The spell was not meant to be gentle.
Seraphyne knew this as the first words left her lips, ancient syllables scraping her throat raw as if the magic itself resented being spoken. The air around her thickened, heavy with power and consequence, pressing against her chest until each breath felt borrowed.
Lyrielle lay cradled in her arms, small and warm and terrifyingly fragile for something born under a blood moon. The baby's violet eyes flickered weakly, unfocused now, as though the seal had already begun to dim the awareness that had frightened the coven so deeply.
Seraphyne's hands shook.
Once this spell was complete, there would be no turning back.
Memory-binding was a cruelty reserved for traitors and abominations. It fractured the soul, severing instinct from identity, power from understanding. Many who endured it never fully recovered. Some lost themselves entirely.
But the alternative was worse.
Death would have been mercy compared to what awaited Lyrielle if the covens, the demon courts, or the mortal kings found her.
"I'm sorry," Seraphyne whispered again, her voice breaking as she traced the final sigil in the air above her daughter's heart. "Forgive me, little star."
The High Witch watched from a distance, her staff planted firmly against the stone floor, eyes sharp and unyielding. There was no sympathy in her gaze—only calculation.
"Once the seal is placed," she said, "you must leave. Tonight."
Seraphyne nodded without looking up. She had known this would be the price.
The spell ignited.
Light exploded outward, blinding and violent, wrapping around Lyrielle in spiraling bands of silver and shadow. The child cried out, a thin, piercing sound that sliced through Seraphyne's heart.
"Easy," she sobbed, clutching her tighter. "Mama's here."
The runes carved into the chamber walls flared once more before cracking entirely, their power exhausted. The forest outside groaned, roots shifting as if the land itself recoiled from what was being done.
When the light finally faded, Lyrielle went still.
Too still.
Seraphyne's breath caught in her throat. For one horrifying moment, she thought the spell had taken too much—that she had destroyed her own child in her desperation.
Then Lyrielle sighed softly.
Her tiny fingers relaxed.
And her eyes—those dangerous, luminous violet eyes—closed.
Seraphyne collapsed to her knees, clutching Lyrielle to her chest as tears streamed freely down her face.
"It's done," the High Witch said quietly. "Her magic is bound. Her memories sealed. She will grow as mortal."
Seraphyne laughed weakly, a broken sound. "She will never be mortal," she whispered. "Not truly."
"No," the High Witch agreed. "But she may survive."
The words were not comforting.
Within the hour, Seraphyne fled the forest.
She moved swiftly, magic cloaking her presence as she crossed borders most witches dared not approach. She avoided ley lines, sacred groves, and crossroads where spirits whispered too eagerly. Every step was calculated, every breath measured.
Lyrielle slept through it all, unaware that the world had already turned against her.
At the edge of the northern lands, Seraphyne stopped.
Before her lay a small, unremarkable village—stone cottages, narrow dirt roads, the scent of smoke and livestock hanging thick in the air. No magic lingered here. No wards. No watching eyes.
Perfect.
She approached a modest home at the far edge of the settlement, where a single lantern burned in the window. An elderly woman opened the door, her lined face creasing with shock when she saw Seraphyne.
"You came," the woman whispered.
"I had no one else," Seraphyne replied.
The woman's gaze dropped to the bundle in Seraphyne's arms. The moment she saw Lyrielle, her expression softened, fear melting into something like awe.
"Oh," she breathed. "She's beautiful."
"She is cursed," Seraphyne said bluntly. "And she must never know it."
The woman stepped aside without hesitation. "Then she will be mine," she said simply. "By blood or by oath, I will protect her."
Seraphyne hesitated only a moment before handing Lyrielle over. The separation felt like being torn open from the inside.
"She must never leave this village," Seraphyne said urgently. "Never seek power. Never be taught magic. If she shows signs—any signs—you must suppress them."
The woman nodded. "I swear it."
Seraphyne pressed a final kiss to Lyrielle's forehead, her tears falling freely now. "Live," she whispered. "Live, even if you hate me for it."
Then she turned away.
She did not look back.
Far below the mortal realm, Kaelith stood alone at the edge of the infernal abyss.
The seal hit him like a sudden silence after deafening noise.
One moment, the pull had been there—sharp, insistent, undeniable. The next, it vanished, as if someone had slammed a door shut between their souls.
Kaelith snarled, flames erupting around his feet as the obsidian ground cracked beneath his rage.
"They sealed her," he growled.
The demon lord Malphas stepped cautiously closer. "If the witch is bound, then the threat is gone."
Kaelith turned on him with a glare sharp enough to kill.
"You mistake ignorance for safety," Kaelith said coldly. "She is still alive. Still bound to me."
Malphas swallowed. "Then what do you intend to do?"
Kaelith stared into the chasm, wings twitching restlessly behind him. "Nothing," he said slowly. "For now."
He clenched his fists. "Let her grow. Let her forget. The seal will weaken with time."
"And when it breaks?" Malphas asked.
Kaelith's lips curved into a dark smile. "Then I will find her."
Years passed.
Lyrielle grew like any other child—quiet, observant, far too curious for her own good. She had her mother's dark hair and none of her memories. The seal buried her magic deep, but it could not erase instinct.
She knew when storms were coming long before clouds formed.
Animals watched her with unsettling focus.
And sometimes, when she dreamed, fire whispered her name.
At night, she woke with her heart racing, her skin warm as if she'd been standing too close to flame. She dreamed of golden eyes watching her from the dark, of wings unfolding against a burning sky.
She never remembered the face.
Only the feeling.
Familiar. Dangerous. Inevitable.
The old woman—who Lyrielle knew as her grandmother—noticed everything.
"You're not like the others," she said one evening as Lyrielle stared into the hearth, transfixed by the flames. "And that's alright. But you must learn restraint."
Lyrielle frowned. "Why do the fires listen to me?"
The woman stiffened. "They don't," she said quickly. "You imagine it."
Lyrielle nodded, but she didn't believe her.
Somewhere deep within her, something stirred.
And far away, in a realm of fire and shadow, Kaelith felt it.
Just a flicker.
Just enough to make him smile.