> "You can see me?"

The old man stepped between Ashley and Nord with a vigour that defied his age. "How dare you talk to me like that? Me! Merlin!"

"You're always doing this!" Ashley shot back, now practically nose-to-nose with the wrinkled wizard. "Meddling where you're not wanted! Go back to Onyxburg, where you belong!"

As the two elders spat venom at each other, Nord's eyes strayed to the periphery of the unfolding chaos. There, she spotted the stranger in the white tuxedo, his face aglow with a soft tenderness as he spoke to Finnea. Her heart sank as she watched his long fingers caress the elf's cheek, whispering something meant only for her ear. Finnea looked at him as though he were her whole world.

Nord wanted to disengage, to withdraw from this circus of clashing wills and unfolding love stories that hadn't even had the chance to begin. But she wasn't alone in her awkward spectatorship. Adamastor, too, was witness to this chaotic tableau.

"What do you want to do?" Adamastor asked.

Nord took a deep breath. "Sooner or later, I'll have to face the Hallow. I'm sure of two things: first, I am a Morningstar; second, I am not a witch."

Adamastor looked at her with an expression that was almost fatherly.

"You're undoubtedly special, Nord. That much is clear. So, are you up for the challenge?"

Her gaze shifted back to the crowd. "Today's as good a day as any." She turned toward the room and announced, "Okay, let's do this."

But nobody seemed to hear her. The room was too caught up in its own dramas, too ensnared in its labyrinthine disputes and fleeting romances to notice.

With a sense of deliberate detachment, Nord walked away from the verbal duel between Ashley and Merlin and made her way to the grand piano, sitting elegantly in the corner of the room. Its surface gleamed in the muted light, a smooth expanse of polished black.

She lifted the lid with a gentle touch, revealing the pristine keys beneath. Unfolding the velvet cover that draped them, she placed it delicately on the bench.

She sat, her posture composed yet relaxed. Her fingers hovered momentarily over the keys, contemplating the moment. Then, as if each finger was a solid hammer, she unleashed a torrent of sound—dissonant at first and much worse on the following note.

A jumble of broken notes and chaotic melodies reverberated through the room. As the cacophony unfolded, Nord could sense the room's attention shifting, the earlier arguments and romantic whispers silenced by the raw emotion spilling from the piano.

As abruptly as it started, Nord ended her cruel improvisation. The final note resonated, echoing through the room before gradually yielding to its scream into silence. She lifted her hands from the keys and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"I'm ready," she said, finally looking up to meet the eyes of the crowd.

For the first time since she'd arrived, everyone was listening.

"Wa...Wait!" Finnea's voice sliced through the room, disrupting the quiet that had fallen post-performance. She stood beside the man in the white tuxedo, her eyes wide and urgent. "I need to talk to her in private."

Finnea's tone struck Nord as oddly unsettling. Reluctantly, she followed the elf to a secluded corner, far from the still-watching eyes and hushed conversations of the crowd.

"Under your right shoulder, you possess the key of Witchcraft. Master said..." Finnea began placing her hand on Nord over the mentioned area.

"Master?" Nord couldn't help but interrupt, her gaze involuntarily shifting to the man in the white tuxedo—the man who had inexplicably captivated her attention.

Finnea grabbed Nord's face gently, redirecting her focus. "The key repels any magic of witches. Or something like it," she hurriedly explained. "Master said that once you say the word, you'll know what to do, what to say. He said to tell you, 'You got this!'"

"What are you talking about?" Nord was utterly mystified, but Finnea ignored her confusion. The elf leaned in closer, her breath warm against Nord's ear, and whispered a sequence of words—words that felt vaguely familiar yet strangely distant.

"I have to repeat that?" Nord queried, still needing to grasp the full scope of what was happening.

"Yes," Finnea simply affirmed.

Feeling a bewildering mix of determination and confusion, Nord strode back towards the circle of waiting women. "I'm ready," she announced, but even she could hear the tremor in her voice, revealing her underlying uncertainty.

Whatever was going to happen next, it was abundantly clear that Nord was stepping into unknown territory. And yet, strangely, there was an ember of confidence kindling within her—a new ingredient in her complicated emotional mix, as if Finnea's whispered words had ignited something dormant yet powerful within her soul.

[https://i.postimg.cc/T3rS1tmG/The-Key-of-Witchcraft.png]

> This defendeth you from all evil sorceries, and from all injury to your soul or body.’- Baal Berith

>

> Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

The Ashleys formed a taut circle around Nord, each of them exuding an air of intense focus. For a moment, there was only an awkward silence, thick and palpable. Nord felt like a spectacle, unsure if she was expected to kick off the ritual or just stand there.

Finally, the lead Ashley broke the silence with an incantation that echoed ominously through the room. "Dark forces, heed our call, weave the threads of suffering enthral. With words of power, we now entreat, a curse to cast, so bitter and sweet."

As her words hung in the air, the room's atmosphere seemed to condense like the air before a storm. The Ashleys' eyes glazed over, their voices joining in a haunting chorus that accompanied the lead Ashley's chant. Around them, ethereal shadows coalesced, forming wraith-like tendrils that began to weave an intricate pattern in the air.

Nord felt a pressure against her skin as if an invisible force were probing for weaknesses, testing her mettle. Remembering Finnea's whispered words, she mentally repeated them. Power coursed through her, originating from her right shoulder where she supposedly carried the "key of Witchcraft." The energy emanated outward, forming a shimmering shield that repelled the encroaching tendrils of magic.

The second Ashley, her eyes clouding over as if she were staring into a stormy horizon, picked up where the first had left off. "By moonlit night and shadows deep, in secrets kept, our promise we keep. From realms unseen, we draw the might to shape destiny in this fateful house!"

As her words rang out, a tangible gravity seemed to settle over the room. The air itself grew heavy as if infused with the weight of their collective will. A low hum of energy began to resonate, vibrating through Nord's very bones.

Then, as if obeying some unspoken command, the third Ashley began to levitate. Her feet rose a few inches off the floor, and her voice took on an ethereal quality as she continued the chant. "Inscribed in fate, this hex shall bind, a torment vast, of body and mind. Let pain and anguish tightly twine as we unleash this malevolent sign."

As she spoke, Nord felt a different kind of pressure forming around her, something darker, more malicious. Her mind started to cloud with a sense of foreboding. For a fleeting moment, she thought she felt a twinge of pain, a suggestion of despair that tried to insinuate itself into her thoughts.

As the fourth Ashley picked up the incantation, Nord felt a tightening sensation around her. Dark tendrils of magic began to weave themselves into intricate patterns, spiralling ever closer, threatening to ensnare her.

"Cursed be thee, by our decree, the web of woe you shall never flee. From this moment forth, in every breath, know the agony of a cursed path," the fourth Ashley intoned.

Then, as if responding to an invisible conductor, all the Ashleys chanted in unison, "Suffer, Morningstar, 'neath this word's embrace, your doom sealed tight, no escaping grace. The chant is cast, the die is thrown, may misery claim you, and fate dethrones."

The dark vortex intensified, the spirals tightening like a noose. Instinct took over, and Nord squatted down, covering her ears as if she could physically block out the poisonous words. Each syllable seemed to bore its way into her mind, threatening to unravel her from the inside out.

But even as she braced for impact, Nord's thoughts flashed to Finnea’s whispered words—words she couldn't place but felt profoundly familiar. It was as if a shard of light appeared in the darkness of her thoughts.

Nord felt a sudden surge of indignation grow within her, fueling her spirit. It was as if a roaring fire had ignited inside her soul.

"No! We didn't come all this way to end like this! We sacrificed too much!

Too much!"

With fierce determination, she lowered her palm to the floor. Her body hummed as if in harmony with the universe, and the room fell into a hushed stillness.

Then, her lips began to move almost autonomously, with nothing to lose. She murmured the phrase under her breath: "I summon the Key of Witchcraft! End the night, end the blight, stitch their eye and mouth, shall their hex become my bless, concede power in my name across the realms you tread. So it is decreed, for my words are carved into my being—Baal Berith!"

As the words escaped her lips, a shockwave of energy blasted from her palm, rippling across the floor and walls. Nord felt the surging magic intertwine with her very essence, resonating with the ancient power of her lineage.

The Ashleys recoiled in disbelief and horror as the room was filled with an impenetrable light, forcing them to clutch their eyes and mouths shut. Their hexes, now stitched in mid-air, under the form of five spectres hovering in the air facing the women.

"No! You cannot do this!" Ashley shouted, her voice tinged with desperation. "You can't! You're here to protect us!"

"Am I now?" Nord's eyes glowed with an ethereal light, her voice reverberating through the room like a thunderclap. "You defy me, witch, and here is your challenge!"

The Ashleys, once so confident and defiant, collapsed onto their knees. "Please, don't take our magic away," they pleaded in a cacophony of desperation. "Think... think how we could help you. Without magic, we are nothing."

"You should have thought about that before you walked into my house, invaded my grounds, and dared to insult me," Nord retorted. With a snap of her fingers, ethereal forms of the Ashleys were hurled against the walls, vanishing from view but leaving behind a palpable emptiness.

"Once you humble yourselves, once you prove yourselves worthy, I might—or might not—return them to you," she declared, her voice laden with finality.

"But you can't—"

"Shut up, Ashley! You're making things worse!" interrupted another among the witches, her voice fraught with newfound respect and fear.

"Now listen to me carefully, you old crone!" Nord’s words were sharp as a knife, cutting through the thick tension in the room. "Firstly, I am a Morningstar. I am not a witch." She spat on the floor as if the very word left a bad taste in her mouth. "I am a warlock. The power of the Nethersphere is inked into my skin, and I'm no fucking warden or protector."

She took a deep breath, her eyes locked onto each of the kneeling figures before her. "I will be the one to destroy the plague of the Hallow. And you"—she pointed at the Ashleys—"shall spread the word."

The room fell into a hushed silence, broken only by the sounds of uneasy breathing from the witches. The change in atmosphere was palpable, like the charged air before a thunderstorm.

"Leave now," Nord finally said, turning her back on them. "And tell whoever needs to hear it: A Morningstar is rising, and the Hallow should fear me as much as you do now."

As the Ashleys scrambled to their feet and hurriedly left, Nord felt a weight lift off her shoulders. It was far from the end, but it was a beginning.

A beginning in which she had seized control of her own narrative, shattering any preconceptions and prejudices that stood in her way. And as she stood there, in the solitude of her reclaimed space, Nord knew she was finally ready for whatever came next.

She turned her attention to the young man dressed in the absurd white tuxedo. His smile radiated pure pride and... recognition? "Baby?" she uttered, disbelief colouring her voice.

Baal's eyes widened, his jaw slightly dropping. "You can see me?"

Before she could muster a response, the world blurred at the edges. Overwhelming exhaustion washed over Nord as if the energy had been sapped from her very cells. She lost consciousness and collapsed, falling flat onto the centre of the stage.

Gasps echoed through the room, filling the air with a thick tension. Baal rushed forward, his tuxedo now seeming inconsequential, his smile replaced by a mask of concern. He reached her side just as Adamastor, who had been watching the unfolding drama with mixed emotions, knelt down to check her pulse.

"She's alive, just exhausted," Adamastor announced, looking up at Baal with the red eyes of a vampire.