The abandoned building stood like a forgotten skeleton in the far corner of the capital's lower district — cracked walls, roof half-collapsed, and vines creeping through the window frames. Most people avoided this place, thinking it haunted or cursed. To Morgan, however, it was safety — a pocket of silence amid a city that never truly slept.
She slipped through the broken doorway as the last of the evening light faded. Her steps echoed faintly, the sound swallowed by dust and damp air. The boards creaked under her weight, and the familiar scent of mold and ash welcomed her like an old friend. She set down her small pouch of money and the worn cloak she'd used to blend in.
This was her hideout — the same place she used to crawl back to after a night of spying or running messages for Big Rat's gang. But now it served another purpose: a cocoon where she could think, practice, and quietly rebuild herself.
She sat by a shattered window, watching the distant lights of the capital flicker through the fog. So this is my world now, she thought, her lips curving faintly. A witch, in a kingdom that hunts witches.
The word "witch" still felt strange in her mind. Back on Earth, it carried the weight of myth and darkness — of women who defied faith, burned with forbidden knowledge, and bent the world to their will. But here, witches were merely ability users. Victims of fate. Weapons waiting to be used. That thought always left a bitter taste in her mouth.
"They call themselves witches," she murmured softly, "but they don't even grasp the essence of it."
Her voice was swallowed by the shadows.
The next morning came slowly. A streak of sunlight pierced through the dusty glass, landing across her face. Morgan stirred awake, stiff and aching from the hard floor. For the first time in weeks, she didn't have a mission. No gang errands. No running. Just silence.
She spent the first few hours cleaning what little space she could — sweeping away dust with an old rag, setting up a corner to sleep in, and arranging her things. The mundane work calmed her. It reminded her faintly of her old life — a time when she woke early, took the same crowded route every day, and lost herself in the humdrum rhythm of survival.
A bitter chuckle escaped her. "Funny how I hated that routine back then. Now I'd kill for a quiet day of it."
But she knew she couldn't afford such wishes. She wasn't just another worker anymore. She was Morgan — a witch reborn, carrying the weight of two worlds.
By midday, she began training.
Morgan stood in the open space near the center of the room — the cracked floor still sturdy enough to bear her weight. She exhaled, lifting her right hand slightly, feeling the faint hum in her veins. Magic answered, quiet and subtle, like the stirring of wind under her skin.
Mist gathered around her palm, translucent and silvery. From it, small shapes began to emerge — delicate, fluttering moths with wings made of mist and starlight. They drifted weakly at first, hovering only a few feet before fading back into nothingness.
She frowned. "Still too unstable…"
She tried again, this time closing her eyes to focus. She visualized the moths not as simple constructs, but as fragments of her will — extensions of her sight and awareness. When she opened her eyes, six faint moths hovered before her, their forms clearer, wings rippling faintly with light.
For a moment, she could feel them — faint impressions at the edge of her mind, like whispers brushing against her thoughts. Then the connection snapped, and they vanished.
Morgan sighed, rubbing her temple. "Shorter distance than yesterday… I need to refine the link."
The week passed like this — a cycle of practice, rest, and contemplation. She rationed her food carefully, living on stale bread and water. The hunger was a constant companion, but it sharpened her focus. Every night, she pushed her ability further — testing, failing, and trying again.
She learned that her constructs could last longer when she imbued them with intent rather than force. The more she visualized their purpose — scouting, watching, slipping through cracks — the more stable they became. Slowly, she built a small swarm, ten or twelve at a time, each able to hover and drift for nearly half an hour before fading.
Their range expanded too. What once was a few meters grew to dozens. When she concentrated deeply, she could even sense vague shapes near her moths — outlines of walls, warmth of life, movement of air. Not sight, not hearing — but awareness.
She named the feeling spatial sensitivity. A witch's sense.
It was exhausting, though. Maintaining that many constructs drained her. Sometimes her nose bled. Other times, her vision blurred from overuse. Still, she smiled through it. Pain meant progress.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the rooftops, Morgan lay back on the cold floor, staring up at the crumbling ceiling. Dust motes floated lazily above her, catching the dim light. She felt a strange peace then — a moment of stillness amid chaos.
She thought about the witches she had read about in Roland's story. Anna, with her flames that turned to tools of industry. Nightingale, with her ability to vanish into the mist. Tilly, the free one — the true witch queen in spirit. They were admirable, in their way. But they were also… too soft.
"They followed the path he built for them," Morgan whispered. "But a witch should forge her own."
Her thoughts wandered to the world she left behind — the fluorescent lights, the endless hours, the small desk she sat at every day. The smell of instant coffee, the dull ache of fatigue, the quiet yearning for something… more. Maybe this new life, for all its danger, was her answer.
A chance to become something greater.
Still, she couldn't help but miss the small comforts — the sound of rain on glass, the hum of electricity, the anonymity of crowds. Here, every breath carried weight. Every step might lead to death.
On the fifth day, she experimented again.
She stood at the doorway of the abandoned building, letting her misty moths drift outside. The city beyond was alive with noise — merchants shouting, wheels creaking, the clatter of armored boots. Morgan closed her eyes, letting her awareness expand.
The moths flew farther this time — down the narrow alleys, past laundry lines, into open courtyards. Through them, she felt movement. A child running. A door closing. The faint warmth of torches.
It wasn't perfect, but it was progress. Enough to make her smirk.
"Not bad," she muttered, wiping the sweat from her brow. "A week ago, I could barely make them hover."
She gathered the remaining moths, watching them swirl together before dissolving into mist. Her energy was nearly spent, but she didn't care. This power was growing — slowly, methodically — and she could feel its potential.
By the sixth night, her plans had started taking shape.
Morgan sat beside the small fire she made from broken furniture. Her cloak draped around her shoulders, the faint crackle of flame filling the silence. She took out a piece of parchment and began scribbling ideas — routes, names, fragments of what she remembered from the novel's events.
"Border Town…" she whispered. That was where Roland would build his new world. Where witches would find sanctuary. It was also where the future shifted — where the tides of history began to change.
She tapped her quill against her chin, thinking. "Do I go there now? Or wait here… until he returns?"
She had read enough to know how dangerous the journey would be. The Church's reach was long, and witches were hunted mercilessly. But staying here wasn't safer. The capital was rotting — full of spies, zealots, and people like Big Rat who'd sell you for a coin.
And yet… a small part of her hesitated. Not out of fear, but calculation.
If she went too early, she'd only be another weak witch begging for shelter. But if she stayed, gathered information, built connections — perhaps even followers — then she could enter that future as something more.
A witch of her own design. A force that even Roland could not ignore.
Her gaze hardened. "An organization…" she murmured. "A network of my own."
It was an idea that both thrilled and terrified her. She imagined witches who refused to bend to kings or saviors — witches who lived in the dark, manipulating events from the shadows. A hidden circle that would ensure their kind's survival, not through mercy… but power.
Morgan's lips curled into a smile. "Maybe that's what a true witch is supposed to be."
The fire crackled quietly, casting her shadow long against the wall. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dim light — twin embers of ambition.
The next morning, the city awoke with its usual chaos — carriages rolling, vendors shouting, soldiers marching. But within the ruins of an old building, a witch sat in stillness, surrounded by faint motes of mist.
Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady. A dozen moths circled her in slow, graceful patterns — each one a symbol of her growing mastery. The air shimmered faintly with restrained magic.
Morgan opened her eyes, and the moths froze midair.
"Let's begin again," she whispered.
The dust stirred, and the city beyond carried on — unaware that, within its forgotten corners, a new witch was quietly preparing to change its fate.