It was a morning like any other. The cabin lay wrapped in silence, settled among ancient hoop pines whose tangled roots twisted through patches of weeds and soft white flowers. Rain had left the ground heavy, and thick with mud that clung to every leaf and root, silvering petals with beads of moisture. A breeze stirred, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and pine, blending with the thick aroma of stew wafting from the cabin’s open window, which creaked gently with each gust.
Inside, a woman stirred the pot on the stove, humming a tune that softened the quiet morning. Her ember-red hair glinted in the lantern light, casting a warm glow across her face as she lifted the wooden spoon to her lips, eyes closing for just a moment to savor it. She let out a soft, contented murmur. “Mmm,” she whispered, a faint smile curving her lips. “Perfect. They’ll love it.”
A sudden, muffled scream shattered her quiet.
Her hand froze on the spoon. She stood still, listening to the faint gasps and moans that followed, coming from down the narrow hall. Her fingers trembled as she set the spoon carefully beside the pot, the herbs she’d been chopping lying half-cut on the board. She looked down at her hands, as if surprised by their sudden shaking. With a slow, steadying breath, she gripped the silver amulet at her throat, her thumb tracing over the blood-red crystal embedded in its center. The light caught on her cheek, where a single tear had fallen.
“It’s not real, dear,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “It’s just… a dream.” But her hand tightened around the amulet, knuckles white, a prayer held in her gaze as she stared toward the darkened hallway.
Stolen novel; please report.
She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the amulet against her chest. But the warmth it once held was gone, replaced by a chill that seemed to spread from the crystal itself, seeping into her skin.
A sudden gust rattled the window, making her flinch. Her eyes flew open, and she turned, gaze drawn to the pale sky outside. Clouds, thick and heavy, gathered overhead, deepening to a shade darker than steel. They were strange clouds than others around, brooding and thick, holding back a rain they would not release. Her breath hitched, a spark of fear igniting in her eyes as she took a step toward the window.
The wind outside whistled low and sharp, blowing in from the forest path that wound through thick trees toward the heart of the woods. She reached a hand to the windowsill, her fingers tracing along the rough wood, her gaze fixed on the gathering storm. Her shoulders, normally square and strong, sagged slightly as she whispered, almost to herself, “She was right…”
Her hair lifted in the draft, exposing a faint mark pressed into her skin: a dark, trident-shaped symbol, its three prongs sharp and striking against her chest. She clutched at it reflexively, her lips moving as if in a silent incantation. She stood there, eyes distant, as if looking beyond the sky, past the clouds into a hidden place she couldn’t quite reach.
“Dorzahk,” she whispered, her voice tight. “Dorzahk vel tol'ra!” ‘Old magic is returning!’