Dawn found them walking along a narrow trail that wound through the old forest, mist clinging to the roots like ghosts reluctant to leave. The air smelled of dew and pine, and the morning light filtered through the trees in golden shafts. Birds whispered songs from the branches, but underneath it all lingered a quiet unease — the kind that made every shadow seem alive.
Seren adjusted the strap of her satchel and glanced at her mother. "Where are we heading?"
"To wherever needs us," her mother replied. Her tone was calm, almost detached, but her eyes were sharp — watching the path, the sky, the faint flicker of mana threads only witches could see. "There's a village ahead, Edevor. They used to trade with Eldwyn before the Church started spreading their light."
Seren smirked faintly. "And by 'light,' you mean fear."
Her mother didn't argue. "Fear makes easier followers than faith."
They walked in silence for a while. The road was old, cracked with age, bordered by runes so faded even Seren could barely sense them. It had once been protected by the old magic — wild, raw, alive. Now it felt hollow, stripped clean by time and the Church's doctrine.
By midday, the forest thinned, revealing the quiet sprawl of Edevor. The village looked weary — crops wilted, wells boarded, and the few faces that peeked through shutters were pale and frightened. Even the air felt wrong, heavy and cold.
A child, no older than seven, ran across the square and stumbled before them. His skin was grayish, and his eyes glowed faintly red in the shade. Seren knelt beside him instinctively. "Hey—hey, it's alright," she said softly. "What happened to you?"
Before the boy could speak, a woman rushed over, yanking him back. "Don't touch him!" Her voice trembled. "He's cursed!"
Seren stood slowly, frowning. "Cursed?"
The woman clutched the child protectively. "It's the whole village. The crops rot, the water turns black, and those who drink it—" she looked down at her son, "—they start to change. The priest says it's punishment. That the old gods are angry we turned away."
Seren's mother stepped forward, her cloak brushing against the dirt. "And what does the priest do to fix it?"
"He prays," the woman whispered. "He prays and burns herbs that don't work."
Her mother exchanged a look with Seren — that silent understanding they used to share long ago. "Show us the well," she said.
The well stood in the village center, its stones blackened and cracked. Flies hovered over the dark water, and the stench of rot stung Seren's nose. She leaned over the edge and felt a pulse — faint, like a heartbeat, but wrong. Twisted.
"This isn't a curse from the gods," she murmured. "It's something else. Something buried."
Her mother crouched beside her, dipping a hand toward the water. The surface rippled with crimson light. "Old magic. Bound and poisoned. Someone sealed a spirit here."
"Why would anyone—" Seren began, but stopped as a shadow rippled beneath the water.
Her mother withdrew her hand quickly. "Because it's not dead."
That night, they stayed in the village inn, though few dared speak to them. Word spread fast — witches had arrived. The villagers feared them as much as they hoped for them. Seren sat by the window, watching the moon rise, her ember flickering faintly under her skin.
Her mother sat across the room, grinding herbs into a paste. "We'll need to enter the well's circle tomorrow. It'll fight back."
Seren looked up. "You've done this before."
Her mother's hands paused. "Once. With your father."
The air grew still. Seren didn't press further, though questions burned behind her lips. She only said, "Then we'll do it together."
By dawn, they stood before the well again. The villagers gathered at a distance, whispering prayers and clutching charms. Seren and her mother drew runes around the stone circle, weaving lines of light and salt.
"Remember," her mother said, "the spirit will feed on fear. Keep your thoughts steady."
Seren nodded. "And if it tries to take me?"
Her mother looked at her with rare softness. "Then I'll take you back."
They began the ritual. The runes ignited in a spiral of amber light, and the air thickened, heavy with unseen movement. The water churned violently, black foam rising, and a voice hissed from below — ancient, broken, furious.
"Who calls me from my slumber?"
Seren's mother's voice was steady. "Two who remember your name."
A form rose from the well — not solid, but smoke and memory, its face shifting between human and beast. "You should have left me buried."
Seren felt her knees tremble, but she stood firm. "You're poisoning them," she said. "You're feeding on their fear."
"They forgot me," it growled, the sound echoing like thunder. "The Church built over my altar and called me blasphemy. I starved for centuries."
Her mother raised her staff. "Then take peace, not vengeance."
But the spirit howled, wind and ash swirling violently. The runes flickered, and Seren felt the ember within her flare — bright, hot, alive. Her heart pounded as she lifted her hand, fire curling from her fingertips.
"Then let me remember you," she whispered.
The spirit turned its gaze upon her. "Child of flame…"
Her power surged, golden fire meeting shadow, burning through the corruption without consuming the spirit itself. She saw glimpses — a forgotten altar, a name whispered by the forest, a goddess bound beneath stone. Tears welled in her eyes.
"I don't want to destroy you," she said, voice breaking. "I want to set you free."
The spirit hesitated. Then, slowly, it began to dissolve, its voice a fading echo: "Then may your ember burn true, witch of the old light…"
The well's water turned clear. The rot vanished. Morning light spilled across the square, bright and clean.
The villagers fell to their knees — not out of worship, but gratitude. The boy Seren had met earlier ran to her and hugged her legs. "Thank you," he whispered.
Her mother watched quietly, pride hidden behind her calm expression. "You did well," she said.
Seren smiled faintly. "We did."
That evening, the village gifted them supplies — bread, herbs, a few silver coins. Not much, but enough.
As they prepared to leave, the village woman approached them. "The priest… he left this morning. Said the Church wouldn't forgive what you've done."
Seren's mother nodded. "They never do."
Seren glanced toward the forest ahead. "Let them come," she said softly. "The old gods are waking. Maybe it's time the Church remembers what real light feels like."
Her mother gave her a rare smile — tired but genuine. "Then our journey begins."
And together, beneath the crimson dusk, the two witches walked down the winding path — a trail of golden embers glowing faintly in their wake.
Night had fallen deep across the forest.
The trees swayed gently under the hush of wind, and the stars scattered like shards of forgotten gods above. Seren and her mother found shelter beneath an ancient oak whose roots rose like old bones, curling around a small clearing.
The air smelled of rain and smoke. A quiet fire flickered between them — steady, golden, alive.
For a long while, neither spoke. Only the sound of the flames filled the silence, crackling like the whisper of something old and kind. Seren sat cross-legged, tracing faint runes in the dirt with a twig, her thoughts lost somewhere between the light and the dark.
Her mother watched her — not as the witch of Eldwyn, not as the keeper of secrets, but as a mother who hadn't spoken softly in too long.
"You controlled it well today," she said at last.
Seren looked up, surprised by the warmth in her tone. "The spirit, you mean?"
Her mother nodded. "Most would have destroyed it. You freed it instead."
Seren gave a small smile. "It wasn't angry without reason. It was forgotten. The Church erased everything that didn't fit their 'new light.' I think… I just understood how that feels."
The fire popped softly. Her mother's gaze softened too, though there was pain there — the kind that never truly fades.
"You always had his heart," she said quietly.
Seren blinked. "Whose?"
Her mother hesitated, then turned her eyes to the flames. "Your father's."
The night seemed to still around them. Even the forest listened.
"You never speak of him," Seren whispered.
Her mother exhaled slowly. "Because the memory of him burns brighter than it should. And I have lived long enough to know that bright things don't last."
Seren leaned closer. "Was he… a witch?"
"A mage," her mother said. "But not of our kind. He studied the pure flame — not the one of the Church, not of the old gods. He believed magic was a living thing, not a weapon. He said it had a will of its own."
Seren smiled faintly. "Sounds like something I'd say."
Her mother looked at her then — truly looked. "That's what frightens me."
Seren's heart sank a little, but she stayed quiet. The firelight danced across her face, painting gold across the tears she didn't want to shed.
"He died protecting you," her mother continued. "When the Church came for us, they wanted the ember he'd hidden within you. He fought them until the end."
Seren's breath hitched. "And you ran with me."
Her mother nodded once. "Because he made me promise. He said the ember would only awaken when the world was ready to listen again."
Silence fell again, softer this time. Seren looked down at her hands — faint traces of light still pulsing beneath her skin, like fire dreaming in the dark.
"Do you think the world's ready now?" she asked.
Her mother stared into the flames. "No," she said. "But maybe you are."
The words lingered, warm and heavy, sinking into Seren's chest. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of pine and earth. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called — slow, low, and ancient.
Seren laid back on the grass, eyes fixed on the stars. "Do you ever think he's watching us?"
Her mother smiled sadly. "If the old gods still watch, then so does he."
Seren reached toward the sky, her fingers brushing the air as if she could catch starlight. The ember within her pulsed once, softly — not in anger, not in fear, but in quiet understanding.
She whispered, "Then I'll make both of you proud."
Her mother reached across the fire, her hand resting gently on Seren's arm. "You already have."
And for the first time in years, the two witches sat together without words — only the song of the fire, the sigh of the wind, and the memory of love that refused to die.
Above them, the stars shimmered brighter — as if the heavens themselves remembered the flame that once burned before the world forgot.