Chapter Eight: Damn Witches
"Two weeks ago, I had a dream about him. No—I was forced to dream about him."
Arielle's voice was sharp, her emerald eyes dark with unease.
"He found his way into my dreams, Myra. Do you know what that means?"
Of course, Myra knew.
But it should have been impossible.
Even the most powerful demons couldn't enter Arielle's dreams. For a mere witch to do it?
Unless…
"That's impossible," Myra muttered. "He couldn't have leveled up to that extent in just four years. And what the hell was he looking for in your dreams?"
Arielle hesitated. Then, her next words made Myra's stomach sink.
"He asked me to warn you, Myra."
She exhaled sharply.
"He's coming, Myra. He's coming for you—and for everyone you love."
Myra didn't respond.
Of course he was coming.
After everything she had done to him, she was honestly surprised he had waited this long to strike back.
Dante Criston.
A witch.
A boy Myra had made an orphan.
And she didn't regret it.
His parents had deserved every bit of suffering she had inflicted on them.
After what they had done to her mother, she would do it again in a heartbeat.
She still remembered that night.
The first time she had killed.
And the night Dante had watched her become a monster.
---
Four Years Ago
The storm raged outside, thunder rumbling across the sky as rain lashed against the trees.
Twelve-year-old Myra ran through the darkened woods, her bare feet splashing through puddles of mud.
She barely felt the cold.
Barely heard Arielle's desperate calls in the distance.
Her chest burned with one singular thought.
They killed her.
Her mother—her beautiful, kind mother—had trusted the witches. She had helped them, protected them from those who sought to harm them.
And how had they repaid her?
By poisoning her.
By watching as her body wasted away.
And now, Winter Thorn was dead.
And Myra—
Myra was going to make them pay.
The cottage came into view, its warm glow almost mocking her.
She stood at the entrance, trembling—not from fear, but from rage.
Then, she lifted her hand.
A black mist seeped from her fingertips, curling around the wooden walls like living shadows.
Then—
Fire.
The cottage went up in flames instantly, the inferno swallowing the home in a hungry embrace.
Screams erupted from inside.
The door burst open.
A man staggered out first, coughing violently as he shielded his face from the heat.
His wife followed, her pale blue dress catching fire at the hem.
Myra recognized them.
Harold and Mirena Criston.
Dante's parents.
The ones who had fed her mother the poison that had drained her life away.
The ones who had stood by and watched as she suffered.
Harold's eyes widened when he saw her.
"You—!"
He didn't get to finish.
With lightning speed, Myra lunged forward, her small hand wrapping around his throat.
"You look scared," she murmured.
Her claws dug into his skin.
"Good."
Then, she threw him across the garden.
He crashed against a tree, coughing up blood.
"Harold!" Mirena shrieked.
Myra turned to her next.
The woman's pale blue eyes were filled with terror.
"P-please," Mirena whispered, stepping backward.
She tripped over a fallen log, landing hard on the ground.
She didn't get back up.
She knew she was going to die.
Myra stepped closer.
"Don't worry," she cooed, tilting her head.
Her voice was too soft. Too sweet.
A sharp contrast to the pure bloodlust in her crimson eyes.
"I haven't forgotten about you."
Then, she grabbed Mirena by her golden hair and smashed her head into the tree.
Once.
Twice.
The sickening crack of bone filled the air.
The woman's body went limp.
Blood dripped onto the soil.
Myra let go, letting her crumple to the ground.
She turned back to Harold, who had managed to push himself onto his knees.
His hands trembled as he reached toward his wife's lifeless form.
"Mirena—"
His voice broke.
Then—
He turned to her.
A murderous rage burned behind his eyes.
"You demon," he spat. "You monster!"
Myra grinned.
"Time to die," she sang.
The black mist exploded from her body, wrapping around Harold like hungry snakes.
He screamed.
It wasn't the scream of a man being burned.
It wasn't the scream of a man being stabbed.
It was worse.
The mist dug into his skin, into his soul, peeling him apart from the inside.
A pain unlike anything he had ever felt.
His eyes bulged, his veins turning black as the mist devoured him, inch by inch—
Until there was nothing left.
Just ash.
And silence.
Then—
A small, broken voice.
"…Mom? Dad?"
Myra turned.
Standing at the entrance of the burning cottage were two figures.
A red-haired boy.
A tiny girl, no older than ten, clutching his hand.
Dante.
And his little sister, Ana-Marie.
The boy's blue eyes were wide, frozen in horror.
He had seen everything.
Myra took a step forward.
The children flinched.
"Don't worry," she murmured.
"You'll join them soon."
Ana-Marie whimpered, pressing herself against her brother's side.
But Dante—
Dante didn't look scared.
He looked furious.
A silver sword materialized in his hands.
His fingers clenched around the hilt.
"You murdered them," he whispered.
His voice was quiet.
But deadly.
"You killed my parents."
Myra smiled.
"Wouldn't expect anything less, after all—I did kill your parents."
She opened her arms.
"Go on," she taunted. "Try and stop me."
Dante didn't hesitate.
He charged.
---
Present Day
A sigh escaped Myra's lips as she blinked herself out of the memory.
Even now, four years later, it still felt fresh.
She turned back to Arielle, exhaling deeply.
"Just like before," she murmured, "I'm going to kick his ass."
Arielle sighed.
She wanted to say something—but a knock at the door interrupted them.
"Lady Thorn, I would like to inform Miss Hades that her room is ready."
Myra nodded, turning to her sister.
"We'll talk later. Get some rest."
Arielle hesitated before nodding and leaving.
But Myra?
Myra sat there, staring at the closed door.
Her mother's last words echoed in her mind.
"Never, ever, lose control over your darkness."
She clenched her fists.
Hadn't she already broken that promise?