Shadows Stir

"Twelve winters had come and gone since Elira first stepped into the Hollow's sacred circle.

Now as she stood beneath the full moon, her power and purpose were clear."

The wind that swept through the Hollow carrying the scent of coming rain and blooming star root, its earthly aroma mingling with the sweet fragrance of night-blooming flowers.

Deep beneath the canopy, the glade had grown thick with ancient growth, its roots wound through stone like skeletal fingers. A circle of mushrooms glowed with faint silver light, marking the sacred training grounds where the old woman taught Elira.

Elira stood barefoot in the grass, her arms outstretched, eyes closed. The moon above was full, its light pouring through the gaps in the leaves like liquid magic.

"Breathe in its rhythm," the crone, Lyra's voice called from the shadows. "The moon does not shout. It watches. It waits. Let your power do the same."

The air shimmered around Elira, the grass at her feet bowing as if to a silent song. Her long dark hair billowed, though no wind stirred. When she opened her eyes, they shone silver.

"I feel it," she whispered. "It's waking."

"Yes," Lyra murmured, stepping forward, her staff clicking softly on the stones. "The gift stirs more strongly with each passing night. The time is nearly upon us."

Elira looked down at her hands. They trembled slightly, not from fear, but anticipation. In the last year, her dreams had grown vivid—of fire without heat, of trees whispering her name, of a woman screaming in the dark. Her mother, perhaps.

"Will I ever remember her?" she asked quietly.

The crone's eyes softened. "Fragments, maybe. But you carry more than memory. Her courage runs in your blood. You are not alone."

They stood in silence. Then, a sudden gust rustled the trees.

"They're searching again," Elira said. "I heard the crows this morning."

"The Black Flame never rests," the crone said grimly. "But they're still uncertain. They're hunting shadows. As long as we remain one step ahead..."

Elira's fingers tightened around her pendant—woven silver and black stone, the only thing left from her mother.

"How many more villages will they burn to find a girl they don't even know is real?"

"They fear what you might become," the crone said. "And rightly so. But fear is a weapon. If you learn to wield it, they will come to fear you."

Elira turned back to the moon, her silhouette framed in silver light.

"Then teach me everything. No more hiding."

Lyra reached out, placing a calloused hand over Elira's heart.

"You've always had the strength. Now, you must learn to shape it. Your true training begins at moonrise."

That night, as the moon reached its apex, Elira stood once more in the circle of light. Around her, candles floated in the air, untouched by breeze or gravity, their flames burning blue.

"You must learn the names of things," the crone said, drawing sigils in the dirt with the toe of her staff. "Magic does not come from will alone. It comes from knowing. Speak the name of flame."

Elira hesitated. Her throat was dry, her heart loud in her chest. She thought of fire—real fire—and the memories it stirred: a house, smoke, her mother's scream.

Then, softly, she whispered, "Avi'ka."

A candle flared, casting long shadows across the glade.

"Again," Lyra urged.

"Avi'ka."

All the flames blazed in unison. Her breath caught. Something inside her stirred—a thread, a pull.

"Good," Lyra rasped. "Now speak the name of shadow."

The wind fell still. Somewhere beyond the trees, an owl cried.

Elira closed her eyes. This one came unbidden.

"Ni'thera," she said.

The lights flickered... and vanished.

Darkness swallowed the glade.

In that silence, Elira felt it. Not sound—but presence. A hum in her bones. A memory not hers. A vision of ancient women casting circles in the ruins of time. She saw their faces. She knew their names.

She gasped and stumbled back. The candles reappeared, hovering gently.

"You touched the Thread," the crone whispered, awe in her voice.

"What is the Thread?" Elira asked.

"The root of all spells. The tapestry of the first witches. You saw it before your time. That should not be possible."

Elira's voice was calm, but her heart raced. "But it is. And it called to me."

The old woman knelt, tracing a spiral on Elira's palm with one crooked finger.

"Then the world is already changing. Gods help us all."

The night deepened, folding itself around the Hollow like a great black cloak. The wind whispered secrets to the trees, and the earth seemed to hum with magic newly stirred. Elira couldn't sleep.

She sat at the edge of the glade, knees pulled to her chest, the pendant clutched tightly in her hand. The weight of it felt heavier now—as though the memory it carried had grown roots inside her.

"Ni'thera..." she murmured again, feeling the word vibrate in her blood. It was more than a name. It was a key. And it had opened something she couldn't yet name.

Behind her, Lyra moved silently, placing a steaming bowl beside her.

"Dreamroot tea," she said. "To settle your thoughts. Or stir them further."

Elira accepted it with a quiet nod, sipping the bitter warmth. "Is it always like this?" she asked. "This... knowing things that haven't happened yet?"

"No," Lyra said. "What you touched tonight—few witches ever reach it. And never this young."

"Why me?" Elira's voice was barely more than a breath.

The old woman looked at her long, her eyes reflecting the moonlight. "Because the world has begun to remember what it forgot. And it's remembering through you."

Far from the Hollow, in a citadel carved from volcanic stone, the Black Flame Order convened beneath the burning sigil of their creed. Braziers hissed with black fire, casting twisted shadows over stone-carved faces of forgotten gods.

The High Seer knelt before the Flame Altar, blood staining her fingertips as she chanted in an ancient tongue. Before her, the silver basin rippled once more.

This time, the vision came clearer: a glade, moonlight, a girl who spoke the name of shadow.

She recoiled.

"The Thread is stirring," she hissed. "The child is not hidden. She is awakening."

A voice, smooth and cold, echoed from the darkened pews behind her. "Then bring her to us. Let the flame purify her darkness ."

The high seer's gaze snapped towards the speaker, her black veil fluttering. "Patience, Lord Arcturus. We must be cautious. The girl's power is still raw, but it has potential to—"

"Potential?", Lord Arcturus voice dripped with disdain.

The high seer's eyes flashed with a hint of disdain. "Remember, Lord Arcturus, that I'm the one who sees. I see a future where this girl's power could be the key to our victory... or our downfall".

Lord Arcturus expression darkened but he said nothing more.

The high seer turned back to the Flame Altar, her eyes burning with an inner fire.

"I will send a messenger", she said finally.

The Seer turned, revealing the black veil over her ruined eyes. "I will send him."

Elira stirred from uneasy sleep. A soft rustling outside the hut drew her to the threshold. There, beneath the moon's fading light, stood a raven—not black, but white as bone, its eyes an unnatural silver.

It tilted its head at her, then opened its beak. A whisper—not a caw—escaped.

"Elira."

She gasped.

The raven beat its wings once and vanished into the trees.

Behind her, the crone emerged, face pale.

"Did it speak?" she asked.

Elira nodded.

"What did it say?"

"My name."

The crone gripped her staff tightly. "They've marked you."

Elira looked toward the woods where the raven had vanished.

"Then let them come."