Dydra could hear her heart pounding violently, as though it was trying to burst free from her ribcage. Each beat echoed in her ears, loud and frantic, drowning out every other sound. Her ocean-blue eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on her raised finger—or rather, on the thing hovering just above it.
A flame.
A small, golden flame floated there, dancing lightly in the air as if it had a will of its own.
This couldn't be real.
This couldn't be happening.
How was this happening?
She screamed the questions silently, her mind spiraling as fear locked her body in place. Every muscle stiffened with the terrifying certainty that if she moved—even slightly—the flame might leap from her fingertip and set everything around her ablaze. The cottage. The forest. Herself.
Her breath came in shallow bursts.
How was this possible? Is this some kind of trick?
Her gaze darted to the raven-haired woman standing across from her. Surely this was Oryen's doing. Some illusion. Some cruel manipulation meant to frighten her into obedience. Yet even as the thought formed, something deep within her rebelled against it.
No.
The feeling crawling beneath her skin was unmistakable. The sensation pulsing through her veins, warm and alive, did not feel foreign. It did not feel forced.
It felt like her.
And that realization terrified her far more than the flame itself.
Oryen watched her with open delight, satisfaction gleaming in her sharp blue eyes. The old witch made no effort to hide her pleasure. This—this exact moment—was everything she had hoped for. The spell had worked better than she anticipated. The girl was undeniably a witch, and not just any witch. The magic responded to her effortlessly, instinctively, as though it had been waiting for her acknowledgment.
With this confirmation, Oryen's plans could finally take shape.
If guided properly, Dydra's abilities could be refined, expanded—merged. Together, their powers would stabilize and strengthen one another. Oryen would no longer stand alone.
"Is this your doing?" Dydra's voice broke the silence, trembling with disbelief. Doubt laced every word, sharp enough to be felt.
The two pairs of blue eyes locked.
Dydra's gaze was stormy, filled with suspicion and fear, like dark clouds hovering on the brink of thunder. Oryen's eyes, on the other hand, were calm and untroubled, like a clear sky untouched by chaos.
"It is not, Dydra," Oryen replied evenly. Her voice held a quiet stillness, mirroring her expression. "This is your doing. And I know you can feel it."
Dydra shook her head sharply, refusing the truth before it could sink its claws into her. Her gaze flicked back to the flame, its golden light flickering softly above her finger.
"Stop this," she demanded, panic edging into her voice. "Whatever it is, I want no part of it."
For a fleeting moment, a grin curved Oryen's lips—quick and knowing—before vanishing as though it had never been there.
"You cast the spell," she said simply. "Only you can undo it."
Dydra clenched her teeth, irritation flaring hot and sharp. What did that even mean? This woman was driving her mad—speaking in riddles, twisting words, refusing to take responsibility.
She sucked in a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. If playing along was the only way to make the flame disappear, then so be it. She would endure whatever madness Oryen had planned—just until this nightmare ended.
"What do I do to stop it?" she asked.
The question lit up Oryen's face instantly. A wide, eager smile spread across her features, her eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement.
"I'll tell you the spell," she said, "but it must be performed while we hold hands."
Outwardly, her tone was casual. Inwardly, she was triumphant.
Holding hands was not required. The spell could be undone with words alone. But Oryen had her own agenda—one she had carefully hidden beneath layers of half-truths. She suspected someone, somewhere, had already told the girl what she was. To confirm it, she needed access to Dydra's memories.
Physical contact would allow that.
As a witch of the Inui clan, merging energies with one from the Okitu clan—even briefly—would amplify her magic. Even if Dydra's power remained dormant, it could still be drawn upon. Harnessed. Joined.
Dydra's brows knitted together in displeasure. The idea of touching Oryen made her skin crawl. Every instinct screamed at her to step back.
Sensing her hesitation, Oryen added lightly, "Of course, you could also keep walking around with a candle-flame floating over your finger." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "If anyone saw that, they'd assume you were a witch. With your… unusual features, it wouldn't take long before the guards captured you. Public beheadings tend to draw quite the crowd in the town square."
Dydra stiffened.
The Kingdom of Weathbrow was home to many creatures—vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters, sea folk, witches—but it came with an unspoken rule. No one was allowed to reveal what they truly were. They blended among humans, exploiting them quietly, for humans sat at the very bottom of the food chain.
Some humans knew the truth.
Others, like Dydra, lived in ignorance.
"Witches don't exist," she insisted weakly, despite the glowing evidence hovering above her finger. "No one will behead me."
Her denial pulled a loud, hearty laugh from Oryen, one that echoed through the cottage and scraped against Dydra's nerves.
"You still doubt, with proof floating over your index finger?" Oryen said, amusement fading into exasperation.
"This is your doing," Dydra shot back. "That doesn't mean witches exist!"
"Then what does it mean?" Oryen snapped. "You called me a witch hours ago, yet now you deny our existence? Open your eyes, Dydra. The world is not what you think it is. Creatures walk among humans every day, hiding to survive. Vampires. Werewolves. Shapeshifters. And witches are among them. The world fears us. They call us angels of the dark."
Dydra bit her lower lip, her brows squeezing tightly together as her heartbeat thundered louder with each passing second. She didn't want to believe her. Couldn't.
But then memories surfaced unbidden.
Vampires.
Hugh.
Jerry.
Her grandmother's voice, warning her that vampires roamed the earth.
Was all of it… true?
Her gaze dropped once more to the flame hovering above her finger. The golden light danced within her eyes, mesmerizing. The flame was undeniably real—and yet, she felt no heat. No burn. No pain. Only its presence.
"How is this possible?" she whispered.
Oryen's gaze followed hers, her expression softening as she studied the flame.
"No one truly knows," she replied gently, her voice as soothing as the wind rustling through leaves. "Magic simply… exists. As though one day, mankind woke up and realized nature could be bent."
And Dydra, standing there with fire at her fingertips, could no longer deny it.