The underground chamber pulsed with an eerie violet light, alive with runes etched into the stone, centuries old and humming with dormant power. Alyannah stood barefoot on the dais, cloaked in black that bled into the shadows. Her form, Mari's body, was still unfamiliar in small ways. The limbs were weaker, the frame more delicate, but the vessel was young, and strong enough for what mattered.
Her soul had taken root.
The witch turned slowly, surveying the glowing symbols that coiled along the chamber walls like vines. Above her, no stars. No moonlight. Only rock and darkness and power she had waited centuries to reclaim.
Her ferals were sleeping now, buried in their hidden places like seeds waiting for spring. She thought fondly of them, and her voice echoed against the stone. "Sleep, my darlings," she whispered. "Sleep until the world forgets the sound of your claws."
It was time for some fresh recruits.
