Prelude: Shadows of the Unspoken
The full moon, a spectral orb, bled its light across the land. Though the ancient forest's dense canopy strangled most of its glow, where it touched, the earth shimmered—an uncanny luminescence as if the very night exhaled with unnatural life. The air, heavy with unspoken dread, vibrated with a primal energy that tickled the skin. The world held its breath, poised between realms, expectant.
At the forest’s edge, a lone lantern pulsed—its flame a fragile defiance against the encroaching chill. More than mere illumination, it was a summons; a silent beckoning understood by those attuned to the earth’s ancient rhythms and the moon's hidden language. Those who trod the unseen paths.
Inside her kitchen, a figure paused, anticipation a cold weight in her chest. A final glance over her shoulder. Her husband slept, their infant nestled beside him, their soft breaths a fragile shield against the encroaching silence. No disturbance marred the night; only the faint sigh of wind through grass.
With practiced hands, she lifted a loose floorboard, revealing a dark green cloak coiled in faded cloth. Donning it, the fabric slid over her skin—heavy with purpose, whispering of forgotten rites. The mask, obsidian and cold, rested beside it. As she pressed it to her face, its weight grounded her, obliterating the mundane.
Silence. Satisfied, she slipped into the night, the door clicking softly behind her. The world pressed in, unnervingly still. She moved across the open field, her steps muted by the grass, yet the feeling of unseen eyes never waned. The field stretched before her, an endless expanse of shadow beneath the moon’s gaze.
Each step was a choice, a divergence from the known into the fathomless unknown. The specter of witch trials lingered in the air, a chilling breath of ancestral fear. But the summons had come. Denial was not an option.
Looking back at the village, she saw a shadow detach itself from the darkness. A figure moving with unnerving silence. Her heart hammered. She sank low into the grass, senses flaring, breath shallow. Instinct whispered reassurance, yet doubt lingered. An unscheduled rendezvous…
The figure, still distant, moved with fluid grace, each step deliberate and eerily silent. It moved without sound, a stark contrast to the rustling world around it. Her heart steadied—instincts now screaming that this was no threat. Still, caution demanded confirmation.
Inhaling, she released a soft, high-pitched whistle—a mere breath carried on the wind. The figure halted, posture shifting subtly. Trained. As they all were.
A cold thrill. A sister.
But she needed proof. Without hesitation, she whistled again, the note cutting through the night.
A heartbeat of stillness—then, a response. A whistle, sharp and clear, echoed across the field.
Relief flooded her. Rising from the grass, she shed her concealment. The dark green cloak rippled in the night, blending into the shadows. The second figure approached, closing the distance with swift, silent steps. No words passed between them; their bond, forged in shared secrecy and devotion to the coven, transcended language.
“Sister Fionnuala,” the first witch whispered, her voice swallowed by the rustling night.
“Sister Talitha,” the second replied, their voices echoing one another.
A brief bow—no time for pleasantries. They moved together, side by side, into the trees. The world seemed to stifle its breath, the night dense and still save for their boots crunching against the earth. The woods embraced them with the earthy scent of moss, laced with the subtle undercurrent of ancient magic.
Here, the common folk knew no roads, no trails. But the witches knew these woods as they knew the lines on their palms. Purposeful steps, cloaks brushing against ferns and creeping vines. The air hung heavy with damp earth and the untouchable essence of the old ways.
The trees towered above them as they walked, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Moonlight filtered through the canopy, painting the underbrush with long, eerie shadows. The deeper they ventured, the more oppressive the silence.
Fionnuala faltered beside a gnarled oak, its roots sprawling like veins. A wave of unease washed over her. “Talitha,” she breathed. “Why this meeting? It isn’t the right moon cycle.”
Talitha didn’t turn, but her grip tightened on Fionnuala’s arm. “I don’t know. But we must hurry if we’re to be back before dawn.”
Fionnuala’s heart hammered. In Talitha’s gaze, she saw determination and something else—a flicker of dread. She knew this witch, trusted her instincts. If she urged haste, then haste was paramount.
The air grew thicker, heavy with age and power. The trees pressed in, ancient limbs like silent sentinels. The forest listened, waiting. Every footstep echoed in the stillness.
Fionnuala’s senses heightened. The silence was wrong, a dissonance in their well-worn path.
They walked for what felt like hours, the path a mere suggestion beneath their feet. Darkness reigned, pierced only by slivers of moonlight. The deeper they went, the less the forest felt of the mortal world.
Finally, a clearing. Here, the trees conceded ground, as though yielding to an unseen will.
The coven had gathered—more than Talitha had seen in years. A dozen figures, cloaked and masked, their eyes burning with a strange mixture of curiosity and reverence. Magic crackled in the air, both familiar and alien.
It had been nearly a decade since the elders convened. Something about their presence felt…different. Bathed in the light of flickering candles, the clearing seemed to pulse with the weight of their collective energy.
The elders, draped in flowing robes that shimmered in the dim light, stood before the coven. Their voices, low and commanding, resonated with tradition and an undercurrent of unease.
An elder stepped forward—tall, with silver hair cascading from beneath her hood. Centuries dwelled in her eyes. “Sisters,” she intoned, her voice resonating with power. “How good of you to join us.”
Fionnuala’s heart skipped. “Why this summons? Why now?”
The elder’s gaze drifted to the moon. “The land stirs, child. It senses a change in the wind. A disturbance. The veil thins. Surely, you have felt it.” Her gaze swung to Fionnuala, who bowed her head in apology.
Something isn’t right here. Turn back.
The voice, soft yet forceful, brushed against Talitha’s mind—a current of energy crawling beneath her skin. She jerked her head, searching for the source before realizing she knew exactly what it was.
Her guide. The spirit tethered to her since birth, always watching, always waiting. Tall and slender, radiating quiet power, her presence both solid and ephemeral.
The familiar warmth calmed her, but something was different. The air hummed with a charged energy. The guide’s eyes, usually serene, held an unsettling sharpness.
Long fingers, tipped with silver light, rose to her lips—a silent command. Do not acknowledge me aloud.
Talitha’s breath remained steady. She forced her gaze forward. The trees leaned in, listening. Tension pressed against her chest.
"What are you doing here?" Talitha whispered back, her lips barely moving. "Why now? This isn’t like you."
The guide’s eyes narrowed, unreadable. A pulse of energy flowed between them. "Something is very wrong. This gathering…it is not what it appears. There is an alien magic in the air—something ancient, something unsettled. I do not trust them."
The guide’s presence intensified, the air vibrating. Talitha felt the earth shift beneath her feet. The trees groaned, the wind stirred unnaturally.
They have hidden something. Do not let their words blind you. The veil is thin, and they are not as they seem.
Talitha’s hands clenched. Outwardly, she remained composed. Inwardly, her instincts screamed. Do not trust them.
The guide’s form flickered, fading into the grove. She wasn’t leaving, but watching, urging.
The elder’s voice echoed, pressing against the clearing. “There is an ancient beast, older than the trees, older than the land. Slumbering, sealed away by the blood of our ancestors. Its name lost to time, but we know it as Caoimhe’s Shadow—the one who sleeps beneath the roots of the world. Neither demon nor god, but something in between. Pure destruction.”
Talitha felt the words sink into her. Her guide moved—a shadow weaving through the coven, her gaze flicking from elder to elder. Something wasn't right here.
As the guide passed the first elder, her long silver hair glinting, Talitha saw a reaction—an involuntary flinch, a flicker of unease.
There.
The guide hovered closer, her gaze narrowing. Other spirits materialized—wisps, shapes shifting like whispers, encircling the coven. They studied the elders with unsettling fascination.
Talitha felt her heart race as a chilling command resonated in her mind. Recall your scouts!
The command rang out, sharp and urgent, pulling her focus back to the present. She hadn’t been paying attention. The weight of the moment hit her.
“Caoimhe's Shadow has always stirred at the edges of the veil,” the elder’s voice softer now, carrying a weight that seemed to settle over all of them. “But this time, the balance is shifting in a way it never has before. The land is waking, yes. But it is waking to something more. The Shadow stirs not because it wishes to walk among us, but because there is a much greater power at work, pulling at the seams of our world.”
Something wasn’t right. No one else seemed to react, the coven members all standing as statues, their faces frozen with the same unreadable expressions focusing on the elder speaking. Talitha felt a cold knot in her stomach. Based on their lack of reaction, she wasn’t sure if what she’d just heard was real. Was it in her head? Was it a trick?
Talitha’s mind buzzed, frantic, as she scanned the elders, looking from one to the next, her confusion mounting. The spirits—the ones who had been circling like shadows—were only visible to her. They were hers alone to see, to feel. So, how had they made their presence known so clearly?
She couldn’t make sense of it. Then, finally, her eyes landed on a figure. The elder standing at the very back, behind the others, was staring at her with an intensity that sent a shiver crawling down her spine. There was no mistaking it.
The glint in their eyes—that glint—was unmistakable. And then the message came again, stronger this time, like a weight pressing on her chest.
Recall them now.
Talitha’s throat tightened as she subtly took a step backwards. She blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of it all. The guide had never been wrong before. Something was terribly wrong, and now, more than ever, she could feel the shift in the air, as though a storm were gathering just beyond the horizon.
Talitha did not recall her guide but instead her guide materialized next to her as it had before. And that’s when Talitha saw it—the glint in the elder’s eyes. It wasn’t the glint of wisdom, of age, or of power. No. It was something darker—something almost predatory. Talitha’s stomach turned as the glint in the elder’s gaze sharpened, flashing for just a split second. She returned her gaze to the elder speaking as if nothing else was happening.
“What of your report?” Talitha whispered to her guide, her voice low and trembling with the weight of what she already suspected. Her gaze never left the elders, but deep down, she already knew what the answer would be.
The clearing had shifted around her. The air felt denser, thick with an ominous presence. She felt it—knew it like a cold shadow creeping up her spine.
Her eyes flicked from one elder to the next, each one standing perfectly still, their faces unreadable. Then, like a sudden realization, it hit her. Every single one of them—the very heart of this coven—had the same glint in their eyes.
A hollow gleam.
It wasn’t just the usual flicker of ancient wisdom or the quiet glow of magical power. This was something darker. It was like they were wearing masks beneath their masks, layers of deceit that hid the true face, the true intent of their souls.
A shiver crawled down her spine as the breathless words from her guide broke through her thoughts.
"They are not who they once were, Talitha. They smell of decay."
The words lingered in the air, thick with a sense of foreboding. Her pulse hammered in her ears, a cold knot tightening in her chest. Smell of decay? What did that even mean? Not who they were? Her guide had a way of speaking in riddles that never quite made sense, and she hated it. Desperately, she tried to make sense of it, but as her gaze swept across the circle, a new confusion surged. When had they all moved? At some point, every member had shifted forward, stepping in unison, perfectly spaced... all except for her. She was still rooted in place, an outsider among outsiders.
“... the veil between worlds is thinner than it has been in centuries. And the Shadow... it seeks to tear it open. But not to walk among us. No. Caoimhe’s Shadow desires to unravel it. It seeks the destruction of what binds life and death.”
Death.
The word was like a cold snap of air, rushing through her thoughts with sudden clarity. Her gaze darted to the circle of elders, her eyes flicking over their faces with growing suspicion. This wasn't just a disturbance—it was an unraveling.
"Check for sigils. Hurry!"
Talitha’s mind raced, her instincts screaming at her to act fast, but she knew better than to reveal anything. They were watching, waiting for a misstep. Every word, every movement scrutinized. She forced her expression to remain calm, her eyes scanning the clearing as if deep in thought. She subtly adjusted her stance, just enough to glance at the ground beneath the nearest elder's feet through her mask.
Her fingers brushed against the fabric of her cloak, where the hidden sigil of protection was stitched into the lining, but she didn’t dare activate it—not yet. Instead, she let her senses stretch out, listening to the hum of magic, feeling the subtle shifts of energy. One of them had to have a sigil.
Her gaze lingered on the elder in the yellow cloak, where the faintest shimmer of an unnatural pattern flickered at the hem of their robe. Just a shadow, but unmistakable. She had to move quickly, without drawing attention.
Then, she realized that a mist was forming—not only over the grove but over her vision. Slowly creeping in as if it sought to blind her, to shroud her understanding in darkness. The mist was alive, deliberate, wrapping itself around her mind like tendrils of shadow, distorting reality and veiling the danger that loomed in every corner of the grove. It was too late.
"I need to see. Help me see."
The pressure was suffocating, the air thick with the wrongness of ancient magic. Closing her eyes, she steadied her breath, the world slipping away as she began a silent mantra: I am the storm. I am the stone. I am the light. Over and over, she repeated the words, forcing the intrusive energy to retreat. The fog ebbed, not completely gone, but enough. Enough for her to see.
When she opened her eyes, her guide had merged with her sight. The world shifted, the layers of reality peeling back like worn parchment. And there, on the ground, was the truth. The sigils. Ancient lines etched into the earth, glowing faintly with magic so old it burned her senses. Some were unfamiliar, their meaning lost to time, but others—others she recognized all too well. Banishing wards. Binding circles. And something darker: death magic.
Her chest tightened as the words from the elder's speech began to click into place. Then, someone murmured, low and almost inaudible, “The grimoire…”
The grimoire. The truth slammed into Talitha with the force of a gale. The elders weren't themselves. They smell of decay. Not who they once were. These sigils...they weren’t for protection. They’re for control. The members trapped in the circle were all bound together. Reanimated corpses. How long had the elders been dead for? She looked to her sisters in fear.
Her eyes darted back to the elders, and she froze. The one in the dark brown cloak, the one who had spoken of the cage, turned to her. Their lips curved into a smile—too wide, teeth unnaturally sharp, the expression wrong in every way. It wasn’t theirs. It didn’t belong to them.
A witch in a pale blue cloak gasped, her young face white with dread. “The air…” she stammered, clutching her chest. “It’s too thick… I can’t breathe…!”
Talitha reached out instinctively as the young witch staggered back. Before Talitha could steady her, the witch collapsed, her body writhing on the ground, a piercing scream ripping through the clearing.
The earth shuddered, a low, guttural groan that seemed to echo from the bones of the world. Cracks splintered the sigils, and Talitha’s blood ran cold as the moonlight dimmed. Even the sky seemed to shrink away, recoiling from the horror.
Her gaze snapped to the elders again, and her horror deepened as their movements became less human. Their bodies jerked unnaturally, their heads tilting at sharp, inhuman angles. Their eyes gleamed with an unholy light, and that awful smile never left the elder in brown.
This was never about trapping the beast. This meeting—it was about the book. Her heart sank as her thoughts turned to Fionnuala, sweet and trusting, blissfully unaware of the power she had been safeguarding all these years. The book that holds the key to releasing it. The book they’re hunting for.
“Thank you. Now I know who has it.” The witch in brown smiled wider as she, it, turned toward Fionnuala.
Another witch screamed, their body twisting as the magic tore through them. Talitha spun, grabbing Fionnuala’s arm. “Get back!” she hissed, her voice ragged. “Now!”
Fionnuala froze, her wide eyes flicking between Talitha and the chaos. “What’s happening?” she yelled, trembling, as another scream shattered the air and the earth quaked.
“No time to explain,” Talitha barked, dragging Fionnuala back as the mist thickened, curling like tendrils around their legs. “Just stay close. Don’t let go of me.”
The elder stepped forward, their body moving like a poorly strung marionette, every jerk and twitch a mockery of human movement. Their hollow, gleaming eyes and too-wide smile turned toward them. “You cannot stop this,” they intoned, their voice a thousand ancient whispers layered in one. “The grimoire awakens the Shadow. It will unmake this world. You cannot interfere.”
Talitha’s thoughts raced as she felt the beast's presence solidify. It wasn’t in claws or scales—it was in the emptiness reflected in the elder’s eyes, in the corruption twisting the magic that bound them all.
“Fionnuala!” Talitha pulled her backward. “Run!”
But it was already too late. The ground beneath Fionnuala fractured, and as she stumbled into the earth, a dark claw burst from it, wrapping around her leg. Talitha lunged, grabbing her arm, yanking with all her strength. “Hold on!”
The claw’s grip tightened, its jagged talons sinking deep into Fionnuala’s flesh as the beast tried to climb free, using her as its anchor. Fionnuala screamed, her voice raw with pain and terror.
Talitha’s free hand darted into her pocket, fingers fumbling for the glass vial concealed within. Gripping it tightly, she yanked the cork free with her thumb and tilted the vial toward her lips, pouring the liquid into her mouth. With a sharp inhale, she spat the contents onto the beast, the acrid liquid striking its shadowy form. The creature let out an ear-splitting shriek, its grip faltering just enough for Talitha to wrench Fionnuala free and pull her to safety.
But the damage had been done. Black veins slithered across Fionnuala’s leg, crawling upward like living shadows. The infection twisted through her body, twisting her features with agony as the curse began to take hold. Her breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, and when she looked at Talitha, her eyes glimmered with something dark and alien.
Talitha removed her own mask and then removed Fionnuala’s. In the final moments, Talitha wanted to see Fionnuala’s face. Fionnuala. Her twin. Her closest companion. Her soul-sister, the one who knew her better than anyone. They had traveled through lifetimes together, always by each other’s side. Was lying in Talitha’s arms now becoming possessed.
“Talitha…” Fionnuala’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I… I can feel it. It’s inside me... I can’t stop it.”
“No!” Talitha clutched her sister’s face, forcing her to focus. “You’re stronger than this. Fight it. Stay with me!”
Tears streamed down Fionnuala’s face, but her lips curled into a twisted smile that wasn’t hers. Her voice trembled, laced with both love and resignation. “You have to let me go. It’s the only way.”
“No!” Talitha’s heart shattered at the thought, but deep down, she knew the truth. Their bond—the ancient, magical tether that tied their souls across lifetimes—was the only thing holding Fionnuala to the world of the living. And now, she had to sever it.
“Talitha,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “I will always love you. Make sure to take care of Henry for me. He won’t know what to do without me.”
Talitha chuckled unexpectedly, “Your dying wish is for me to take care of your puppy?”
Fionnuala chucked in return, “Yea well, priorities. Promise me?”
Talitha’s voice choked in her throat. “Promise.”
Fionnuala’s tears fell freely as her voice turned quiet, resigned. “Do it.”
Talitha’s hands shook as she began the incantation, her voice steady despite the tears streaking her face. Fionnuala joined in, her words a strained echo of her sister’s. The earth trembled, and the magic surged like a storm, wrapping around Fionnuala’s body.
The infection fought back, twisting her sister’s body in violent convulsions. Talitha’s heart broke at the sight, but she poured everything she had into the spell, her voice unyielding, her will unbroken.
The black veins began to retreat, the curse folding in on itself, but the battle came at a terrible cost. Fionnuala’s eyes—once bright with life—flickered with the encroaching shadow, her light dimmed by the beast’s lingering influence.
As the final words of the spell left her lips, Fionnuala’s body went still, her breathing shallow, her presence diminished. The curse had been contained, sealed within the confines of Talitha’s magic, but the price was steep—Fionnuala was no longer whole. Talitha held her sister close, tears streaming down her face and landing on Fionnuala’s pallid skin.
“I’m… so sorry,” Fionnuala murmured, her voice fragile, her gaze distant and unfocused.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Talitha replied, her voice trembling as she brushed the strands of hair that had fallen across Fionnuala’s face. “Rest now sister.” She lingered there, her hands shaking, her grief consuming her as Fionnuala’s eyes fluttered closed one final time.
Fionnuala’s body stilled, the infection sealed away, but the shadow of the beast lingered within her, bound by Talitha’s spell. The fight was over—but it was not a victory. The binding had worked. Fionnuala was now sealed, locked in an unbreakable cage of magic, trapped between life and death.
Talitha’s tear-streaked face hardened as she looked at the devastation surrounding the grove. Bodies of her coven lay scattered, the air heavy with death. The first hints of dawn crept through the trees, casting light on the shattered remnants of what had been. But there was no time to mourn; there was still work to be done.
She sang her grief as she gently laid Fionnuala’s body in the center of the grove, her movements slow and deliberate, as if every motion was a prayer. With steady hands, she began to cover her sister with the earth, the moss and soil rising to cradle her like a final embrace. With a simple spell that was mostly used for easy gardening was now being used to bury her sister. Her heart breaking with every word.
As the last of the earth settled, Talitha knelt before the freshly covered grave. The grove was silent now, save for the distant rustle of leaves in the wind. She placed a hand on the mound, her voice a raw whisper.
“We will see each other again.”
The first rays of sunlight spilled through the cottage windows, casting a warm golden hue across the room as she carefully tucked her cloak into its hiding spot. The soft shuffle of footsteps and muffled voices from her household signaled the start of another day. She washed her hands, the cold water biting against her skin, a sharp reminder of the present. Outside, life moved on as if nothing had changed.
And soon, the village would awaken to a grim discovery: fifteen women found lifeless in the woods, their bodies torn and marred. One woman, however, would be conspicuously missing, leaving many to wonder. The horrors of the night would become a whispered riddle, an unsolved mystery etched into the village's history, its answers swallowed by the shadows.
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