THE MAIN HOUSE was quiet. Too quiet for her. A soft wind blew against the window as Greta and Heda cut up the herbs in the kitchen. Mentha, Monarda, Verbena, and Apple blossom mixed in the air and pushed out the scent of the lavender that hung from the thick branch above the large wooden table.

Heda had a sweet garden witch appearance, but the longer you looked at her, the more you saw the darkness looming around her and the wickedness in her devilish eyes. Greta, on the other hand, still had some innocence hanging around her, but soon that would be sniffed out too.

Various sizes of vials, glass pots, and bottles stood on almost every available surface. And pouches, plants, crystals, and stones were stuffed between the glasswork, if not in them, occupying every free space. Different kinds of knives and sickles hung on one side of the wall above the kitchen counter.

This wasn't a home.

Ever since she'd set foot in this place, Davinia's stomach knotted, knowing what was being prepared here. She felt the darkness on her skin. The intention of the magic lingered in the air. A harsh touch pressed down on her body, and a sharp chill filled her lungs with every breath she took.

Davinia watched Heda and Greta work as she leaned with her hands behind her against the wall.

This place didn't convey good magic, where the sick were healed and the helpless protected. Instead, nightmares were born. Evil spirits—if not the wicked ancestors—were fed. Where love was a spelt illusion and hope crushed. There was nothing but despair, doom, and an all-consuming darkness of anyone's soul...or at least Davinia's.

She'd been stuck with her tormentors and their little helpers, no matter how hard she wished or prayed, which she gave up on a long time ago. If the gods and goddesses were out there, helping and guiding, she wouldn't be in this personal hell with these vile witches of the Atropa coven. With the ones who killed her mom, destroyed her village, and crushed her people. They referred to it as a liberation. Davinia called it the reaping.

These witches were the embodiment of malevolence.

"You know, you could help," Greta, the young Neophyte witch, said, looking up at Davinia with a meaningful glare. Poor Greta. Only sixteen years old, not that powerful of a witch, but completely under the control of the Atropa witches that killed her parents too.

Davinia pushed herself off the wall, hiding a smirk. "Sorry, I can't. We all have our tasks within the great coven."

Heda—one of the high priestesses—shook her head. A piece of tucked-away grey hair fell before her face. "Go do your tasks then, child."

Davinia grabbed a few herbs and placed them in her purse. "All done, but I'll get out of your hair."

Heda hummed as she swung the knife, separating the stems from the flowers.

Davinia opened the backdoor, hopping down the stairs. She strode through the kitchen garden where some of the young witches sat on their knees working. Gardens surrounded the main house, and encircling those were sleeping quarters. There were a few cottages around their land, but most of it was the rural nature of the forest.

She followed the path through the gate where the long trees of the forest's edge greeted her, their leaves rustling in the wind in a welcoming hello.

One of the few steady things in her life: the comfort of nature. Peaceful until disturbed, similar to her existence, but her tempest was yet to come.

She climbed down the stairs made of tree roots in the slope between the charm's stone walls. The temperature dropped, and a cold shiver ran over her body. The Atropa customary long, brown dress with short sleeves didn't protect her much for the coming autumn. If only the witches allowed them to wear normal commoners' clothing...

To be fair, her bare feet on the cold stone probably didn't help either.

Candles flickered next to the narrow path along the trees and bushes. Pine needles tried to prick her bare soles, but her feet were used to it. One more turn by the cliff, and there it was. Trees bend around the small stone shrine. The wooden door creaked as she swung it open.

A force always pulled and pushed on her body when Davinia came here, restraints of thorns wrapped around her heart, and a sound that irked her ears rang. Maybe the temple knew her intentions. What she'd been working on here, away from the witches' peeping eyes. Maybe the deep-rooted ancestors in this temple realised she was only here for knowledge and wisdom to break free from their wicked descendants.

Bistort and Frankincense's scent intruded into her nostrils. With one wave of her hand, the incense extinguished. She didn't need the unwanted intention, or the essence left behind in the smoky tendrils, lingering and interfering with the purpose of her magic.

Even though most witches were too busy to come here, Davinia drew her protection runes and the silence and privacy sigils on the door with black coal; a few strands of her black hair were wrapped around the coal in an offering, nearly visible against the similar colour. While she worked, Davinia whispered deep-rooted words she'd been saying a lot these last few years. Words for deception and turning away the people who wanted to enter.

All done, Davinia turned to the altar made of stone, with tree branches and magic intertwined together. Behind the shrine, woven in the branches, lay the dark red flower that grew when the ancestors returned on the 'sacred night'—aka, the reaping. On the shrine stood more incense, reaching deep into her nose and giving her a headache. Next to it sat a bowl of water, which had captured the full moon's light.

She knelt at the altar, fighting the urge to break everything. To destroy all that was sacred by Atropa, the way they'd killed all that was sacred to her. One day, she would. Instead, Davinia got rid of the offerings from the other witches and cleansed their magic vibrations away. Carefully, she placed the Angelica incense with a little of her blood on the altar and lit her candle.

Davinia focused on her breathing and cleared her mind. Her fingers moved over her skin—her arms, hands, and forehead—as she drew her sigils of prophecy; of strength, resistance, and concealment from the ancestors who tried to seek her true meaning. Besides her own, others would attempt to find her too.

Once, their ancestors were the same, but when the Atropa witches wanted more and darker power, they were excommunicated. Their bond still existed, and when the coven came back, they made sure they restored the connection.

"My mother, taken before her time, I ask you for your protection as I call upon my magic to guide me here today." For extra effect, Davinia pulled her face in a solemn expression and said, "And to all the gods and goddesses who may hear me,"—even though they never helped before—"help me find the answers I need to keep me safe from evildoers."

A prickling sensation crept up her spine as if someone watched her. Davinia glanced over her shoulder. But of course, no one was there. Perhaps somebody was listening?

Mom?

Shaking the feeling away, she took slow and even breaths.

The words of the Atropa praying pushed past her lips. Her body ached as the unwanted presence of the ancestors forced its way inside. The power burned in her veins. Images of their ancestors flashed through her mind, and all Davinia could do was accept them. She needed Atropa for just a bit.

Slowly, the prayer changed, and the words flowed from her like a song of peace. Her senses calmed down as the words of her own prayer and magic filled the room. Davinia stared into the flame. A vision took over her mind as she was no longer kneeling in front of the altar, but standing in the darkness of another world.

Davinia guided her consciousness past the ancestors, searching for the link that bound them all together and to her. Branches, thick and thin, strong and brittle, crossed her path. Her words led her legs absentmindedly further.

One branch, dark and robust, called out to her. She traced the wood with her hand. The branch's voice reached deep inside, whispering a spell.

"Take me. Lead me. Let me see," Davinia whispered back.

A deafening scream warned her to turn away, but she had no fear anymore.

"Come on. Show me. Help me."

The words of a spell burned in the core of her soul, rooting in a place she'd never felt before. Within the depths of her body and mind. The words of the spell sounded so familiar.

This was what she came for.

Never had she listened to something so closely before, soaking in every word whispered to her. Black markings appeared on the tree branches, and she watched them. Some she already knew, some of them new.

She studied each curve, learned them, until the pain pressing down on her became too much to bear. The air forced its way out of her lungs. Her hands clenched around the altar. Black dots blurred her vision. Something pulled on her, trying to throw her out.

Agatha.

The damn ancestors' queen silhouette came closer.

Crap! Agatha shouldn't see her face. She couldn't know who Davinia was, or Agatha would warn the witches and settle her death.

Davinia needed to pull out, but her safety spells, runes, and sigils kept her in place. Her lips formed a thin line as she clenched her teeth together. Pain surged through her body as the tug strengthened, wanting her gone from the ancestral vision.

A melodic voice released her from the pull. The relief on her body sent a shiver down her spine. "What you seek isn't here," the voice told her.

Blood dripped down her nose, and the pain kept her jaw locked. "Where?" The word forced its way past her lips. A white flash clouded her vision. All kinds of voices talked over each other, leaving her ears ringing. "Where!" Davinia said again. She didn't have the strength to maintain the connection.

Faces flashed before her eyes, and a safe familiarity formed around her heart. They're part of her ancestors. The ancestors she was cut off from by the Atropa witches when the reaping happened. Her father's bloodline. A flamed maple tree branch grew around her, and she exhaled sharp breaths. The groves form sigils. The last piece of the puzzle she'd been trying to solve for eight years lay here.

As clear as the vision played before her eyes, as suddenly Davinia was pulled back to the room. Her eyes snapped open. "Crap," she whispered, only to repeat the words louder, "CRAP."

The altar branches burned, and a crack formed in the altar's stone. Davinia waved with one swipe gesture over the wood, and the fire extinguished. The spell, runes, and sigils she placed before were gone. Washed away and used to their last capability. Quickly, Davinia packed her stuff before anyone found out something had happened.

An "ahem" caused her to jerk around. Before Davinia stood no other than Agatha's descendant, Azura.

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

That was the first chapter of my ONC project, with a bit of a cliffhanger. I hope you like it.

What do you think of the Atropa Coven and the reaping?