Imagine a world full of mysteries and great powers.

An arcane land where some of the inhabitants roamed this world freely with such incredible powers of their own to control. After years of hiding in the shadows, lurking among the Naturals, they had grown and evolved into creatures unheard of.

Ambitions had grown - believing there had to be more to life than the darkness.

For loneliness could be the worst of all illnesses to cure. Being alone may have meant it was easier to pretend to be Natural as well, but it also left room for unknown danger. For those who wondered off, hardly ever came back.

As one by one gifted person was found and slaughtered across the towns for all to see, a fury had erupted within their hearts.

Having only a desire to be accepted into society, things had taken a dark turn quite quickly. Genocide had not been the answer they had been looking for. Realising that it had all come down to survival - the Gifted or the Ungifted.

There could be no peace and harmony here - War had been declared.

Such battles had a way to reunite lost family but also a way of losing them too. As the people began to flock to those with abilities that matched theirs; the four cultures were born from the ashes.

Each gifted culture had grown their own kingdoms in time, ran by unique beliefs and different customs. None mirrored the other, for their priorities were vastly different. While some desired revenge, others sought out justice for the past crimes.

To achieve such revenge, knowledge would be the only way to do that. Outsmart the enemies in order to extract their weaknesses. Those that desired revenge held the ability to manipulate the magic within the ground, twisting it to their darkest fantasies. Believing violence was the key to success.

Not all agreed with such violent tactics, believing innocents were to be spared due to no guilt. By choosing to save a young Natural, the Shapeshifters had forever declared themselves an enemy to the Witches. As unfortunately, loyalty had only meant something to the former.

If you are not a friend, you are surely a foe.

Such news branched out to the other two gifted species. It had been a clear warning. If they were not willing to aid their revenge quest, then they too would become a part of the endless body piles in their wake.

For fear of a war with two enemies on their tails, the aquatically gifted ran for sanctuary among the seas - the last known safe place for them.

Their creativity was always rather evident in the way they were unusually quite resourceful in a pickle.

Lastly, the more harmonious of the four species, desired just that - peace. To ensure this for themselves, they had abandoned their call to nature in this land and set off in search of a New Haven.

A place where they could hide from those who wished them harm. War was not an option for the spirits, especially for as time evolved, their souls became connected to nature itself; a tree or plant in the anointed land was a Nymph's life source if they could ever reach that highest blessing of Nature.

A mission that would prove to be futile if the Witches abolished them. Running may not have originally been in their thoughts but survival always trumped everything else.

It was not long before the nature spirits had become just stories the trees whispered in the wind - they were long gone and so was the beauty in this patch of the world.

It had left when they had abandoned nature, taking its life and light with them.

As the naturals only desired one thing above all else, the other traits seemed to matter little to them. Power is what fed their greedy souls and war was a means to achieve just that for them.

After many years of more bloodshed on all participating parties' sides, the only true way to overcome this had become evident.

There were just too many naturals for them all to fight alone. It would only cause more death and destruction.

The only way to truly survive and ensure their descendants do too, hiding had become the only sane option left on the table.

If they wanted a forever home as much as the humans did then they needed to play fairly. They needed to offer peace wherever they went despite the urge to destroy growing stronger.

Some cuts just do not quite heal over time.

It would be almost like squishing a bug on a windshield kind of easy for them after all this time. Hiding in the shadows once more had given them time to grow stronger and smarter.

The gifted ones had evolved and became wiser in time, having chosen to subdue their primal instincts in hope of harmony and survival.

However, the more they allowed peace into their communities, forgetting the hatred of old ways, the more the naturals learned of the secrets they held dear.

Secrets that had once again led to massacre among the opposing species, declaring a war forevermore. There would just never be a world where the Naturals would ever accept them.

The werewolves took refuge in Snake's Canyon where a human dared never to enter and the aquatically gifted ran for Destiny Valley where the sandy terrain made human produce hard to grow.

This was the last seaport the naturals had not converted for their own will and purpose, and not for a lack of trying. The water was harsh and the terrain left little to no room for food.

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It was not a habitable place for someone who could not manipulate their surroundings.

The last known Nymphs found sanctuary among the trees in the Twilight Forest - the last living connection to nature that the humans had not desolated yet.

At least, those were the rumours but the more terrifying ones were that the Twilight Forest was dark and haunted. Conflicted ones that helped them once again become fables to their children.

The places chosen by the creatures were the perfect secluded spots for them to continue prospering, regardless of the hatred knocking at their front doors. The only places where their gifts could be celebrated and honoured among friends.

Places that were hidden well enough that as time went on, their species became a myth once more, keeping them safe from not only the townspeople's pitchforks but even the day guns were invented.

The witches, however, had a much smarter idea than their fellow supernatural. They chose to cleverly hide in plain sight and watch as their species was declared a myth as well due to a cloaking spell that was cast across the land of Naporia, as they refused to move their home.

Magic that interfered with the memories of those who were not gifted.

All the naturals knew of that land was that it was a desolate wasteland that once housed the legend of witches.

They called the lands the Illusion Fields to keep up with the old wives' tale.

It was that very tale they fed generations upon generations of naturals, spanning across the globe until everyone knew the tale of what once was.

A legend that was to be feared, but never quite real enough to be seen as a threat. They lived in peace, believing such evil creatures only existed in their nightmares and endless bedtime stories.

What kept the secret booming was that witches would only venture out if needed and that was usually once a year on the Mating Month. A tradition they had begun upholding when their ranks begun to fall over the centuries due to hunters.

They would leave their village hidden in plain sight under the cloaking spell and venture to the nearest human village in order to pick a man to father their young.

There was no more fear of the unknown for them.

The war was no longer between humans and supernatural creatures by this time. For it had evolved and become between the creatures themselves - witches declaring a war over the imbalance shape-shifters bring to be a curse on the world.

No man was ever meant to be part wolf or part anything at all in their opinion.

It was a mistake the witches hoped to one day rectify.

The witches of Naporia, Atopia & Idela had strange customs and an unusual way of life. They roamed free in their villages as their gifts were celebrated instead of shunned in public.

Yet unfortunately, the witches could not bear sons, only daughters due to an ancient curse that loomed just beyond the horizon. Only the Clan Leader himself ever fathered a son.

It had nothing to do with the woman he chose as a bride; for he alone was anointed by the gods to bear the next clan leader or so their ancient texts depict.

When a son is born every two-hundred and forty years, they are named the Aryan and labelled their next Clan Leader.

For Aryan means master, never to be confused for common-folk.

An Aryan takes his rightful place as leader on his thirtieth birthday and reigns for many, many years before picking a Witch Bride to bear the next heir.

They had traditions and regulations, for everything was done by the book and not a single thing was to be done differently.

Until it was.

The night a witch gives birth to a new child, Lakshita – the seer – would bless the child. She would then share a few words told to her by the gods, repeating them for the entire tribe to hear.

On a stormy night where the moon hung at its fullest in the sky, the witches of Naporia danced in the rain in preparation for the newest addition to their clan.

They would weave in and out of each other across the wet, damp grass.

Chanting the same few words over and over.

"Let her be blessed to do your works, gods," the first murmur came, blessing her among their ranks.

"Let her be your greatest soldier, always stronger than the ones who came before her," the second murmur followed to give purpose to the infant.

"Let her be the wisest among us, the helper of your path," the final murmur spoken to establish heritage upon the new addition.

Three commands given to every new born in their tribe; blessed to serve, anointed to fight and the task that of her mother.

Every witch plays the same role in the coven as her mother before her.

It was their tradition among the tribal people; roles were passed down to their offspring to keep the village in perfect order.

On the east side of the village, in the healer's tent of all tents, lay a woman in her forties who barely looked a day over twenty on a rug made of buffalo skin.

Her hair was frizzled and her eyes bloodshot. Sweat rolled down her face in waves and every moment that ticked, the redness in it grew. Her breathing shallow due to struggling to breathe in the hot conditions.

The baby had been born not even moments ago, relief settling in everybody's bones.

"This baby is blessed by the gods," Lakshita said, smiling down at the newborn baby in her frail arms as she placed three fingers across her forehead with some anointed oil.

It was a rare occurrence for a baby to be specifically blessed by the gods.

It had not happened in over a hundred years and the last blessed baby was Lakshita herself.

The last seer before Lakshita vowed that the latter would replace her as she had been blessed by the gods to see the future many, many moons ago. In time she would learn what certain omens would mean and retell them to their tribe.

Lakshita, named for that very purpose, did indeed inherit such a gift.

But this time, the blessing of this new infant would be something else entirely.

"Your baby, Asha, will be named Alisa. Protected by the gods. A gift by the gods to us for our faithfulness for many generations." The fair-skinned woman smiled tearfully through her soft words.

It was a huge honour when the gods named a child in their community. The baby was indeed special if given a name in mind by the seer before birth.

The old woman with greying hair passed the quiet infant over to Asha.

The baby was wide-eyed, taking in her surroundings one by one.

"It is indeed a good sign when a child is silent," the Clan Leader said as he walked in with a smirk of content.

He nodded to himself, pleased with the newest addition to his clan.

"She is wide-eyed and curious. Alisa is a gift from the gods, she must be treated as such." His voice boomed across the dimly-lit tent.

The little baby girl blinked her eyes owlishly up at her new leader. There was curiosity evident in those bright, blue almond-shaped eyes.

"What dat'?" A little five-year-old boy leaned over the makeshift bed, tugging his tiny arms as he pointed at the weirdly shaped birthmark the new baby had.

As if on cue, the other three people in the tent peered over at the baby's back. On the right side, a small birthmark sat, with weirdly shaped lines running horizontal.

It was barely an inch in length, but it was a known fact in their culture; birth marks were omens.

"The gods are pleased for sure," Lakshita murmured, nodding as a hint of a smile appeared on her graceful lips once more.

She stood up from her crouching position beside Asha and moved aside the bear skin to let the wind into the tent.

The moment the wind had touched young Alisa the skies cleared, and the chanting had stopped.

The Clan Leader walked out with the infant nestled in his arms. He looked over at his clan, tight-lipped, as all eyes directed themselves upon him.

A moment went by before he spoke with a clear and loud voice when delivering the final message to his followers.

"And so, it shall be known; Alisa, a literal gift from the gods; for the favour that is given thrice a year on a full moon."