The Origin - source

Morgana raised her hands, and the very air around her began to burn with cold fire. This was her origin power—the raw force that gave her control over the elements themselves.

Most witches could wield only one element, like fire or water. Some could use two elements at once or more than two.

But Morgana was different.

She had never shown her full power to anyone, not even to her own coven sisters.

She was the most mysterious witch among them all.

Tonight, she was showing incredible prowess, but it wasn't even half of what she was capable of.

The Origin is a mystical force that grants women extraordinary abilities, shaped by their inner affinity and natural talent. As they grow—both in age and in spirit—their powers evolve, deepening with experience and emotion. Some become Summoners, beastial transformations, Seers and Elemental affinity. Countless other manifestations exist, each unique to the soul that bears them. Whatever the form, the Origin serves as the wellspring from which all power flows—a force as intimate as breath and as boundless as the stars.

Morgana was certainly considered one of the strongest witches of the coven. Hailing from one of the most powerful houses in the empire, she had grown into a mighty woman.

Blue flames danced around her left hand—but they were not truly flames at all. They were pure ice, cold enough to freeze a man's blood in his veins.

Around her right hand, the air itself began to twist and howl like a living storm.

Above her head, the very earth trembled as stones rose from the ground, spinning in slow circles.

She had power over ice, wind, and earth all at once.

The blue ice-flames shot forward like arrows, striking the nearest fiends and turning them to frozen statues in an instant.

The wind followed, a howling gale that shattered the ice statues into a thousand pieces. The floating stones came last, crushing any fiend that tried to flee.

One by one, the creatures fell.

Where they had seemed unstoppable before, now they died like wheat before the scythe. Morgana moved through the battlefield like death itself, her three elements dancing around her in perfect harmony.

Beside her, Darian fought with his own deadly skill. His sword moved like water, flowing from one strike to the next without pause. The Black Knight was a master of his craft, and his blade sang as it cut through fiend after fiend. Where Morgana's magic froze and shattered, Darian's sword carved clean lines through iron-gray flesh.

The fiends began to flee, but there was nowhere to run.

The witch's power reached every corner of the village, and the knight's blade found every shadow where they tried to hide.

-

In the narrow gap between the stone houses, Jaenor held his father close. Garrick's breathing was getting weaker, and blood seeped through the cloth they had pressed against his wounds. His face was as pale as winter snow.

"Father, you'll be well," Jaenor whispered, but his voice shook. "The fighting is ending. We can get you to the healer."

Garrick's hand found his son's face, his fingers trembling. "My boy," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You know that's not true."

Rosa, Jaenor's mother, knelt beside her husband. Tears ran down her cheeks as she held his other hand. And her eyes were full of sorrow.

"Don't say such things," she sobbed. "You're strong. You've always been strong."

Garrick smiled, though it clearly hurt him. "I've been strong for forty years, my love. But even the strongest oak must fall someday."

He looked back at Jaenor, and his eyes were full of love. Garrick was not Jaenor's birth father. But Garrick had raised him as his own son and had taught him to fight, to read, and to be a good man.

"Take care of your mother," Garrick said. "And take care of yourself. The world is going to get darker before it gets light again."