Ashe_world

The night Elira was born, the sky wept with a storm so fierce it drowned the village’s crops and sent the river surging through the streets. The elders whispered that it was an omen—a cursed child had entered the world.

Her mother, Lirien, barely survived the birth. She had screamed through the labor, clutching the straw bedding as if the pain itself was trying to steal her soul. When she finally held her newborn daughter, she gasped—not out of love, but fear.

Elira’s eyes were too sharp, too knowing for a child who had only just entered the world. The midwife, an old woman with trembling hands, hesitated before cutting the umbilical cord. A chill passed through the room, the flickering oil lamp nearly snuffing out. The air felt… wrong.

The village healer arrived soon after, summoned in desperation. She pressed her palm to the newborn’s tiny chest, feeling the thrum of something unnatural beneath her skin. “She is touched by the old magic,” the healer murmured. “A witch, from birth.”

Lirien sobbed, clutching her baby to her chest. “No, please. My daughter is innocent.”

The healer gave her a sorrowful look. “You must keep her hidden. If the village learns the truth, they will fear her.”

And so, Elira grew up in the shadows.

Her childhood was not one of warmth, but of caution. Her mother, though loving in her own way, kept her at arm’s length, afraid of what she might become. Her father, a bitter man worn down by poverty, looked at her as if she were the reason for all his misfortunes.

But magic cannot be contained forever.

At the age of five, Elira made a dead flower bloom in her hands. At seven, she whispered to the wind, and it answered. At ten, she healed a wound on her mother’s arm simply by touching it.

Her family’s fear grew with each passing year. They did not see a daughter, a sister. They saw a curse.

Then, when Elira was thirteen, something happened that changed everything.

A boy from the village—one who had tormented her for years, throwing stones and calling her “witchspawn”—fell from a tree and broke his leg. The bone jutted through his skin, his screams echoing through the hills.

Elira, acting on instinct, ran to him. She laid her hands on his leg, her power surging like a wave. The bone snapped back into place. The wound closed.

He was healed.

But instead of gratitude, there was terror. The boy’s mother shrieked. Villagers came running. They saw what she had done, what she was.

“Witch,” they whispered. “Monster.”

By nightfall, her family had packed their belongings and fled the village, leaving behind the only home they had ever known.

They wandered from town to town, never staying in one place too long. Her parents blamed her for their misfortune, for their suffering. They cursed her magic, wished it had never been born within her.

But when Elira turned eighteen, everything changed again.

A wealthy businessman came to their town, looking for a wife. He was powerful, rich beyond imagination—a man who could lift them from poverty.

And he wanted a woman who was pure, untouched, innocent.

Elira’s parents saw an opportunity.

“She is a blessing,” her mother told him, forcing a smile. “A gift from the heavens.”

Elira said nothing. She had learned long ago that the world would never see her for what she truly was.

And so, she was given away to a man who believed he had married a saint—when in truth, he had married a witch.

The Witch’s Vow

The Hunter was gone, but his presence lingered like a shadow over the Harrington estate.

Elira stood in the middle of the grand foyer, her heart pounding in her chest. The marble floors were cracked, the air still thick with the remnants of magic. The guards whispered among themselves, their fear palpable.

But none of that compared to the look on Damien's face.

He wasn't shouting. He wasn't even moving. He was just staring at her, his blue eyes dark with something unreadable.

"Elira," he finally said, his voice low. "Who else knows?"

"Who else knows what you are?" His hands curled into fists at his sides. "If that man—whatever he was—came for you, it means you've been found. So tell me, Elira—who else is coming?"

Elira forced herself to breathe, her mind racing.

The Council was the oldest and most powerful governing force of the supernatural world. They didn't interfere with witches who lived quietly, but they had strict laws. Laws she had broken the moment she married a human.

And now that she had been exposed…

Damien stepped closer, his presence towering over her. "What do they want?"

She met his gaze, her heart aching. "Me."

The Gathering Storm

An hour later, the house was in lockdown.

Damien had called in every security detail, doubling their forces at the gates. His men—trained professionals who had seen it all—were on edge. But they had no idea what they were about to face.

Elira stood by the window of their bedroom, looking out at the darkened sky.

She could feel them.

They weren't here yet, but their presence loomed. The Council never attacked head-on. They were patient, like spiders weaving webs, waiting for their prey to trap itself.

She turned, watching as he pulled out a gun from his bedside drawer and checked the magazine. The sight of it sent a pang through her chest.

"You can't fight them," she said softly.

Damien didn't look up. "I'm not just going to sit here and do nothing."

She clenched her fists. He didn't understand.

This wasn't about bullets or bodyguards. This was about power—the kind of power humans had no defense against.

She took a slow step toward him. "Damien, listen to me. The Council doesn't fight fair. They don't storm in with weapons. They manipulate, they infiltrate, they turn your own people against you." She swallowed hard. "They will ruin everything you have. Your business, your reputation. And if that doesn't work…" Her voice wavered. "They will hurt the people you love."

Damien finally looked at her, something flickering in his gaze.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. "Over my dead body."

Elira closed her eyes. She had to stop this before it began.

Which meant one thing.

She opened her mouth to say it, but Damien must have sensed it because suddenly he was in front of her, his hands gripping her arms.

"Don't." His voice was raw. Desperate. "Don't you dare say it."

Tears burned at the edges of her vision. "Damien, I can't let them hurt you."

His fingers tightened. "We'll fight them. Together."

She let out a shaky breath. "You don't understand—"

"I understand everything now," he interrupted, his voice like steel. "I understand that my wife is a witch. That she's been lying to me for years. That she's powerful enough to throw a man across the room with her mind." He exhaled sharply. "But I also understand that you're still mine. And no one—no one—is taking you from me."

Her heart shattered.

Because for all his anger, for all his betrayal, he still loved her.

But love wouldn't be enough to stop the Council.

Something outside shifted.

Elira turned sharply, her breath hitching.

chapter 17 The Council’s Judgment