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A lifetime of chains
ZARA
My magic is wildfire, it’s chaos and carnage, wrath and retribution. It cannot be subdued, and I won’t allow it to be contained. I was born in the wilderness and its winds are mine, as are its harsh winters and scorching summers.
I am fire and fury, light and death. I am mine and I belong to no one, least of all the warlocks who try to control me and my kind. I’m done with their rules and demands, their take and take and take. I want more; I deserve more. I should be free and unbound, and the bonds that hold me and my sisters back are shackles tonight will free me from.
The wind senses my wrath, and it blows harder, whipping across me like a lash of pure power. I ignore its sting, staring down at the object in my hands. It’s so small and my lips curl into a wicked smile as I remember the things I’ve done to find it. All the acts of horror and pain I perpetrated in pursuit of this pebble. A stone barely bigger than the palm of my hand and yethundreds have died to keep it from me.
Spilling their blood was a delight.
I relished in the mayhem and danced to their screams of pain.
I extracted every ounce of agony I could and bottled it for later, sure I’d enjoy my victim’s pain over and over again.
But now I’m here with this obsidian rock, tracing its smooth outline and rough carvings with my fingertips as I wait for the moon to reach its peak. The ancient, intricate runes glow in the moonlight and their spell is almost impossible to break. But that’s not the same as not possible and tonight should prove my point.
The warlock’s sigil will be destroyed.
Their control will break, and this coven will be free.
And the reverberations of the shockwave I unleash will be felt by more than just the warlocks. Witches will feel it too, and my sisters will rise against the men who oppress them and steal their power. The tether of control will break tonight and the warlock’s dominance will shatter as the first of many chains that bind us shatters.
The warlocks were clever enough to hide my coven’s sigil, but not cunning enough to keep it from me. They thought binding our magic to their whims would make us weak, but it’s made me determined. They thought centuries of oppression would teach us our place, but it’s created an anger that cannot be quelled.
Our power is stolen and used, harvested like wheat, so our magic can be separated as if it were chaff. Our magic is curtailed and we’re stopped from being all we should be. We’re deprived of our natural state, forced to endure a lifetime in hell, waiting for the reprieve that awaits us in the afterlife. The warlocks have taken too much for too long and I’m willing to burn it all down to restore the balance.
The warlocks think they’re Gods, and that their rules are immutable.
But they’ve never faced someone like me.
They’ve never known true anger and its fury.
The ritual circle hums with power, a low thrum that beats in time with my heart. Blood-red candles sputter and hiss in the biting wind as if they, too, understand the storm I’m about to unleash. Stolen artifacts and forbidden spell components lay scattered at my feet and I stand at the center, surrounded by relics from a dozen coven vaults I’ve raided over the past month.
I sigh and wait, watching the moon rise in her arc and biding my time before I set the world right. The silver orb reaches its peak and I cry havoc, arching my back as I begin the spell. I writhe and scream, rousing the Gods and their minions from sleep and idle pastimes, demanding that they hear me. I call them forward, demanding they answer me. Insistent. Unrelenting. Furious and a woman scorned.
I pull a dagger from my belt, its obsidian blade glinting in the moonlight. My hand doesn’t tremble as I press the edge to my palm, slicing deep enough to send blood dripping onto the runes I’ve carved into the dirt. The earth drinks it eagerly, the spell awakening with a growl that rumbles through the ground.
I chant, pouring my fury into the incantation.
The runes ignite, golden flames racing along their lines as the air thickens with the scent of burning metal and ozone. My magic rises, a living thing that twists and writhes, eager to be unleashed, mingling with the fire burning in the brazier in front of me.
The spell surges, responding to my anger. A cruel smile tugs at my lips and I let my body bear the weight of the magic breaking through the air. The sigil trembles in my grip as ifit knows what’s coming, and my fingers tighten around it and my blood coats it.
Destroying this sigil severs our bond to the warlocks, rendering them powerless to control the witches in my coven. But it won’t stop there. The spell I’ve woven into the brazier will ignite the sigils that bind the other covens. It won’t destroy them, but it will weaken them, and that will help the other witches.
Magic sparks around me and my hair floats in the storm I’m creating. Its white strands weave through the currents as I withstand the power brimming around me and the smell of it burning floods into my nostrils. My skin pricks as heat scalds it and I ignore the pain beginning to surge through me, determined to see this spell through to the end.
The clear swirls around me cloud as the spirit I’ve summoned coalesces, its shape as distorted as the rules I’ve spent my life following. I watch its eyes form, their red as crimson as the blood that flows through my arteries, the scarlet of the light escaping my closed fist as it pours from the warlock’s stone binding our magic to theirs.
Who do you ask this for?
“For every witch who’s been silenced, every sister who’s had her power leeched dry for the glory of the warlocks. For me.”
My hand clenches the sigil as the magic burns hotter and the spirits test my will. This was never going to be easy, and I stand my ground, holding on, refusing to let them wrestle the stone from my hand. This is my test, it’s my trial, and I will not fail. I can’t fail, not if I want to be free. Not if I want my sisters to be free. Not if I want us to be wild and carefree, released from our days of servitude and slavery.
