained. It pulsed gently, like a living heart, radiating waves of soft, rhythmic light. Its size resembles a slightly larger apple. Each pulse resonated with her own heartbeat, the connection between them unmistakable. Morgan could feel it—not merely a creation of her magic, but an extension of her will.
When she focused on it, whispers of potential flickered at the edge of her mind. She understood instinctively that she could draw from it, shaping its stored energy to summon constructs of any form she desired. The magic sealed within was immense—at least five times her current capacity, dense and vibrant like a compressed sun.
A shiver ran down her spine. The possibilities were endless. With that much energy, she could birth legions of insects—tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands if she stretched her control. A true swarm, vast enough to blot out the light, to move like a living tide under her command.
It was both awe-inspiring and terrifying.
The cocoon pulsed again, as if answering her thoughts, and Morgan's lips curved faintly. She placed a hand over her chest, feeling the faint echo of its rhythm beneath her own.
She had not merely survived the storm—she had harnessed it.
Her gaze shifted toward the window. Beyond it, the capital slept — unaware of the power that had just awakened within its heart.
But not everyone was blind to it.
—
Far across the capital, inside the cathedral's high tower, Sister Agatha froze mid-prayer. The golden light in her eyes flared. She could feel it — an immense surge of uncontrolled magic, raw and ancient, blooming like fire somewhere in the slums.
She stood abruptly. "A witch," she whispered. "In the capital."
The nearby Judges — armored men with swords and blessed chains — turned to her in alarm.
"What is it, Sister?"
Agatha's lips curved faintly, though her eyes were sharp and cold. "An awakening. A strong one. Gather five of you. We move now."
Within minutes, five soldiers of the Church's Army of Judges assembled, cloaked and armed with silver-etched weapons. The group moved swiftly through the empty streets, guided by the faint trail of holy light visible only to the Pure Witch's sight.
The trail led them deeper into the slums — to the edge of a deserted district, where smoke and frost mingled in the air.
There, standing amid a swirling mass of moths and glowing constructs, was a masked woman — elegant, calm, surrounded by living shadows that bowed at her feet.
In her hands rested a grotesque crimson cocoon, its surface glistening as though slick with fresh blood. It throbbed with a slow, rhythmic pulse—steady, deliberate—like the beating of a human heart trapped within living flesh. Veins of dark light ran across its surface, glowing faintly each time it contracted, casting flickering shadows over Morgan's face.
The sound was soft but unmistakable: thump… thump… thump…—a heartbeat that did not belong to the woman in front of Sister Agatha, yet resonated in perfect synchrony. The weight of it was unsettling; it looks both warm and cold, alive yet incomplete, as if waiting for a command to define its existence.
Morgan stared at it in silence, transfixed. She could feel the pulse of magic flowing through the cocoon, threads of energy intertwining with her own essence. It wasn't just an artifact—it was a reservoir of raw creation, born from her power and bound to her will.
For a moment, she wondered if it was alive.
The lady turned slowly, her eyes meeting Agatha's golden ones.
The night air crackled.
Witch and witch, light and dark — two powers faced each other under the same winter night.
Suddenly, thousands of moths and other flying insects come out behind the woman. It flies like a swarm wrecking havoc to Agatha's company of judges. The last thing Agatha saw was the woman's smile, as if challenging her and anyone who will go against her.
And somewhere in the distance, the bells of the capital tolled softly — not for prayer, but for the chaos soon to come.