The two witches stood facing each other, their hands joined—though it was Oryen who truly held the connection. Her weathered fingers cupped Dydra's palm firmly, as if afraid the girl might pull away at any moment. Their gazes locked, blue meeting blue, the air between them tense and expectant.
"Shut your eyes," Oryen instructed softly, then added with emphasis, "tight."
Dydra hesitated.
A thousand thoughts clashed in her mind, warring with one another in rapid succession. Every instinct she possessed screamed that this was a mistake. Nothing about this situation felt right. From the strange flame that had appeared at her fingertip, to the old witch's unsettling calm, to the way her skin buzzed whenever Oryen drew close—it all felt wrong.
Yet she remained still.
Her doubt sharpened into a single troubling question that refused to let go.
Why was casting the spell so simple… and removing it so complicated?
Before she could voice her suspicion, Oryen's sharp gaze cut into her like a blade. The sudden intensity startled her, sending a jolt through her nerves. Her inner debate collapsed instantly. Almost against her will, her eyelids lowered, sealing her vision in darkness.
"Inui lo kuro iro mi," Oryen intoned.
The words sliced through Dydra's thoughts, erasing her question before it could fully form. Obediently, she repeated the phrase, unaware that the corner of Oryen's lips had curled upward in a subtle, triumphant grin.
The spell they had just cast had nothing to do with extinguishing the candle-flame.
It was far more dangerous.
The incantation opened a passage—not for fire, but for spirit.
As Dydra slipped into a trance, her senses dulled, her awareness folding inward like petals at dusk. She did not notice the shift in the air, nor the faint pressure that settled over her mind like a silken veil.
A gentle gust of wind swept through the room, stirring loose strands of hair and rustling fabric. Only Oryen felt it. The spell had activated.
Her grip on Dydra's hand tightened briefly as her own eyes slid shut. She braced herself.
A shimmering silver mist began to rise from Oryen's body, peeling away from her form like breath on cold glass. It wavered, quivered, then drifted forward, drawn by an unseen force. The mist glided toward Dydra, coiling delicately until it touched the center of her brow.
In an instant, the world vanished.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Oryen found herself standing in complete void, weightless and soundless. There was no ground beneath her feet, no sky above—only endless black. Then, far ahead, a faint glow flickered into existence.
A single point of light.
She moved toward it without hesitation. This was not her first time performing such a spell. The process was familiar, almost comforting. The light grew larger with each step, its brilliance intensifying until it began to strain her vision. She lifted an arm to shield her eyes as the darkness was pushed back, chased away by the expanding glow.
Then—clarity.
The light receded, and the world reshaped itself around her.
Oryen stood barefoot in a forest.
Cool grass brushed against her soles, soft and alive. A gentle breeze danced through her hair and tugged at the hem of her gown. The air was rich with the scent of earth and leaves, fresh and untainted. Birds sang overhead, their melodies weaving seamlessly with the rustling of branches.
Her breath caught.
She knew this place.
This was the forest where baby Dydra had been found by her adoptive family.
Oryen's sharp eyes swept across the clearing, taking in every detail. Then she saw it—a small hut nestled among the greenery, almost hidden, as though the forest itself had chosen to protect it.
A soft sound reached her ears.
"Hehehe."
A child's giggle.
Her gaze snapped toward the source.
Young Dydra floated several feet above the ground, lifted by a playful gust of wind. Flowers swirled around her, petals dancing in joyful chaos. The breeze spun her gently, slipping beneath the hem of her flower-patterned dress and tugging at her neatly braided hair, pulling loose strands into her face as though the wind itself had a mischievous mind.
"Grandmother, stop! It tickles—hehehe!"
Her laughter rang bright and carefree.
Oryen followed the girl's gaze—and froze.
An elderly woman stood a short distance away, her hands raised, fingers moving rhythmically through the air. Her skin was snow-white, glowing softly beneath the sunlight filtering through the trees. Midnight-black hair cascaded down her back like spilled ink.
Oryen's breath hitched.
"An Inui…" she whispered, her palm flying to her mouth.
Not just any Inui—but an elder.
And not merely an elder—one who manipulated nature itself.
The wind obeyed her effortlessly, responding to the smallest motion of her fingers. That alone revealed the depth of her power. Elders capable of such feats were rare beyond measure. They were witches who did not merely recite spells written by others—they created them.
The rules of witchcraft were simple on the surface: spells. Ancient incantations passed down through generations, created by the most powerful witches of every clan. Most witches could only borrow magic, never shape it. They relied on the wisdom of elders who had studied one another's abilities, blending knowledge across clans to create spells even the less powerful could perform.
Only two kinds of witches could break that rule.
Elders.
And those who abandoned the light.
The elderly woman gently lowered her hands, and the wind obeyed at once. Young Dydra floated back to the ground, landing softly on the grass. The moment her feet touched the earth, she ran toward the woman, excitement radiating from her small frame.
"Grandmother, please teach me how to do that!" she begged, bouncing on her toes. "I want to learn! I want to learn!"
She pouted her dark rose lips, her big blue eyes shimmering with hope.
The woman chuckled softly, her expression melting. She knelt, bringing herself to the child's level, and smoothed the stray strands of hair from Dydra's face.
"Do you truly want to learn, my little blossom?" she asked, her voice warm and tender.
Dydra nodded eagerly. "Yes, Grandmother! I really, really, really want to learn!"
"Then you must do as I say," the woman replied gently. "Can you do that?"
"I will always obey you, Grandmother," Dydra said without hesitation.
The elder lowered herself onto the grass and motioned for the child to sit beside her. "Sit, baby."
Dydra obeyed immediately.
"Close your eyes," the woman instructed, "and take a deep breath. Feel the breeze fill your lungs."
Dydra did as she was told, inhaling slowly, then exhaling. She repeated the process again and again, waiting patiently.
Oryen watched in rapt fascination.
She had never seen witchcraft taught this way—without spells, without words. Drawn by curiosity, she lowered herself onto her knees, mimicking the posture. She shut her eyes and breathed in the fresh forest air, waiting for instructions that never came.
Minutes passed.
"Grandmother," young Dydra finally whispered, impatience creeping into her voice. "What's next?"
The elder smiled calmly.
"Only you know what's next, blossom."
Confusion washed over both Dydra and Oryen.
"I don't understand," the child pouted, her eyes watering.
"You will," the woman said softly. "When you're older."
As the words left her lips, the world shifted.
The figures blurred, stretched—and reformed.
They were older now. Still seated in the same place, but time had clearly passed.
"Grandmother," an older Dydra said, rising to her feet. "I think I'm ready."
She didn't wait for permission.
Her eyes caught sight of a small bunny hopping out of its burrow nearby. Slowly, she raised her hand. Determination filled her gaze as she mimicked the movements she had watched so many times before.
The wind answered.
A soft gust rushed past her, brushing the bunny's ears playfully. The creature squeaked as its feet lifted from the grass, its body gently levitating.
"Grandmother, did you see that?!" Dydra cried, spinning around.
Her grandmother watched her with pride shining unmistakably in her eyes.
And Oryen understood.
Dydra had never been taught spells.
She had been taught to listen.