The morning mist hadn't lifted, but she was already outside—barefoot on cold stone, broom in hand, the sky caught quietly in her eyes.
Morning dew clung to the wildflowers like silver halos. Even the wind tiptoed.
Inside the cottage—crooked, lavender-scented, full of old paper—everything was too quiet.
No teacup clink.
No muttered spell.
No "daydreaming turnip."
The Witch of Crescent Hollow was gone.
No puff of smoke. No failed incantation.
Just... gone.
She stood at the windowsill. A single cracked teacup sat there, still warm. Magic shimmered faintly along the rim—pulsing once, like a breath, then vanishing.
A note was scrawled in uneven ink --
"Find the tower that walks on lost memories."
Her stomach dropped.
She didn't know what it meant. But the part of her that felt instead of thought... did.
She read it again. Softer, like it might change. Like it might undo what had happened.
The sitting room was a mess of comfort: overstuffed shelves, jars of stormwater, melted candles, beetle husks, spellbooks tied with ivy. Predictable. Safe.
And outside?
She had no idea.
She'd never stepped beyond the garden gate.
Not once.
Not because she wasn't allowed—just never ready. Not when the world out there sounded like teeth and tempests and unhealed things.
She remembered the Tower only vaguely—from a half-erased drawing in a brittle old storybook. She'd asked about it once.
"That?" her mentor had scoffed,
"Just a bedtime story. Like love potions that work. Or apprentices who don't sulk."
Then she smiled.
And now—no warning, no goodbye—she was gone.
Elira looked at the note again. And then the teacup.
Her hands trembled—not with fear, but with something unfamiliar. Something weightless and terrible.
Hope.
---
That night, Elira opened the apprentice registry.
Her name was missing.
The page sat blank where her violet signature should've been—just a ripple in the parchment. Like it had forgotten her.
She stared. Blinked.
Dipped her pen and wrote slowly:
E-L-
The ink bled sideways.
The ink was gone.
The page looked as if she'd never touched it. No stain, no trace. Just stillness.
Then suddenly something shifted.
Not in the room—but in her. A pressure behind her eyes, like remembering a dream she hadn't had yet.
She blinked and the candlelight flickered sideways.
Suddenly, the walls weren't her cottage anymore.
Rain fell in thin silver threads, slicing through the trees. Her clothes were soaked. All she could remember now is some mushrooms around her.
But she had remembered the ache, the kind that lives between hunger and fear.
Then came the scent—lavender and smoke—and the sound of a door creaking open.
The woman had stood holding the lantern light. All elbows and wild shawls, eyes like stormglass. A crooked smile that looked like it hadn't been used in years.
"You're early, dear," the witch had said, giving a warm smile,"And soggy."
The child had said nothing.
Just stared.
Those little eyes are green like the emerald stone.
> "Well, don't stand there like a drowned mushroom, child."
She gave her hand and the child held it.
It was very warm.
They entered into a cottage.
And then—
The scratching. From a basket by the hearth.
A tiny head popped out. Triangular ears. Wide, judging eyes the color of frostbitten amethyst.
"This," the witch said, "is Mira."
The kitten hissed at her.
"She likes you already."
Elira blinked. "She looks… angry."
"She is angry. She was born that way."
The witch knelt beside her, eyes softer now. "Take her anyway. Every witch needs a familiar. And she's too stubborn to let anyone else keep her."
The kitten crawled up onto Elira's shoulder like she belonged there. Elira hadn't smiled in months.But she did then. Just a little.
The fire crackled low. The rain outside had softened to a hush.The kitten had stopped hissing. She sat curled on Elira's shoulder, purring like thunder far away.
The witch stirred the cauldron once, twice, then turned. Her eyes studied the girl—
not unkind, but searching.
> "You came from where?"
A pause. Then a shake of the head.
"Or A name?"
Elira opened her mouth.Nothing came out.
Because she didn't have one.
The witch watched her in silence for a long moment.
"I never thought I would bring a child again. I am Aylin lunarish, The Witch of Crescent Hollow. Aylin means 'moon'. "
Then she reached for the hearth chalk. Drew a small sigil on the wooden floor. A curl, a line, a crescent.
"Elira," she said simply."It means 'remains of the moon.' Mossfield, for where I found you—half asleep under a ring of mushrooms."
She stared.
It didn't feel strange.
It felt... right. Like remembering something she'd never known she'd lost.
> "Words have power," the witch added. "But names? Names are roots. You'll need one that can hold you."
She tapped the girl's forehead gently with her thumb.
> "So. E-L-I-R-A M-O-S-S-F-I-E-L-D. That's who you are now."
And from that moment, her name was Elira Mossfield.