Fileyele walked the forest path slowly, her boots brushing through the dew-laced moss as dusk crept over the trees. The hut-on-the-hill meeting had ended, a somber prelude to the grand convergence of all covens. But her thoughts weren't on the gathering, nor on the High Witch's harshness. They circled elsewhere—around the secret she kept locked behind the wooden door of her own dwelling. She let herself slow further, drawing out each step, hoping time would delay the inevitable. As she rounded a familiar bend, she paused, instinct guiding her eyes left. There, as if summoned by memory, stood her childhood friend. "Mythra?" she called.
The woman sneezed violently, waving one arm while dusting off her familiar—a bat-winged creature that purred like a soot-caked cat. "Fil!" Mythra called out, using her old nickname. "You always find me at my most dignified." They embraced with warm familiarity, exchanging a few laughs and light banter. Talk drifted to the meeting—Mythra grumbling about the High Witch's relentless demands—but the moment shifted when Mythra's tone darkened. She ran a hand over her familiar's back, her gaze distant. "Did you dispose of the powder?" Mythra asked, almost too casually. Fileyele blinked. "Why would I?"
"Because Rose was here before the meeting. Someone knows about your little venture beyond the wards." "That's just speculation," Fileyele deflected. "No one could know—" "The powder I gave you," Mythra interrupted, voice low, "only I know the magical signature it leaves behind. But the High Witch... she's attuned to the surges that come with portal magic. Rose and her enforcers stormed my workshop. Catalogued every grain. I won't be handing out favors anytime soon." Fileyele exhaled, brushing hair from her face. "It's alright. I saw what I needed to see."A silence settled before Fileyele spoke again, quieter now. "I've got an uncomfortable question." "As long as it's not how I brew powders one-handed," Mythra said with a crooked smile. That earned a chuckle. "Tempting. But... no. Something else. Related, though." Mythra nodded.n"If you had the chance to meet the person who did that to you," Fileyele asked, eyes dropping to the scars on Mythra's face, then to the stump of her missing arm, "what would you do?" Mythra touched the jagged line across her cheek, then the empty sleeve at her shoulder. She didn't answer immediately. When she did, her voice was weary.
"What is there to be done? What he took—my sight, my arm, my time... they're irreplaceable." She paused, holding her familiar close. "There was a time I dreamed of vengeance. I wanted to press hot coals in his mouth, boil him alive, strip him limb by limb and watch him scream. That rage, it ate me alive. But now…" Her voice faltered. A tear escaped down her cheek. "I wouldn't wish that pain on anyone. Not even him. The dreams still come, you know. The creaking steel door. Chains rattling. The smell—gods, the smell—of burning flesh. My own skin, charred and unwashed. The sound of dripping water counting the seconds I lost."
She blinked another tear away. "That's why I carry no hatred. Not anymore." Fileyele's voice cracked. "I wish I could be like you. But... I saw my mother burn. On a crucifix. Screaming. Skin blackening. Her voice—" She stopped, trembling. "I couldn't save her. I was just a girl. And I hate them, Mythra. I hate humans. From the first to the last. They hunted us like beasts. Killed her for existing." Mythra narrowed her eyes. "You said his kind. As in... a specific human?" Caught, Fileyele blinked rapidly. "I meant all of them. The men. The ones leading the hatred. That's what I meant." A beat of silence. "Well, I should go," she added abruptly, turning. "Fil—" But she was already running. From the brush nearby, unseen eyes followed her sprint back to her home.
Fileyele slammed her door shut, panting. She locked it quickly, peeking through the window—no sign of pursuit. She turned, heart still pounding. Caelen sat calmly in a chair, too composed for someone under siege. She narrowed her eyes. "I hope you enjoyed your stay. I've had time to think about what I'm going to do with you." Caelen raised an eyebrow, gulping but trying a nervous grin. "Can't say the hospitality's been warm... unless you count you setting me on fire." She stepped closer with every word, flames licking at her fingertips. "I tried to spare you. But there's no other way. I'm sorry, truly." "No, you're not," Caelen said, unfazed. She snarled and hurled a stream of fire—he dove aside, the chair erupting in flame. He sprinted for the window, leapt—
—and was flung back by a hidden barrier. Groaning, he muttered, "I think your window's defective." Fileyele stalked toward him, sword of flame in hand. "You've left me no choice, human." "I'll have to retaliate," he said, raising his fists playfully. "Though it's a shame. You're a beauty." "Keep dreaming," she hissed. "You'll die before learning the truth." They stood still—magic humming between them, the room thick with tension. Caelen's thoughts raced. She's powerful. Angry. But she's holding back. Why? What is she hiding? What did I trigger?
Fileyele's thoughts burned. He's too fast. Not normal. Trained. Dangerous. I won't be the next witch to lose everything. Not again. She detonated the flame blade—he flew back, slammed into the wall. While he reeled, she began a spell—her witchmarks glowing green. The air thickened with mana. Her familiar, Varin, flared into being: a fox-shaped fire spirit, massive and silent. Caelen froze. One move, and he'd die. He slowly raised his hands and dropped the spellbook he'd hidden.
"Unarmed," he said, calm. Smirking, Fileyele said, "Why shouldn't I end you here, filthy human?"
"That's rude," Caelen replied. "I bathe. Religiously."
"Are those your last words?"
"Hardly. I'm not dying here."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because if you truly wanted me dead, I already would be. You're curious. Watching me. Testing me."
"I know you're lying,"she said, voice tight. "No human moves like you. You remind me of th—" The door exploded inward with a crash of wind. They were both thrown to the ground.
When the dust cleared, a familiar figure stepped through the wreckage, wind magic still swirling at her feet. "Odella?!" Fileyele gasped. The haughty young witch surveyed the room, the ruined chair, the singed floor, the wild-eyed humans. Her grin widened. "What in the Veil is wrong with you?!" Fileyele snapped. "Your mother must be mad with power to let you behave like this." Odella's eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare speak of my mother, traitor's daughter. You should be kissing my boots for everything we gave you—including this house you clearly treasure." "You call this valid reasoning for destroying my home?" Before Odella could respond, a cough echoed from the debris. Her eyes snapped to Caelen.
She froze. Then her voice turned sharp. "Is that... a human? What's a human doing here? You knew?! You're not even surprised—wait... no. No. No." Her face twisted. "You are just like her. Just like your mother. A traitor." "Odella, listen," Fileyele pleaded. "He found me, not the other way around." But Odella had already made up her mind. She stepped back toward the door, magic sparking. "The coven will hear of this" Before Odella can get far, Fileyele grabs a hefty spell book from the floor and smacks Odella squarely on the head. Odella crumples back down with a dull thud. Caelen freezes, wide-eyed. "Did you just—?" Fileyele whirls toward him, face alight with confusion and fury. Her witchmarks glow faintly beneath her skin, humming with restrained power. "This is all your fault," she snaps. But before her anger can ignite further, a distant voice calls out: "Odella!"
The familiar tone makes them both stiffen. It's Rose—an Enforcer of the Coven, one of their finest spellcasters. Fileyele motions frantically for Caelen to stay silent. He nods rapidly, fear overtaking his confusion. Slowly, the glow in her witchmarks fades as she exhales and regains control. Fileyele steps out into the path, intercepting Rose before she reaches the crumbling doorway of her home. Behind her, Caelen watches, his expression frozen somewhere between awe and terror. He's never met anyone like Fileyele. Further down the flower-strewn path, Rose calls out again. "Odella?" No answer. Suddenly, Fileyele bursts out from the bushes. Rose, startled, instantly reacts—her Thorn Magic lashes out, a piercing spike narrowly missing Fileyele's head. "Watch it!" Fileyele gasps, clutching at her ear. "You nearly took off my head, not just my eye!" "You shouldn't leap out of bushes like a damned gremlin," Rose huffs, lowering her hand. "I live here," Fileyele shoots back. "Technically, you shouldn't be skulking around."
Rose doesn't bother arguing. Fileyele scrambles out of the foliage, trying to steer Rose away from the house—but her deflections are failing. Rose's purpose is clear. "Why are you even looking for Odella here?" Fileyele finally asks, trying to sound casual. Rose's eyes harden. "Because it's my duty to protect the High Witch's bloodline." The words land heavy. Fileyele blinks, absorbing the weight of that answer. She glances back toward the house, then subtly whispers, "Varin," summoning her familiar with a barely audible breath. Back inside, Odella begins to stir— Only for Caelen to glance at the spell book and, with a sheepish shrug, bonk her on the head again. She slumps over. "Sorry," he mutters. "Panic instinct." Outside, despite Fileyele's best efforts, Rose turns down the last path toward the house. It's too late.
Inside, she finds Odella sprawled on the floor. Alarmed, Rose kneels, then turns to call Fileyele for help—only to realize she's gone. Scooping Odella into her arms, Rose heads for the only place that matters now—the Hut on the Hill, home of the High Witch. As she arrives, carrying Odella's limp body, whispers ripple through the crowd of gathered witches. The High Witch appears, eyes locking on her daughter—and for a dreadful moment, she thinks she's dead. A tear slips down her cheek. Then—a breath. Relief and rage clash across her face. "What happened?" she demands. "I... only found her like this," Rose says, wary. The High Witch's expression darkens. "And where," she asks, voice cold, "is Fileyele?" "I don't know," Rose answers honestly. "She vanished." "You call yourself a protector," the High Witch growls. "And you let my daughter fall under a stranger's spell? What are you all waiting for—go find Fileyele Crimson!"
Elsewhere, under hooded cloaks, Fileyele and Caelen hurry down a shaded path. "Does this mean I'm off the chopping block?" Caelen asks. Fileyele doesn't look at him. "Don't be naïve. I just don't have time to bury the evidence." They press forward toward Mythra's house. Behind them, Rose rallies the witches. She crashes through doors, questioning everyone she passes. Finally, one mentions seeing two hooded figures along the road. Rose's eyes narrow.
"Fileyele... and someone else," she mutters. "Another witch? Or... something worse?" Back at the Hut, Odella stirs. Disoriented, she mumbles broken words. No one listens—until the High Witch kneels beside her. She strains to hear. One word reaches her ears: "Hu...man." The High Witch goes pale. She storms outside, summoning a whirlwind that lifts her off the ground and carries her into the sky. Her fury fuels the storm. Fileyele and Caelen arrive at Mythra's. After heated words and justification, Mythra reluctantly gives Fileyele the powder she needs. As they leave—Rose spots them. The chase begins. Fileyele grips Caelen's arm, urging him faster as spells rain down behind them.
"Why are you chasing us?!" she yells back. "Why are you running?!" Rose shouts. "We'll stop if you stop!" Fileyele counters. Caelen mutters, "I don't think stopping changes anything. Either way, I'm toast. And I doubt they'll thank you for dragging a human into their dimension." They sprint until they reach a lone tree in a clearing. Fileyele dumps the powder onto its roots—nothing happens. Caelen panics. "They're getting closer!" Just then, the tree begins to burn, then twist, then collapse inward, leaving behind a slit in the air—just wide enough to step through. Caelen inches toward it—until a voice crashes down like thunder. The High Witch descends.
Caelen freezes with one foot through. "You coming?" he asks Fileyele. The High Witch's voice booms. "Fileyele! What do you think you're doing?! You'd doom your sisters by letting a human walk free!" Fileyele turns. "Sisters? You call them sisters? I've never had a sister since my mother died." The High Witch snarls, "Still clinging to the past? She chose humans over her own kind." "She loved us," Fileyele fires back. "Even if you twisted that love into shame." "Love?" the High Witch snaps. "Your mother endangered everyone. If that's love, I'd rather hate her." Her voice grows colder. "You have two choices. Face judgment here, or die beyond the realm. I will hunt you down if I must." Rose flinches at the threat, but says nothing. Fileyele turns her gaze across the gathered witches—every eye brimming with suspicion. Then she looks at the portal.
"I know what waits if I stay," she says, quiet but resolute. "And maybe what's out there is worse. But it can't be worse than being treated like a plague by those who claim to be my family." She turns, smirks, and says, "So I choose the familiar dark... over your bright lie." With that, she shoves Caelen through the portal and dives in after him. The portal closes— At the same moment, Rose and the High Witch unleash their magic. A spiraling thorn and a wind slash crash into the tree, obliterating it. The High Witch screams in fury. Rose glances at her, uncertain. "We'll find them." The High Witch straightens, eyes blazing. "No," she says. "Now, we hunt."