The windmill stood like a broken skeleton on the edge of Elderwood. Its old blades creaked when the wind blew too hard. Most people in the village acted like it wasn't there. They walked past it like it was invisible, like it hadn't once watched over their children and crops. But for seventeen-year-old Liora Wren, it was the only place in the world where she felt truly alive.
Her bare feet pressed into the wet grass. The morning dew soaked her skin. A chill ran up her spine as her long black skirt brushed against her legs. She stood there for a long time, just staring at the tower. Vine climbed up the stones like it wanted to pull the whole building down into the earth. The sun wasn't out yet, but a soft, pale light touched her auburn hair. It felt like a quiet warning.
Something about today felt wrong, not just strange but deep down in her bones and heart.
Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. The dreams had been bothering her for weeks. But they didn't feel like dreams. They felt real. A woman in silver robes called her name without moving her lips. A forest filled with moving shadows. Fire crawling up her arms like it belonged there.
She hadn't told her grandmother Ysolde, who she lovingly called Nana. She hadn't told anyone. What could she say? That her skin tingled when she touched certain herbs? That her heart beat faster around candlelight? That something inside her was waking up?
Inside the windmill, the air was still and dusty. It looked like tiny ghosts floating in the light. The wooden floor creaked under her steps. She walked up the stairs slowly. One wrong step and she could fall right through and no one would find her for days.
The upper room was just how she remembered it. Old wooden boxes, bundles of dried herbs, glass jars with faded writing, and the soft, comforting smell of lavender and earth. She knelt next to a crate and pulled back a cloth. Her fingers were shaking. Underneath was an old leather book with cracks on the cover. A sun symbol was burned into it.
She opened it slowly, her breath caught at the first line:
"To my bloodline, bound by light and burden. The Blessed Witch shall rise again."
Her throat tightened.
She flipped through the pages. They weren't just spells. There were stories, prayers, warnings, and then she read:
"The fire returns in cycles. When the moon weeps and the crow calls thrice, the chosen must awaken."
She looked out the crooked upper room window, the moon was still in the sky, pale and far away. A crow sat on one of the windmill's blades. It was staring at her, like it had been waiting.
It called out once. Her blood went cold. She ran back to the cottage. Her grandmother, Ysolde, was kneeling by the fire, trying to get it to light. Her long silver braid moved as she worked. Her hands were old and worn, but still steady.
"You were at the windmill," Ysolde said without turning around.
Liora froze. "How? How did you know?"
"The wind changes when you go there, and you came back different."
"I found your book," Liora said, "the one with the sun on the cover. I read the prophecy. I saw the crow. Nana, I saw the woman in silver again."
Ysolde turned to face her. Her kind eyes were now filled with something else fear and recognition.
"The Seer came to you," she said softly.
Liora nodded. "She knew my name. I could feel her voice inside my chest."
Ysolde crossed the room and gently held Liora's face in her hands. Her touch was warm and trembling. "Liora, there are things I never wanted you to carry. Truths I hoped would die with me, but our blood remembers. And now, yours is waking up."
Tears burned in Liora's eyes. "What am I becoming?"
"You're not becoming," Ysolde whispered. "You're returning. You are the last of us, The Blessed Witch in our family, and now they will come for you."
Liora stepped back, shaking her head. "No. I'm not one of them. I don't want this, and I didn't ask for powers. I'm just me."
Ysolde's voice softened. "None of us asked, child. But our blood chose us before we were born. It's in your bones, in the fire behind your eyes. You can't run from it."
"I don't want to be different," Liora said, her voice breaking. "I just want to be normal. Like the other girls in the village."
"Normal is something we tell ourselves to feel safe," Ysolde said gently. "But you're not alone. I was like you once scared of my gift, and so was my sister, Alwen."
Liora blinked. "You had a sister?"
"Yes. Alwen was strong and kind. She could speak to the stars and call the rain with her songs. The village loved her until they feared her. She died protecting this land from a great darkness. She was the last Blessed Witch before you."
"What happened to her?"
Ysolde's voice shook. "She gave her life to close a dark gate. One that still waits to open again. Her sacrifice kept Elderwood safe, but now the seal is breaking, and it's your turn to protect the village."
Liora couldn't speak. A storm of grief and fear churned with light inside her. Then she thought of her father.
"He knew, didn't he?" she whispered.
Ysolde nodded. "He did. Your father didn't have magic, but he loved you so much. He left to protect you, to draw danger away from here. He thought if he stayed, they would find you."
"So he left me?" Liora's voice cracked with pain.
"No," Ysolde said, her eyes full of sorrow. "He gave up everything so you could have a peaceful life. He watched over you from afar for years. You were never alone, Liora."
Liora was born on the first day of spring. Flowers had just started to bloom. Her mother, Seraphine, held her close and sang old witch songs. From the moment Liora opened her eyes, her father, Thorne, believed she had something special something ancient. Thorne wasn't magical, but he loved Seraphine deeply. When Liora came into their lives, his love only grew stronger.
Seraphine was gentle. A healer of both wounds and hearts. She taught Liora to listen to the wind and feel the heartbeat of the earth. Their cottage always smelled of rosemary and warm bread. It was filled with soft songs and old stories. Liora always felt safe when her mother was near.
Thorne, even without magic, was her protector. He carried her on his shoulders through the fields, carved toys for her, and told her bedtime stories. When villagers gossiped about Seraphine, Thorne stood strong and silent, protecting them. To him, Liora was perfect.
But witches in Elderwood never stayed safe for long. When Seraphine got sick, it happened fast. Liora was only seven. She remembered holding her mother's hand and watching the light fade from her eyes. Her father held back tears as long as he could.
After Seraphine died, Thorne changed. He became quiet, watchful. When Liora's magic began to show, he knew what it meant. He knew the danger. So he made a hard choice. He left not out of fear, but to protect her and draw danger away.
Ysolde looked back at the fire. "Alwen gave her life under the Hollow Moon. I remember it clearly. The forest turned dark. Shadows came through the cracks in our barrier. Alwen stood in a clearing, her arms raised, chanting old words. She gave everything she had to close that rift. The earth shook, the sky wept, and then silence. Her body was never found. Only her amulet with the sun symbol was left."
Liora sat down, her legs weak. Her eyes filled with tears. Her voice was small. "She died for them, and they forgot her?"
"They remember in whispers and fear, but you carry her light now."
The windows rattled as wind slammed into them.
That night, Liora didn't sleep. Her thoughts were wild. Her heart pounded like war drums.
The crow had called two more times before sunset. Three times total.
Past midnight, a soft knock came at her window. She pulled back the curtain, but only saw vapor and, in the distance, the windmill. Its blades moved slowly, even though the air was still.
Then she saw it: a flicker of orange in the windmill's upper room window. Her breath caught. The candlelight pulsed like a heartbeat, steady and alive, cutting through the thick vapor like a silent scream. It hadn't been there minutes ago. Liora pressed her palm to the cold glass, her heart pounding.
But she hadn't lit it. She hadn't even gone back up since morning. The candle stood alone, burning in still air, untouched by breeze or time. Someone had been there. Someone who knew. A shiver crawled up her spine as the flame danced, as if it were calling her name.