Magic is never truly gone. It sleeps. It waits. It whispers in places where ordinary humans think the world is silent. And when the hour comes, it chooses. It chooses those whose blood carries its echo, whose hearts are strong enough, or reckless enough, to awaken it.
The village of Eldermoor had long forgotten the old stories. To most, witches were only frightening tales told to scare children. Fires that flickered on their own, shadows that seemed to watch, the wind that spoke sometimes in familiar voices—all dismissed as superstition. But magic never dies; it hides, like a wolf in the trees, waiting for the moon to rise red over the land.
It was on such a night that the world's breath seemed to hold still. The Red Moon climbed the sky, massive and blood-colored, reflecting off the roofs of Eldermoor like a warning.
Amara Thorne
At the edge of the village, where the forest's dark fingers almost touched the first cottages, stood Amara Thorne. Seventeen, with curls as dark as the storm clouds gathering above, and eyes that glimmered gold in the candlelight, she was restless. Something thrummed deep within her chest—an urgency, a pull, a calling she could not understand.
Amara's grandmother had always warned her about the "unnatural hours," the times when magic stirred and the world felt thin. But tonight, standing in the cold wind, she felt drawn to the forest itself. The trees swayed as though bowing toward her. Leaves whispered her name.
"I shouldn't be here," she murmured to herself, though her feet betrayed her, stepping closer to the treeline.
Lightning split the sky, briefly illuminating the gnarled trunks of Blackroot Forest, ancient beyond memory. For a heartbeat, Amara felt something—like an invisible hand brushing against her soul—and she gasped. A symbol burned faintly in her mind, glowing in intricate curves she could not place.
Her grandmother had whispered of such things, long ago, when Amara was just a child: "The blood of witches never sleeps. When the Red Moon rises, it will call its own."
Amara's pulse quickened. Her hands tingled. The wind whispered again, this time more insistently, almost demanding: "Step forward."
Selene Frostvale
Far on the other side of Eldermoor, in a manor of cold stone and strict discipline, Selene Frostvale stared into a mirror. Her hair was silver-blond, her skin pale as winter frost. Raised as a noble's daughter, she was accustomed to rules, decorum, and the weight of expectation. Yet, she felt restless tonight, as if unseen eyes were watching her from beyond the glass.
The mirror shimmered, faintly vibrating. Selene stepped closer. A symbol appeared within it—a crescent moon wrapped in black thorns. It burned for a brief moment before vanishing, leaving the glass ordinary once more.
"Impossible," Selene whispered.
But deep inside her, she knew the impossible had just spoken. She had always been different, seeing things others could not, hearing whispers the wind carried. Her parents called it imagination. She knew better.
For the first time, fear and excitement twisted together in her chest. She could feel the pulse of something ancient, reaching for her.
Nyra Emberlyn
At the heart of the village, the forge blazed late into the night. Nyra Emberlyn, apprentice to her father, wiped sweat from her brow. Her hair was the color of embers, her eyes the deep brown of polished oak. Fire had always obeyed her in ways others could never understand. Flames leapt higher when she was near, flickered brighter with her moods, yet never burned her.
Tonight, the forge fire roared unnaturally high, turning blue at the edges. Nyra stumbled back, startled, but the fire seemed drawn toward her, spinning around her arms, forming spirals that hung in the air like living creatures.
"No…" she whispered. "I can't…"
But the flames didn't stop. They obeyed some command she had never consciously given.
The ground beneath her seemed to pulse with her heartbeat, the forge echoing the rhythm as if alive. Somewhere deep in the forest, a horned shadow stirred, sensing the awakening.
The Call
The Red Moon reached its zenith, dominating the sky. Blackroot Forest shimmered with latent energy. Far beyond the village, in ruins older than Eldermoor itself, stones cracked, releasing a faint violet glow. Ancient seals that had bound magic for centuries began to splinter.
The three girls, unknown to one another, felt the same pulse—the same irresistible pull. The air around them thrummed, heavy with possibility and danger.
Each girl bore a mark that appeared on their skin for the first time, glowing faintly in colors unique to them:
Amara: gold lines curling like lightning across her forearm.
Selene: silver crescents weaving around her wrists.
Nyra: ember-red streaks rising up her arms like flowing fire.
They were the chosen. The last remnants of the bloodlines that had kept the world in balance.
Somewhere, far beyond, a presence watched. Ancient, patient, and immensely powerful. The voice that rose from the void was not loud, yet it filled their minds:
"The witches have returned. The balance shall be restored—or shattered."
A storm exploded over Eldermoor. Lightning cracked the sky, thunder rolled across the hills, and for the first time in centuries, the world remembered what it meant to fear—and to hope—for magic.