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Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Broken Palette

Jack "Marm" Bourton stood at the edge of the dock at Penarth Beach, the salty breeze ruffling his dark, long hair as he surveyed the tumultuous sea. The rhythmic crash of waves against the rocks echoed the turmoil festering in his heart. Just weeks prior, he had confidently navigated the halls of The Cardiff School of Art & Design, dedicating years to honing his craft, pouring his very soul into every splash of paint. Yet now, with a portfolio brimming with vivid creations nestled in his bag and a heart weighed down by sorrow, he felt adrift.

He had long harboured dreams of presenting his work to the esteemed Central Saint Martins in London—a beacon of artistic innovation and a launchpad for myriad successful careers. Yet the fear of inadequacy gnawed at him relentlessly. A once-flourishing creativity had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, leaving behind an empty canvas where his ideas should have danced.

His thoughts drifted to Iwan, a handsome Welshman whose laughter resonated like a sweet melody and whose smile illuminated even the darkest of days. They had met in a café bustling with the clatter of cups and lively chatter, a serendipitous encounter that spiralled into stolen moments brimming with whispered secrets and electric touches.

Marm believed he had found a profound connection—one that gave warmth to his heart and revitalised his art. The excitement of their secret meetings, veiled caresses and stolen kisses wrapped around him like a warm embrace, stirring emotions he had long kept buried. The few hours that seemed eternal wrapped on each other, sharing the soft and warm embrace of the first love with the thrill of furtiveness painting golden every single detail. 

However, the fateful day arrived when Iwan, his light brown hair tousled and uncertainty dancing in his hazel eyes, brought their whirlwind romance to a close. "I need to figure out who I really am," he had uttered, his voice quavering. "I’m not sure where I fit. This—what we have—might just be a phase."

The words cut deep, shattering Marm’s spirit like fragile glass upon a stone floor. The heartbreak felt inconceivable, as if his entire world had been drenched in shades of grey, the vibrancy leached away, leaving only emptiness in its wake. Iwan had stepped away without a backward glance, dismissing Marm as though their shared moments had been mere brushstrokes on a canvas now forgotten.

Now, standing upon the windswept shore, Marm contemplated the irony of it all. The very essence of his being—his art—thrived on love and connection. Yet with each attempt to channel his heartbreak onto the canvas, he wrestled with a formidable block that stifled his creativity. Each brushstroke echoed the ache in his heart, and the once-inviting canvas now seemed to mock him, taunting his struggle.

Drawing a deep breath, Marm retrieved his sketchbook, its pages filled with half-formed ideas and shadows of what could have been. With each turn of the page, Iwan’s laughter echoed in his mind, a haunting reminder of those golden moments of joy they had shared. Marm yearned to capture that joy, to transmute the love that had once felt so vivid into something tangible, yet the task appeared insurmountable.

As the waves roared beneath him, he closed his eyes, allowing the salty air to fill his lungs. Perhaps this heartbreak was an integral part of the artistic journey—a source of inspiration waiting to emerge from the depths of despair. Clutching his sketchbook, Marm made a silent promise.

With the endless horizon sprawled before him, Marm realised he had to rise, to sift through the grief, and to create. He would transform his broken heart into art and, in doing so, unearth the artist he was destined to become.

He took one last glance at the churning sea, resolute in his determination, before turning back towards his childhood home, prepared to confront whatever the future may hold—one brushstroke at a time.

As Marm stepped through the door of their modest dwelling, the familiar scent of freshly baked bread enveloped him, warm and welcoming. His mother, Victoria, had always sought solace in cooking, particularly when she sensed that someone was in distress. The spacious living room, adorned with family photographs and flashes of colour from Marm’s earlier creations, felt like a safe haven. Yet today, the walls seemed to close in on him, almost suffocating.

“Welcome home, love!” Victoria called from the kitchen, her voice a melodious blend of warmth that only served to deepen Marm's sorrow. He forced a smile as he entered, acutely aware that she sensed something was amiss.

“Hi, Mum,” he replied, infusing his tone with false cheer as he dropped his bag onto the floor, his sketchbook nearly slipping from its grasp.

Actavia, his younger sister, peeked out from behind the sofa, her bright red hair giving her away, and her playful baby blue eyes glinting with mischief. “Guess who I saw at the market today?” she chirped. Marm felt a flicker of affection—though only young and a bit nosy, she possessed a remarkable talent for lifting his spirits, even on the darkest of days.

“Who?” he asked, striving to divert his mind from the heaviness that loomed.

“Rachel! You know, the one from school!” Actavia exclaimed, jumping with excitement. “She said she’s going to be part of the festival this summer.” 

“Sounds great,” Marm replied, offering a slight nod as he sank onto the couch, retrieving his sketchbook from his bag and staring blankly at the pages, the images within seemingly lost to him.

Victoria soon appeared, carrying a plate piled high with warm, fluffy scones. “I made your favourite,” she chimed, placing them carefully on the coffee table. Marm recognised her intention to distract him, to envelop him in the warmth of family amidst the chill of his heartache.

“Thanks, Mum,” he murmured, feeling the warmth of the scones between his fingers. Part of him longed to indulge in their comforting sweetness, to allow it to wash over the bitterness swirling within him. Yet the weight of unspoken words pressed down, refusing to budge.

“What’s bothering you, darling?” Victoria asked gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. She had always been a caring, supportive figure, particularly since the divorce. It was evident she had never revealed her own vulnerabilities, wishing to shield her children from the burdens of her own struggles. Marm felt a stab of sadness for the truths she kept hidden—her own heart encased beneath layers of love and protection, shielding them from possible trauma.

“Nothing, I’m just… tired from classes,” he lied, meeting her earnest gaze with a facade of bravado, the softness in his mother’s dark eyes a reflection of his own. He then glanced at Actavia, whose expression flickered with concern, as though fragments of the truth already began to weave together in her mind.

“Are you sure it’s just that?” Actavia interjected, her tone softening with the kind of empathy only a sibling could muster. She had an innate ability to sense the emotions in a room before anyone else grasped them. “I can’t believe how quickly this term has gone by. Are you stressed about your application?”

“I—” Marm hesitated, wrestling with the urge to confide, though the words caught in his throat like a tangled brush. Instead, he shrugged, “Just focused on finishing my portfolio.”

Actavia exchanged a glance with Victoria, a silent understanding passing between them. 

The young girl attempted to mask her awareness, her lips pursed as if trying to comprehend all she had overheard—the late-night calls, the hushed tones, and whether he had allowed someone a glimpse into that vulnerable space within his heart.

Sensing the tension, Victoria pressed on. “You know you can talk to us about anything, Marm. Your father and I—we’re here to support you. It’s what family does.” Her voice was soothing, laced with the worry that hung heavily in the air.

Marm reached for a scone, taking a bite, the sweetness contrasting sharply with the bitterness that resided within him. The silence stretched between them, each lost in their unspoken thoughts. He refused to burden them with the heartache he bore.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, mustering the last remnants of his strength to smile. Yet in that moment, he felt more like a fading brushstroke on a canvas—washed out and devoid of vibrancy.

Actavia leaned closer, her voice barely a whisper. “You know I’m here if you need to talk,” she offered, her sincerity shining like a beacon in the dim light. “Even if it’s about boys or whatever… it’s cool, I’m here.”

“Thanks, Actavia. Really,” he replied, forcing a smile that was more an ember of hope than a reflection of truth. He longed to believe that he could be okay, that he might untangle the web of his emotions and reclaim his voice, free from the crushing weight of heartache.

As they sat together, Marm felt the relentless pressure of time closing in around him. The deadline for his portfolio loomed ahead like a blank canvas waiting to be filled, while he found himself paralyzed by uncertainty. But for the moment, nestled among his family, he allowed himself the briefest respite—a fleeting moment of warmth amidst the shadows of doubt.

“I’ll be fine,” he reassured them, perhaps more for his own benefit than theirs. And deep down, he hoped to believe it—just not yet.

A few hours later, the sun began its descent below the horizon, casting a warm, golden hue that gradually faded into deeper shades of indigo. Marm sat on the edge of his bed, his sketchbook sprawled before him, its pages filled with chaotic strokes and smudged paint.

What had begun as a hopeful venture had deteriorated into an abstract mess of blues and greys—each sweep of the brush a physical embodiment of his heartache. Exhausted from wrestling with his emotions and the insistent pressure to produce, he allowed the sketchbook to slip from his fingers, landing softly on the carpet below.

With a heavy sigh, he crawled beneath the covers, seeking solace in sleep. The comforting softness enveloped him, yet the darkness of his thoughts trailed behind, creeping into the corners of his mind. As his eyes fluttered closed, Marm could almost hear Iwan’s laughter echoing in the distance—a teasing sound that haunted his dreams, a ghost of happiness he could not grasp.   

As the stillness enveloped the room, Marm succumbed to a deep, restless slumber, oblivious to the world beyond. In this twilight state, a vision unfolded before him, meticulously crafted by a spirit yearning to narrate its own tale—a tale set within a vast, enchanting forest cradled by a remote hill, in a time that seemed to be so far from his own, each corner cloaked in a veil of mist and mystery. 

Towering trees arched overhead, their gnarled branches entwining like the fingers of lovers long since separated by time. The moonlight wove through the leaves, bestowing ethereal patterns upon the ground, lighting the forest with an otherworldly glow.

Amidst this picturesque haven, a figure emerged—an exquisite, androgynous being that glided with a grace that seemed beyond the mortal realm. They shimmered with a light reminiscent of the moon itself, an incarnation of magic and allure. Cascading tresses flowed like quicksilver, framing a visage that exuded both beauty and a formidable presence. Their eyes, fierce and luminous, revealed a tumult of emotions swirling beneath the surface.

An electric charge pulsed in the air, radiating from the spirit, filling the surroundings with a potent energy that resonated within the very earth. From his hidden vantage point, Marm observed as the creature’s serene expression shifted to one of fierce tumult, their features contorted as if weighed down by the unbearable heaviness of betrayal.

"I trusted you!" the spirit cried out, the sound echoing through the trees, sending shivers through the leaves and making the branches dance in response. Anger flowed from them like a torrent, resonating with the primal echoes of an ancient power—an energy capable of bending nature to its will. 

At that moment, it became painfully evident that this was no mere entity; they were the guardian spirit of the forest, now marred by the treachery of those who would exploit their gifts for selfish desires.

In a flash, the spirit revealed glimpses of the past—a sacred ceremony of the original coven, a sisterhood woven with magic yet shattered by treachery. One witch, seduced by gluttonous ambition, had turned her back on the spirit—betraying an age-old bond. As she conjured dark incantations to seize power, the very woods shuddered, under the belief she could harness that which was meant to soar free.

But fury bows to no master. It roared forth like a raging inferno, consuming everything in its wake. As the spirit unleashed its wrath, Marm felt an ache of sorrow; he bore witness to the lives extinguished in this cataclysm, the cries of the original coven members dissipating into the void, leaving only haunting echoes embedded in the soil of the hills.

Only five witches endured, their spirits woven into the very fabric of the land's magic, while one last figure blurry within the shadows of the forest, a witch fled, her treachery cloaked around her like a shroud against the encroaching night.

The creature’s scream reverberated once more, a haunting melody that resonated deep within Marm’s soul. It was a sound of profound sorrow, a plea for redemption that twisted and turned within the tranquil silence of the woods. They glared in the direction of the fleeing witch, a promise of vengeance lurking within their luminous gaze.

Marm awoke with a start, his heart racing, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like morning fog. The encounter lingered like a spectral whisper, the spirit's fury etched into his mind and heart—a stark reminder that betrayal could give rise to both agony and strength.

He sank back against his pillows, grappling with a turbulent mix of emotions. Was this being somehow connected to his journey? The urge to paint surged back, igniting something within him that yearned to encapsulate the ethereal beauty and fierce rage he had witnessed. Perhaps this was the spark of inspiration he so desperately needed, the key to transforming his heartbreak into something tangible, something beautiful.

With renewed determination, Marm sat up and reached for his sketchbook, ready to weave the tales of the lost witches and the spirit of the forest into his art, allowing the emotions of the night to guide his hand. In that moment, he resolved that his journey of creation was only just beginning.

As the morning sun streamed through Marm’s bedroom window, soft rays cascaded across his sketchbook, now dappled with quick strokes and bursts of colour. The remnants of last night’s dream lingered like a faint melody, the glow of the androgynous spirit and the weight of their rage demanding to be transformed into something real.

Marm couldn't dismiss the feeling that this vision was more than a mere figment of his imagination; it felt as though he had tapped into the essence of something ancient and powerful. His heart raced with a mix of inspiration and trepidation as he climbed out of bed, ready to confront the day and the blank canvas that awaited him.

He slipped out of his room and descended the stairs, the familiar sound of his mother's whistling echoing through the house. Victoria often used her musical gift to brighten their home, but today, an underlying tension tinged the joyful notes, a veil of worry that she couldn't quite mask. Marm entered the kitchen, where the enticing scent of eggs and freshly brewed coffee filled the air.

“Morning, love!” Victoria looked up, her cheerful smile betraying the concern lurking in her eyes. “How did you sleep? You looked a bit restless.”

“Just fine, Mum,” he replied, taking a seat at the table. He avoided her gaze, well aware that she could easily sense the weight still pressing down on his heart from the previous day. Instead, he focused on buttering a slice of toast, willing his thoughts to remain anchored on his art and the emerging vision from his dream.

“Actavia is going to an art class today,” Victoria said lightly, attempting to steer the conversation toward brighter topics. “I think you should join her to gather some inspiration. Perhaps working together will spark some ideas.”

Before Marm could respond, Actavia tumbled into the kitchen, her backpack swinging haphazardly over one shoulder and a wide grin spreading across her face. “Good morning, Marm! Did you work on your portfolio last night?”

“Sort of,” he murmured, casting a sidelong glance at her. “Just finished up a bit of sketching.”

“I can’t wait to see what you’ve created! I had a dream that you painted a masterpiece, and the whole world loved it!” she gushed, her enthusiasm as contagious as the sun on a spring morning.

Marm chuckled softly, his sister’s smile threatening to start spreading through his lips, hoping her excitement might lighten the burden of his own looming anxieties. “I hope that dream comes true,” he replied, though he recognised the considerable chasm between dreams and reality, particularly in his case.

As Victoria pottered about the kitchen, preparing breakfast, Marm’s thoughts drifted back to the dream—the spirit's power, the betrayal, the poignant history it evoked. He could not shake the creeping urgency to capture that essence, to weave it into something profound.

“I’ll think about it, the art class” he said to Victoria in response to her invitation about joining the art class, his heart caught between the desire to support his sister and the weight of his own creativity, which felt ensnared.

Later, after they finished breakfast, Marm helped to clear the table, and the mood shifted slightly; he sensed the undercurrent of concern between him and his mother. Just as Actavia sprang up to fetch her art supplies, Victoria lowered her voice to a whisper. “Marm, is there something you want to tell me? I can see that something is troubling you.”

A surge of emotion washed over him, and he hesitated, divided between the impulse to confide in her and the fear of burdening her with his troubles. It’s better not to say anything, he thought, steadying himself with a deep breath. “I’m okay, Mum. Really. Just trying to focus on my portfolio.”

Victoria opened her mouth, as if she intended to press for more, but Actavia bounded back into the room, breaking the tension with her vibrant energy. “Ready to go, Marm?” she asked, bouncing on her heels, excitement radiating from her.

“Yeah, let’s go,” he replied, deciding that perhaps a little outing would help to clear his mind, and to escape from his mother’s questioning. As they stepped out into the crisp morning air, the fresh scent of dew clinging to the grass met them like a welcome embrace. Marm glanced towards the hills in the distance, feeling an invisible pull toward the secrets they held. Perhaps a visit to the nearby forest could inspire him anew, offering a glimpse of that ethereal spirit from his dream.

The outdoor art class unfolded like a vibrant tapestry, providing a kaleidoscope of colours and textures, each one more vivid than the last. As they settled among the other attendees, Marm inhaled the creatively charged atmosphere, allowing the energy to wash over him.

“Alright, everyone! Let’s start with some free drawing!” the instructor announced, diving into an explanation of the day's agenda. Marm eagerly grabbed his sketchbook, flipping to a blank page, sensing that familiar spark of inspiration beginning to ignite within him.

He began sketching the undulating hills, the trees swaying gracefully in the breeze. However, his thoughts soon shifted, giving way to the image of the glowing spirit that had so deeply entwined itself with his heart. He sketched their androgynous figure, striving to capture the powerful aura that seemed to radiate warmth and depth, yet was cloaked in the tempest of rage.

As the lines took form on the paper, Marm lost himself in the act of creation, feeling emotion pour from him effortlessly. This spirit reflected not only the sacrifices of the ancestors but also illuminated the shadows of betrayal. In that sacred moment, Marm felt a profound connection to the spirit—a shared understanding of fear, anger, and a yearning for redemption.

By the time the class concluded, Marm emerged exhilarated, if slightly fatigued. He had captured more than mere imagery on paper; he had unearthed a narrative, and in doing so, he felt a flicker of hope rekindling deep within him.

“Let’s head home,” Actavia said, her excitement bubbling over. “I can’t wait to show Mum what we did!”

As they strolled back, Marm could not shake the feeling that he was on the brink of a monumental revelation—an understanding of his emotions and perhaps even an awakening to the mysteries dwelling within the woods, which whispered tales of magic and betrayal.

Unbeknownst to him, the spirit watching over Pendle had sensed his stirring creativity and was eager to unveil the truths that bound their fates together.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Reflections of the Soul

Weeks blurred into a timeless haze as Marm clawed his way out of grief, surrendering instead to an insatiable creative fervour. His paintbrush glided across the canvas with an almost frenzied rhythm, guided by an unseen force. It wasn’t his hand alone—it was as though the spirit from his dreams had entwined itself with his will, whispering ancient, untold stories that demanded to be unveiled.

The forest he painted bled with life, every tree a silent sentinel, their twisted forms stretching skyward as if clawing at heaven itself. The hills undulated like quiet sighs, and in fleeting flashes of silver and shadow, the androgynous creature lingered—its presence woven into every stroke, a haunting muse that refused to release him. Marm’s muted palette had given way to a vivid rebellion of colour, but it wasn’t joy it spoke of—it was longing, pain, and something unnervingly alive.

Night after night, he worked under the cold, unyielding light of his desk lamp. Shadows crept across the walls as his world shrank to the rhythmic rasp of his brush and the low hum of his breath. The woods he had once hurriedly sketched at school now emerged with unnerving clarity—an otherworldly realm where towering trees whispered secrets forgotten by time, and the creature stood, its spectral aura pulsing in hues of luminous blue and silver.

Marm wasn’t the artist anymore; he was the vessel. Each stroke filled him not with pride but with a feverish purpose, a compulsion that left him exhausted yet exhilarated.

When his friends—Tayce, Vivienne, and Minnie—visited, their reactions were laced with awe and unease. The once mundane walls of his room had transformed into a chaotic gallery of vivid tapestries, each one alive in its intensity. The paintings seemed to beckon them, their layers of colour and depth offering no solace, only a strange, intoxicating pull.

“Mate, this is incredible!” Tayce’s voice cut through the silence one afternoon, his eyes widening as they fixed on a painting that sprawled across Marm’s easel. It depicted the hills bathed in a swirling, restless night sky, the faint silhouette of the creature lingering in the shadows like a half-forgotten memory. “It’s like a portal to another world.”

Vivienne nodded slowly, her fingers hovering near the canvas as though touching it might shatter the spell. “You’ve captured the essence of the landscape,” she murmured. “It doesn’t just look alive—it feels alive.”

Minnie, unable to contain her excitement, gestured to a corner where the creature's form emerged with quiet dominance. “That thing,” she said, her voice tinged with awe and unease, “it’s eerie, Marm. Beautiful, but it gives me chills. It’s like it’s watching us... like it knows.”

Their words wrapped around Marm like a gentle shroud, their warmth seeping into the fractures of his doubt. Confidence began to unfurl within him—tentative at first, but steady in its resolve. For the first time since Iwan, he felt truly seen. Not as a mere artist, but as something more—a weaver of worlds, a storyteller breathing life into the shadows.

Days later, as the hum of classroom chatter faded into the background, Marm revealed his latest creation. It was a vision of a shadowed grove, its gnarled branches entwined with rooms of distorted mirrors. Each reflection bore a fragment of a soul—eyes wide with longing, mouths frozen mid-cry, faces indistinct yet brimming with the ache of something lost. The image pulsated with a raw, magnetic energy, its depth drawing the class into its labyrinthine embrace. No one spoke; they merely stared, held captive by the painting’s haunting allure.

“Brilliant work, Marm!” Their teacher’s praise reverberated through the classroom, sparking a wave of applause that swelled around him. Marm glanced toward the back of the room, where Veronica sat, her posture rigid, her gaze fixed on his painting. Her brow was knitted in thought, her focus unwavering as she examined every detail with a meticulous intensity that sent a ripple of unease through him.

As the applause subsided into hushed murmurs, Veronica raised her hand, hesitant but resolute. “Um, this is really impressive, Marm,” she began, her voice steady despite the eyes turning toward her. “I recognise this place… I mean, the hills you've painted, and the mirrors.”

Marm froze, his breath snagging in his throat. “You do?” he managed, the words barely audible.

“Yes,” she said, her tone soft but charged with certainty. “The grove, the hills, even the mirrors—they’re strikingly like Pendle Hill near my gran’s home in Lancashire. We have so many stories there... tales of witches and spirits, especially the Pendle Witches. It’s steeped in folklore, Marm. The connection is eerie.”

Her words hung in the air, weaving threads of mystery into the fabric of the classroom. Marm felt the stirrings of something vast and unknown—a tether pulling him deeper into the secrets of his art. His teacher had urged him to reveal the origins of his inspiration, and his friends had nudged him to share more of his process. But even then, he had skimmed the surface, withholding the truths that lingered in his dreams.

“Actually,” Marm began, his voice laced with a curious energy, “I’ve been inspired by some dreams. And now that you mention it... perhaps there’s something connected to Pendle Hill, though I didn’t know about the stories until now.” He leaned forward, his interest igniting like kindling catching flame, as Veronica's revelation opened a new door in his mind.

Veronica smiled, the tautness in her posture softening as she leaned forward. “There are tales of witches who roamed those hills—rituals they performed that seemed to linger even now, etched into the land itself. Some say the spirits of those witches still watch over the woods, particularly when the moon is full.”

The words struck Marm like a bolt of lightning, electrifying the puzzle pieces scattered across his mind. Here, at last, was a thread that could tie together his visions. “And the creature in my dreams…” His voice dropped to a whisper, its edge sharp with unspoken significance. “Do you think there’s a link?”

“It’s entirely possible,” Veronica answered, her tone measured yet brimming with restrained energy. “The Pendle spirit is said to be a guardian, a protector of the lands, often misunderstood. Legends speak of its presence appearing to those seeking solace or guidance.” Her features brightened with enthusiasm, but it was a fleeting glow—beneath it, a trace of hesitation flared, as though she were treading carefully, wary of unveiling too much.

Her words seemed to carry a weight that neither Marm nor the others could ignore. The classroom buzzed with renewed energy as students eagerly shared stories of their own heritage and folklore, weaving their narratives into the air like brushstrokes in a blank canvas. Marm sat back, absorbing every tale that drifted his way, each one adding texture and depth to his understanding of the world—and the path his art might lead him down.

As the inspiration surged through him, Marm inhaled deeply, letting it envelop him like a soothing embrace. “Thank you for sharing, Veronica. It’s fascinating how our experiences intertwine, even when we least expect it,” he said, his voice warm with appreciation.

When the bell rang, signaling the end of class, Marm felt a renewed vitality coursing through him—a small but steady flame kindled by the stories they had exchanged and the histories waiting to be uncovered. This wasn’t just about recreating the visions from his dreams anymore; it was about weaving Lancashire’s folklore into the fabric of his artistic world. It felt like a bridge, spanning the chasm between past and present, connecting his art to something timeless and profound.

As he packed his belongings, he caught Veronica’s gaze. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a bond quietly taking shape, forged by shared curiosity and a mutual love for storytelling. The spirit from his dreams now felt more tangible, its presence threaded through the web of narratives he was beginning to understand—a web alive with echoes of witches, spirits, and the ethereal pull of Pendle Hill. Deep within, he sensed an unshakable instinct to keep Veronica close, as though their destinies were knotted together in the very core of this unraveling tale.

Days melted into nights as Marm surrendered to the feverish rhythm of his creativity. Hours slipped by unnoticed, time itself seeming to stretch and fold around him. Fleeting sparks of inspiration lit up the darkness like fireflies, each one fuelling the next. His easel became his sanctuary, a space where he could channel the vibrant connection he felt to Veronica and the haunting allure of her stories.

The seasons turned outside his window, their steady passage marking subtle shifts in his art. His understanding of Pendle Hill’s folklore deepened with every retelling, its spectral beauty seeping into his canvases. Each stroke carried a resonance, a palpable energy born of shared tales and the unrelenting pull of the landscapes he now felt bound to. His work began to speak of a world both haunting and breathtaking, where the past whispered its secrets into the present, and every brushstroke held a trace of magic. 

Finally, Marm stepped back from his easel, breathless and still, his gaze fixed on the collection before him. His portfolio was complete—a tapestry of paintings that captured the raw, untamed beauty of the Pendle Hills, the haunting spirit from his dreams, and the echoes of folklore that had seeped into every brushstroke. Each canvas seemed alive, imbued with the pain and hope that had shaped his journey, and the quiet yet unshakable bond with Veronica that lingered like the faint hum of ancient legends hanging in the air.

He placed the final piece into the folder with deliberate care, as though sealing away a fragment of himself. This was more than a portfolio; it was his grief laid bare, his aspirations given form, and the shadowed longing that had threaded through his days, all woven into the fabric of his art. A wave of accomplishment washed over him, tinged with an aching tenderness for the road he had travelled to get here.

The following day, he would send it to Central Saint Martins. The thought set his heart racing—a mix of exhilaration and trepidation pulsing through his veins. It was a step into the unknown, a leap toward a future that felt both inviting and terrifying.

That night, exhaustion claimed him as he collapsed onto his bed. The weight of the day pressed him further into the depths of slumber, pulling him into a silence so profound it seemed to reverberate. The world outside settled into stillness; the shadows lengthened, twisting into shapes that whispered unspoken truths as Marm slipped into sleep. This time, the dreams reached for him, tugging him toward a place where reality warped into something darker, something alive.

The dream unfolded with striking clarity, vivid yet veiled by an intangible haze that eluded his grasp. No longer wandering through the familiar yet unsettling forest, he stood before a mirror—grand and ominous, its frame ornate and shimmering faintly as though touched by forgotten centuries. The surface seemed to breathe, holding reflections that whispered secrets just beyond the edge of comprehension. Marm stared, transfixed, the air heavy with a foreboding that stirred something deep within him.

The glass shimmered faintly, its cloudy surface rippling like water disturbed by unseen currents. It carried the weight of countless distorted reflections—each one warped yet arresting, hauntingly beautiful in its imperfection. Encasing the glass, the frame twisted into a labyrinth of intricately carved vines and fantastical creatures, their forms writhing and curling as though alive. They danced with sinister grace in the flickering light, their shadows stretching and twisting, seemingly desperate to break free from their confines. Every glance at the mirror sent icy tendrils down Marm’s spine, a foreboding presence woven tightly into its macabre beauty.

Marm’s pulse quickened, his breath shallow as he stood frozen, caught in a maelstrom of sensations unfurling across his skin. The room seemed to hum with quiet intensity, wrapping around him like whispered secrets and spectral caresses. The dream had a rhythm all its own, beating faster with each moment, pulling at his emotions with a restless tide. Wrath and hope surged in tandem, clashing and intertwining in waves of unfamiliar longing, crashing over him with raw, unrelenting force.

The air grew heavy, thickened by an invisible current that thrummed beneath his feet. It carried an electric charge that was both invigorating and oppressive, sharpening his senses while tethering him to the ground. The tension kindled a fire within him—an inexplicable surge of confidence that burned bright against the tide of confusion and dread that threatened to drown him. Here, in this flickering realm of shadows and whispers, Marm felt the pull of something vast and unnameable, its grip tightening with each beat of his racing heart.

A presence loomed, palpable and unyielding, the air itself charged with electric energy that pulsed with intent. Marm recognised it instantly—the creature that had haunted the edges of his dreams, its essence now surrounding him, wrapping him in a cloak that was equal parts warmth and foreboding. For the first time, he could feel the spirit drawing closer, its curiosity ignited by the surge of creativity that had seeped into his being like ink spreading across parchment.

The energy radiating from him shimmered faintly, rippling through the space in waves that drew the spirit nearer—a moth drawn irresistibly to the flicker of flame. Yet even as its beauty transfixed him, Marm felt the weight of its secrets pressing against him, the quiet menace of truths that could unravel the threads holding him together. The tension grew, winding around him like living tendrils, tightening with every breath. Marm steadied himself, knowing instinctively that this dream would lead him further into the depths of the unknown.

The sensations coalesced, wild and vivid, each distinct yet swirling together into a chaotic rhythm that mirrored the storm within his heart. Beneath this tangled whirl, a sound emerged—a soft echo, faint yet unmistakable, like a whisper carried by the wind through trembling leaves. The voice caressed his mind, its murmur equal parts enticement and unease, sending shivers coursing through him.

“You taste sweet, like an orchard… you taste sweet, like revenge,” it purred, each syllable curling delicately around him, wrapping him in a velvet-like embrace. The words hung suspended in the air, laden with meaning yet tantalisingly cryptic, drawing Marm deeper into their web. Fear and exhilaration swirled together within him, a tempest that left him trembling, yet unable to resist the pull of the spirit’s call.

As he stood rooted before the mirror, Marm's gaze was drawn to a pair of shimmering eyes that flickered in and out of focus, their presence like fleeting shadows rippling across the cloudy glass. They locked onto him, filled with yearning and fierce intensity, their silent glances resonating with the weight of unspoken truths—fragments from a time buried deep in the sands of memory. For a fleeting heartbeat, Marm felt a profound connection—a shared understanding that seemed to transcend the boundaries of his waking reality. Then, as abruptly as they had appeared, the eyes dissolved into the depths of the glass, leaving him breathless, his chest heaving with the aftermath of their departure.

His heart thundered in his chest, each beat echoing with the remnants of that moment. The enormity of what had unfolded lingered just beyond his grasp, like brittle leaves tossed about in a storm—close enough to glimpse but always slipping from his reach. Yet, the emotions that clung to him left their mark, a vivid imprint that set his thoughts spinning. Questions swirled in the corners of his mind, urging him forward, drawing him toward the mysteries waiting to be unravelled.

The soft echo of the voice returned, a phantom whisper curling through the shadows like a tendril of smoke. It coaxed him deeper, promising a nexus of danger and revelation, luring him to confront the hidden depths of his desires and fears alike.

As dawn stretched its gentle light into his room, Marm stirred awake, the dream’s remnants still coursing through him like the final embers of a dying fire. The questions it left behind pressed heavy on his soul: What did it mean? Why did it feel as though he was grasping at threads of destiny, each one intricately interwoven yet maddeningly out of reach? The mirror, with its haunting beauty, lingered in his thoughts—an enigmatic force that refused to release its hold, its allure beckoning him back into its secrets.

With trembling hands, Marm reached for his sketchbook, the familiar weight of it anchoring him to the waking world. As the pen dipped into the rich black ink, exhilaration surged through him, sharp and electric, setting his senses alight. Yet, this time, it was different—there was a pull, an entrancement that left him feeling as though the spirit’s presence lingered in the very air around him, its energy weaving itself into his own.

He began to draw, his hand moving with a purpose that felt at once deliberate and otherworldly. A swirling composition emerged, where the ethereal and the tangible intertwined seamlessly. Vines coiled across the page, each one curling with organic grace, unfurling as though alive. They seemed to echo the restless rhythm of his heartbeat, their tendrils breathing with a life that defied the stillness of ink and paper, whispering of thoughts that had trailed him from the dream.

Above this maze of vines, the grand mirror began to take form, its presence dominating the composition. Marm didn’t depict it as a simple reflection—it became a portal, an opening to an abyss of stars that glimmered with endless possibilities. The universe stretched out beyond the glass, a boundless cosmos beckoning exploration, and through the lines and shadows, he felt as though he were inviting something—or someone—to step into the unknown alongside him.

The eyes from his dream materialised next, their haunting, silvery gaze flickering along the edges of the frame. They became the emotional heart of his work, brimming with an enigmatic longing and an ancient wisdom that seemed to hum with untold secrets. Each curve and shimmer Marm etched into their depths drew the viewer closer, pulling them into the soul of his creation. The eyes were alive, pulsating with an intensity that transcended the page, whispering directly to the raw places within his being.

A torrent of emotion coursed through him as he worked, spilling out in each stroke of ink. It was more than inspiration—it was a projection, a vivid manifestation of yearning that reached beyond his own understanding. The drawing thrummed with the essence of uncertainty and desire, a reflection of the heart’s deepest fears and the fragile hope that lingered within them. Marm paused, staring at his work, the tendrils of the dream still gripping his mind, pulling him further into its mysteries.

As Marm sketched, the ink coursed across the page with an urgency that felt almost alive, each stroke imbued with an intensity that burned raw and unfiltered. It was as though he were peeling back the veils of his soul, each line revealing truths long shrouded in shadow. Hope and doubt wove together in a fragile dance, their interplay both delicate and haunting, as if balancing on the edge of a whispered promise.

The drawing seemed to breathe, pulsating with the lingering fragments of his dream and the spirit's subtle energy. It called to him, urging him to delve deeper, to uncover the hidden threads lying just beneath the surface—threads that connected him to something larger, something waiting to be brought to light.

What had begun as a simple act of creation transformed into an act of release, unravelling the tangled emotions that still knotted his heart. Marm paused, his breath ragged, and gazed at the piece before him. It was no longer just an image; it was a raw reflection of the moment—a testament to a truth that resonated deeply, its mystery a siren’s call to explore the uncharted depths of his own heart.

Hours later, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, Marm stood before the mirror in his room. His hands moved with a measured precision, adjusting the collar of his shirt with a care that betrayed the storm simmering just beneath the surface. Each tug, each adjustment, felt like a silent negotiation with the doubt that clung to the edges of his mind, its whispers questioning his worth, his purpose, his place.

The morning light filtered in through the curtains, drenching the room in a golden hue. It danced across the vibrant artwork adorning the walls, illuminating each brushstroke and sketch as though breathing life into the space. Yet, even as the light filled his surroundings, the shadows within him lingered—a quiet reminder of the journey still ahead.

Though the weight of the night still lingered, its presence softened, like an echo fading into the distance. Something within Marm felt lighter now—fragile yet unburdened—as if the act of creation had stripped away layers of uncertainty that had once pressed heavily against him. A spark of confidence ignited deep inside, tentative but warm, propelling him toward the day with a renewed sense of purpose. He resolved to move forward, leaving behind the shadowed remnants of his murky past.

A soft knock at the door broke through his thoughts. “Marm!” Veronica’s voice called out, bright and cheerful, cutting through the silence like sunshine piercing storm clouds. “Are you ready?”

“Coming!” he answered, a burst of excitement rising within him as he hurried to the door. Since their paths had first intertwined, their friendship had blossomed into something lively and steadfast. Together, they had shared countless moments—flickers of laughter, exchanges of quiet wisdom, and the comfort of knowing someone who truly listened. Veronica’s presence wrapped around him like a familiar warmth, reminiscent of the dream’s lingering glow, still whispering in the recesses of his mind.

As they wandered through the familiar streets, Marm’s thoughts wandered back to Iwan. The ache that had once felt so sharp had dulled to something distant, like the muted blur of a half-forgotten photograph. The memories no longer dominated him; they had been replaced by the quiet joy of connections forged anew. Yet, like ghosts at the edges of his consciousness, fragments of his past still surfaced from time to time, fleeting and bittersweet, reminders of a heart that had once ached so deeply.

The façade of normalcy stretched around him, comforting yet strange. That chapter of his life felt as though it belonged to someone else—a version of himself cast adrift, now fading into obscurity. The warmth of the present, fuelled by Veronica’s companionship, felt like an embrace pulling him toward something brighter, even as the past lingered in his shadow. Marm breathed in the crisp morning air, his resolve solidifying. This was a day to step forward, guided by hope, creation, and the bonds he had come to cherish.

“Are you alright?” Veronica’s voice sliced gently through the haze of Marm’s thoughts, her perceptive nature pulling him back from the labyrinth of memories where he so often wandered. He gave her a small smile, brushing away the lingering shadows that hovered at the edge of his mind.

“Yeah, just thinking,” he replied, his voice steady as he tried to redirect his focus to the world around him—the vibrant streets alive with possibility, the day ahead calling to him like the melody of a siren song.

Their journey brought them to the delivery service, where Marm handed over his carefully prepared portfolio. His fingers brushed the edge of the folder one last time before letting it go, the act filling him with a swell of anticipation. Excitement stirred within him, its tremor reaching every corner of his chest as he imagined the path awaiting him in London—a future built on brushstrokes and dreams.

“Now that’s done, how about a well-deserved coffee?” Veronica suggested, her tone bright and reassuring.

“Absolutely,” Marm agreed, grateful for the escape her suggestion offered from the emotional weight of the morning.

As they meandered toward a nearby café, the warm scent of freshly ground coffee enveloped them, mingling with the soft hum of conversation and the occasional clink of porcelain cups. They settled into a quiet corner of the bustling space, the coziness of the nook wrapping around them like an embrace. Marm leaned back, his heart buoyed by the comfort of the moment.

“So,” he began, curiosity brimming in his voice, “tell me—what’s the story behind the witches of Lancashire?”

Veronica leaned back in her chair, the golden light catching her features and casting a soft glow that seemed to highlight the spark in her eyes. “Ah, the Pendle Witches,” she began, her tone shifting into something hushed and solemn, carrying the weight of centuries. “The tales are steeped in darkness and betrayal. It all began more than four hundred years ago, in the shadowed corners of the 17th century. Twelve souls were accused of witchcraft and brought to trial in Lancaster, blamed for spreading harm and chaos through the region.”

As her words flowed, Marm felt the atmosphere around them shift. It was almost as if the room itself responded, trembling with the ghostly murmur of forgotten voices. “But the true heart of the story,” Veronica continued, her voice weaving itself around him like an incantation, “lies not just in the trials, but in those who survived…”

“Many of the accused were ordinary folk,” she said, her gaze distant, as though peering into the past. “Simple villagers, their lives torn apart by a web of fear and suspicion. It was a time when the unknown was a cause for terror, and that terror festered, fed by the political and social unrest of the age. These trials show us a darker side of humanity—how quickly mistrust can spiral into hysteria, how fear can turn neighbour against neighbour.”

Her eyes drifted to the street beyond the café’s window, as though seeing the faces of those lost to history. There was a reverence in her tone, an ache that seemed to echo the pain of those who had lived—and died—through it.

“The most infamous of them all were the Demdike and Chattox families,” she said, her voice lowering to a near whisper. “Their accusations were the spark that ignited a wildfire, leading to frenzied tales of curses, spectral evidence, and the so-called ‘devil’s mark.’ Confessions were wrung from them, brutal and coerced, sealing their fates in the harshest of ways.” Veronica leaned in slightly, her voice tinged with a conspiratorial edge. “And yet, even after the trials and the executions, the story doesn’t end there. It’s said their spirits never truly left. They’re thought to linger still, woven into the very earth of the Pendle Hills, watching over the land that bore their suffering.”

Marm felt a chill ripple across his skin, an electric blend of intrigue and unease at Veronica’s words. “But what of the survivors?” he asked, his voice low, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

Veronica’s expression softened, a small, hopeful smile breaking through the solemnity of the tale. “Ah, those who survived carried more than their lives—they carried the stories. They became guardians of ancient knowledge, keepers of herbal remedies, and protectors of a bond with the land that endures to this day. Over the years, the lore of the Pendle Witches changed. What began as a tale of darkness and despair has grown into a symbol of resilience—a tribute to strength and survival for those who honour their memory.”

Her words resonated with a quiet reverence, and Marm found himself enraptured. The story seemed to wrap around him, heavy with history yet lightened by its glimmers of hope. He could almost hear the echoes of the past—faint murmurs urging him to look beyond fear, to embrace the light that emerged from the shadows. The stories of survival and unity felt like threads tying him to something far older and deeper than himself.

Veronica’s tone grew quieter, tinged with a sacred respect for the witches she described. “But not all of them found peace,” she murmured. “Some were drawn into the darkness. There’s one story of a witch—a woman scorned, consumed by a thirst for vengeance for her sisters who were wronged. She turned away from the spirit of the hills that had once shielded them and called upon forbidden magic, seeking retribution.”

Her words painted vivid images in the air between them—whispered spells under a full moon, eerie rituals lit by flickering flames, shadows moving like living beings. The weight of the history she shared seemed to fill the room, thick with the secrets of long-forgotten incantations.

“The spirit, betrayed and furious, unleashed its wrath,” Veronica continued, her voice carrying the gravity of the tale. “It bound the witches to the hills, their souls entwined with the land’s magic, haunting the very soil that had once protected them. And it is said... the spirit still waits, biding its time for vengeance against those who dare to misuse its power.”

The air between them seemed to hum with the tension of the story, the weight of its past pressing down even in the present. Marm sat quietly, his mind spinning with the layers of darkness and light, revenge and resilience, etched into the Pendle Hills and the stories that refused to fade.

Veronica’s voice softened, carrying a subtle weight of sorrow as she concluded, “They say that at dusk, under a full moon, you can still hear their whispers in the wind—a haunting reminder of their sins and the spirit’s unrelenting rage.” Her gaze drifted, momentarily unfocused, as though drawn into the distant echoes of the tales she had held close for so long. It was as if the spirits themselves lingered in the air around her, silently waiting for their stories to be acknowledged.

The atmosphere shifted, the weight of her words pressing down on Marm like an invisible force. The air felt heavy and electric, stirring a potent mix of awe and unease that settled deep in his gut. It was a sensation as vivid as the world he inhabited—hauntingly beautiful yet shadowed by an inescapable darkness. He felt as though he stood on the cusp of an otherworldly dreamscape, teetering between the known and the mysterious.

The energy in the room pulsed, alive with the resonance of history. Marm could almost hear the whispers Veronica spoke of, threads of the past weaving into his own thoughts with an eerie clarity. Beneath the tales of rage and sins, he detected a deeper longing—an ancient and unyielding desire for redemption, like a forgotten prayer echoing endlessly through the fabric of time.

Yet, amidst the fascination, a disquieting unease clawed at his core. It was an elusive sensation, as though something vital had slipped his mind, just out of reach. The feeling gnawed at him, insistent and restless, akin to savouring the sweetness of a rare fruit while its name hovered maddeningly on the edge of memory.

“Marm?” Veronica’s voice broke through the haze of his thoughts, sharp and grounding. It pierced the stillness of his reverie, pulling him back into the moment with an undeniable clarity.

Marm glanced around, the vivid allure of the dreamscape receding as his focus splintered, caught by the sound of laughter floating from a nearby table. There, among the hum of familiar faces, sat Iwan—his presence radiant with the carefree exuberance of youth, his hand entwined with that of a girl whose features gleamed with amusement. Her laughter rang through the air, light and melodic, like distant chimes carried on a breeze. The moment hung suspended, an intersection of past and present that felt both fleeting and infinite. Each heartbeat intensified the bittersweet pang lodged deep within Marm’s chest.

For the briefest instant, their eyes met. The connection was sharp, a bolt of raw electricity that surged through Marm, dragging cherished and painful memories to the surface. The gaze was fleeting, yet it left him shaken, its impact resonating deeply before he turned away, gripped by the uncertainty of what to do. The question clawed at his mind—should he confront this figure from his past or let it remain a ghost, haunting the edges of his reality? Somewhere within the turmoil of his thoughts, the echo of that eerily soothing voice returned, weaving itself into the moment: “You taste sweet, like an orchard.”

“Marm, who is that?” Veronica’s voice broke through the storm of his emotions, her gaze tracing the path his own had taken. Concern flickered across her features, soft but insistent.

The warmth of Marm’s earlier confidence wavered, extinguished in an instant by a sudden rush of vulnerability that wrapped itself around him like a cold, unrelenting fog. “Umm, that’s… Iwan. We, um, had a thing for a while,” he admitted, his voice faltering under the weight of unspoken emotions and lingering heartbreak. The words hung in the air, heavy and unresolved, casting a shadow over their exchange.

“Are you alright?” Veronica pressed gently, her tone wrapping around him like a cocoon of quiet reassurance. There was warmth in her voice, inviting yet firm, urging him to confront the ache simmering just beneath the surface.

Marm nodded, but the old ache surged within him, raw and unrelenting, rising like spectres from the depths of his mind. The memories he had kept buried fought their way to the surface, and for a moment, he felt the sharp sting of betrayal all over again. Veronica’s gaze softened, her quiet understanding radiating a warmth that seemed to reach into his core, encouraging him to speak. It was a subtle shift, but one that opened a door within him.

“It’s just complicated,” he began, his voice trembling slightly as the words poured out. “I thought… I thought he was someone I could trust.” He hesitated, then pushed forward, laying bare a piece of himself he had long kept hidden. “But then he chose someone else—chose to stay straight, I suppose.”

As he spoke, the air around them seemed to grow heavier, the weight of his emotions settling like a mist that wrapped them in shared intimacy. The once vibrant world blurred at the edges, laughter fading to a distant hum, leaving only the quiet space between them. Veronica’s presence became his anchor amidst the swirling tide of his thoughts, grounding him even as the pain resurfaced, raw and unbidden. Yet, alongside the ache, her steady warmth tethered him to the possibility of something new—a glimmer of hope that flickered in the fog.

Veronica listened without interruption, her gaze unwavering, her presence wrapping around him like a protective embrace. Marm felt the tension in his chest ease, ever so slightly. “I feel like I can talk to you about this,” he murmured, his vulnerability threading through his voice, delicate and unguarded. “It’s just… everything happened so fast.”

“I’m glad you feel safe with me, Marm,” Veronica said softly, her voice carrying an earnestness that steadied him further. Her eyes glimmered with an intensity that spoke of unspoken depths—an uncharted ocean of understanding and care just beneath the surface. “You deserve to be with someone who truly values you, someone who sees and honours your feelings. These waters can be treacherous to navigate, but remember: life has a way of delivering new tides and unexpected opportunities. Just take care—some currents shiftswiftly, and not every shore is a safe haven.”

Her words lingered between them, soothing yet brimming with quiet wisdom. In the cocoon of their shared space, Marm felt a fragile sense of peace begin to take root, as though the pain he had carried for so long was finally beginning to loosen its grip.

The way Veronica spoke, with that knowing glint in her eyes, hinted at an understanding she chose not to fully reveal. It was a quiet, disconcerting depth that sent a shiver racing down Marm’s spine, the hairs on the back of his neck rising in response. He drew in a steadying breath, willing himself to banish the creeping thoughts from his mind. Yet, the sense of foreboding clung to him like a shadow, trailing his every step, a ghost lying in wait just out of sight.

As they continued their walk, Marm chose to interpret the moment as understanding—a fragile attempt to pacify the quiet disquiet stirring within him. Their footsteps echoed softly against the cobblestones, blending into the muted hum of the evening. It was a sound that felt oddly comforting, like whispered secrets shared between old friends. Gratitude fluttered faintly in his chest for Veronica’s companionship, her steady presence a balm in the dusk. But beneath that fragile warmth, unease simmered, the echoes of the spirit’s haunting words weaving through his thoughts, as though the very air around him carried their imprint.

“See you tomorrow!” Veronica called, her voice bright and unwavering as she waved before disappearing into her home. The twilight glow silhouetted her figure, casting an ethereal aura that lingered as she stepped away. Marm waved back, his arm heavy with an inexplicable sense of hesitation. As he made his way up the winding path to his own door, a nagging sensation pressed against his chest—a weight he couldn’t ignore.

The words trailed him, whispering faintly, “You taste sweet, like a fruit.” They hung in the air like an incantation, mingling with the deepening shadows that crept closer around him. The darkness was at once enticing and unsettling, an intoxicating paradox that gripped him even as it tugged at the edges of his apprehension. The unease rooted itself firmly in his gut, a gnawing presence he couldn’t shake.

He paused outside his door, hand resting against the cool surface as he hesitated. His heart quickened, each beat a sharp reminder of the tempest brewing within him. Apprehension and curiosity swirled in equal measure, locking him in place as though standing on the threshold of something vast and unknowable. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on him, as if the revelation he sought lay tantalisingly close, waiting to be uncovered in the depths of the encroaching night.

From that night onward, Marm's dreams shifted in an unsettling way. The vivid encounters—the kaleidoscopic waltzes with the witches, the hills alive with ancient secrets, and the creature that danced just beyond the edges of his consciousness—vanished entirely. In their absence came an unnerving quiet, his nights steeped in a strange and unfamiliar stillness. He found himself adrift in a sea of mundane thoughts, a spiral of trivial concerns that drowned the rich, surreal texture of his imagination.

His subconscious seemed muted, as though the tether to that otherworldly realm had been severed. The vibrant colours of his dreams drained away, replaced by a stark monotony that left him yearning for the haunting beauty that had once been his solace. The starkness gnawed at him, like an itch he couldn’t scratch, the void in his nights echoing the loss of something he couldn’t quite name.

As the days unfolded, Marm threw himself into uncovering the rich tapestry of history and folklore tied to Lancashire and the shadowed legacy of the Pendle Witches. His desk became a monument to the past—a shrine to the whispered secrets that had survived the wear of time. Books stacked high surrounded him, their yellowed pages bearing the scars of forgotten voices and untold stories. Marm delved into each one, peeling back the layers of history that hid tales of betrayal, suffering, and resilience. He unearthed legends of witches who had endured brutal trials, their stories laced with heartache and longing, and spirits said to roam the windswept hills with restless energy.

With every turn of the page, Marm felt the pull of the Pendle Hills growing stronger—a connection deeper than curiosity, an insatiable longing that wrapped itself around him like an enchantment. The hills seemed to call to him, their voice resonating in the back of his mind like the haunting melody of a siren. It was a song buried beneath centuries of lore, stirring an urgency deep within—a primal instinct whispering that he was meant to walk those ancient paths, to breathe life back into the narratives long buried in their soil.

The hills, with their shadowed mysteries and fractured beauty, beckoned him forward. They offered no answers, only the quiet promise of something waiting to be uncovered—a truth woven tightly into their folds, waiting for Marm to awaken it.

As the end of the course hurtled closer, the final weeks blurred into a haze of anticipation. Marm poured every fragment of his soul into his work, determined to end on the highest notes he could summon. Each piece he created danced delicately between the realms of the ethereal and the tangible, infused with the raw essence of his journey—a symphony of emotions laid bare within the strokes of his brush. Yet amidst this creative fervor, a potent mixture of fear and hope thrummed beneath his thoughts, each beat a reminder of the verdict awaiting him from Central Saint Martins. The tension coiled tightly, like a heartbeat on the verge of breaking free.

One cold morning, Marm found himself standing alone in his dimly lit bedroom, the chill seeping through the windowpanes and curling around him like fog. In his trembling hand lay an unassuming white envelope, its weight heavier than it appeared, carrying within it a promise of a future both thrilling and terrifying. His breath quickened, uncertainty wrapping around him tighter than the winter air outside.

“What if I’m not good enough?” The question burned in his mind, loud and relentless. His gaze darted to the sketches scattered across his desk, their edges curling slightly beneath the weight of time. Images of his art, frozen in their frames yet bursting with life, stared back at him. Would they be enough? The thought was a knife twisting within him—what if, within the folds of that envelope, his dreams crumbled into mere wisps of unreachable hope?

He steadied himself with a shuddering inhale, his fingers fumbling slightly as they tore open the envelope. The sound seemed to reverberate, ominous in the stillness of the room. Unfolding the letter, his eyes scanned the words, disbelief surging through him. This was it. He read the letter again, allowing the truth to settle in: he had been accepted to Central Saint Martins.

The world around him seemed to freeze, the noises of the morning fading into silence as exhilaration and dread spiraled within him like an unstoppable tempest. His chest tightened, each beat of his heart amplified by the collision of triumph and fear. He had done it—but what lay ahead felt vast and uncertain, a reality both thrilling and daunting.

Gathering his thoughts and steadying his breath, Marm padded quietly into the living room. The lace curtains filtered the soft morning light, casting delicate patterns onto the floor like whispers of calm amidst the storm. Victoria, his mother, sat at the small table, her movements graceful as she brewed tea. The gentle clink of porcelain and the faint hum of the world outside drifted toward him, soothing and grounding.

“Marm?” Her voice was warm, yet carried the sharp intuition of a mother who could sense the shift in the air. She turned to look at him, her eyes searching his face as though reading the emotions etched there.

“Mum,” Marm managed, his voice heavy with emotion, “I… I got in. To Central Saint Martins.”

Victoria’s hand froze mid-motion, the tea kettle forgotten, resting precariously by the stove. For a moment, the room fell into utter silence, the weight of Marm’s words pressing down like a tangible force, permeating every corner.

“Is it true?” she whispered, her voice trembling as her wide eyes filled first with disbelief, then with tears—joy and anxiety mingling as they spilled over. “Marm…” she murmured, her tone carrying the weight of years of quiet hope and worry.

From the sofa, Actavia stirred, her curiosity piqued by the sudden shift in atmosphere. “What’s this then? Did you win the lottery or something?” she teased, her eyebrow arched as a playful smirk danced across her lips.

The corners of Marm’s mouth lifted, a flicker of clarity breaking through the haze of disbelief. “I was accepted,” he repeated, the words steady now, charged with the gravity of their meaning.

“YOU did it!” Actavia exclaimed, springing up with a burst of jubilant energy that lit up the dim room. The shadowy space seemed to brighten as Victoria crossed the room in swift strides, pulling Marm into a tight embrace. Her warmth radiated into him, grounding him as the whirlwind of emotions swirled in his chest.

The three of them gathered at the table, laughter and tears mingling freely, filling the room with a palpable sense of joy. It was a moment steeped in hope—a fragile yet luminous reprieve from the dark uncertainty that had often surrounded their lives. In the glow of shared elation, Marm felt the fullness of the moment settle within him, the reality of his achievement beginning to take root.

Hours later, the sun shone with a capricious brilliance, casting shifting patches of light and shadow across the school grounds. As Marm stepped into the courtyard, his chest swelled with a mix of buoyancy and apprehension. His eyes landed on Tayce, Vivienne, Minnie, and Veronica gathered beneath the sprawling tree, their laughter blending with the faint rustle of leaves overhead. For a moment, he faltered, the familiar pang of self-doubt clawing at the edges of his resolve.

Brushing through the bustle of the courtyard, Marm took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment press against his chest. His heart raced as he called out, his voice trembling with emotion, “I got in! To Central Saint Martins!”

The world seemed to pause, the chatter and noise around them fading into the background as the words settled in the air. The group turned toward him, their faces frozen with anticipation. Tayce was the first to react—her eyes widening in disbelief before a radiant smile broke across her face like sunlight through a cloud. “Marm! No way! You did it!” she exclaimed, her joy spilling over as she rushed forward to envelop him in a fierce hug.

Vivienne, ever the cynic with a glint of mischief in her eye, quirked an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “I’m amazed you didn’t faint,” she remarked, half teasing, half genuine. “So, what’s the plan—are we visiting galleries for your next exhibition, or shall we wait for the dramatic tell-all in your book?”

Minnie giggled, the sound light and effervescent. “Of course Marm didn’t faint—he thrives under pressure. At least, that’s what he tells us!” she quipped, winking at him.

But it was Veronica’s voice, soft yet laden with meaning, that cut through the levity, grounding Marm once more. “You’ve opened the door to the shadows of your fate, Marm,” she said, her words infused with excitement and a subtle gravity. “Just be ready to face what waits on the other side.”

Marm met her gaze, a flicker of uncertainty still simmering beneath the surface. The warmth of his friends’ cheers enveloped him, yet Veronica’s words lingered, a quiet echo in the corners of his mind. The future stretched before him—vast, thrilling, and unknown—but for now, he let himself bask in the joy of the moment, surrounded by those who had walked this journey beside him.

Laughter erupted around Marm, filling the courtyard with an energy so vibrant it seemed to reverberate through the very air. Emotions swirled chaotically within him, buoyed by the warmth of his friends’ camaraderie. Yet, beneath the surface of joy, a faint glimmer of doubt lingered, a shadowed thread weaving its way through his thoughts. Could he truly face the deeper, darker depths of creativity that awaited him? Even in the glow of celebration, an ominous presence seemed to hover just out of reach, a subtle reminder that hope often walks hand in hand with uncertainty.

In that moment, as his friends’ radiant smiles surrounded him, Marm felt the burdens of his past begin to loosen their grip. The shadows that had clung to him for so long seemed to recede, retreating into the quiet corners of his mind, leaving space for something new—a tentative light, the dawn of fresh beginnings. Yet even as he basked in the warmth of the moment, the whisper of the Pendle Hills echoed faintly in the recesses of his soul, a haunting reminder that his journey was far from over.

“Congratulations! This calls for a celebration!” Minnie exclaimed, her clapping hands punctuating her excitement, the sound bursting with infectious glee. “But what’s next for our soon-to-be-famous artist?”

The buzz of voices surrounded him, cheerful and unrelenting. Within the whirl of cheers and laughter, Marm felt something take shape—a clarity crystallizing amidst the chaos. He took a steadying breath, the words spilling from his lips before he could fully process them. “I want to visit Lancashire,” he said, his voice clear, edged with a certainty that startled even himself. “I need to see the Pendle Hills, to walk where the legends unfolded. It’s where I feel I belong.”

“Well, let’s do it!” Veronica chimed in, her grin wide and infectious, her eyes sparkling with a fervor that sent a rush of warmth through Marm’s chest. “I can find us a good place to stay and tourguide you all through my childhood town.” She paused, her gaze shifting between the group, the excitement evident in her voice. “We can turn it into an adventure—explore the hills together!”

Marm nodded, a small but firm motion, the depth of his yearning resonating within him like an unrelenting drumbeat. The pull of the Pendle Hills grew stronger, its presence undeniable, its magic once again tugging at the very fibers of his being. He could feel the stories buried within the hills—untold narratives waiting patiently to be unearthed, inspirations poised to blossom into creation.

The day before their departure, Marm stood alone, his emotions a tempestuous swirl of anticipation and apprehension. The hills loomed in his mind, beckoning him with their quiet, ancient call. The air seemed charged with a palpable intensity, a maelstrom of feelings that churned in his chest as he prepared for the journey ahead—a journey that promised not just answers but a deeper understanding of the path he was destined to tread.

Marm busied himself with the last-minute flurry of packing, every item he folded or tucked into place laden with a significance that went beyond its physical presence. Each object felt like a token of the journey ahead, imbued with the gravity of the adventure that awaited. The air was dense with anticipation, each breath he took infused with the faint whisper of legends carried on unseen currents, beckoning him from afar.

As he moved between tasks, the laughter and chatter of Tayce, Vivienne, Minnie, and Veronica filled the house with a lively warmth that wrapped around him like a patchwork quilt. Their voices merged into a symphony of comfort and excitement, yet beneath the surface, Marm’s restlessness simmered. With every passing moment, the weight of the unknown pressed harder, framing the approaching journey as if it were a blank canvas waiting to be filled—its expanse holding promises of magic, mystery, and discovery. The Pendle Hills called out to him, their secrets rippling just beyond the horizon, waiting to be uncovered.

When they finally set off on the road trip to Lancashire, excitement bubbled within the confines of Tayce’s car—a chaotic, delightful concoction of youthful exuberance. The hum of the engine blended with their laughter, their voices carrying a harmony that filled the cramped space with uncontainable energy. The countryside unfurled before them in a lush panorama, an endless tapestry of rolling hills and verdant fields bathed in golden light. Marm gazed out at the sprawling landscape, his heart pounding in rhythm with the road. The joy in the car was infectious, pulling him into its orbit, yet his thoughts kept drifting back to the ancient legends that awaited him, their pull magnetic and inescapable.

When they finally arrived, the Pendle Hills stretched out before them, an awe-inspiring vision of natural splendour. The hills rose and fell like frozen waves caught in a timeless rhythm, their undulating slopes draped in verdant greenery that seemed to hum with life. Ancient trees bordered the landscape, their gnarled branches swaying softly in the breeze, each leaf rustling with secrets—whispers of the past echoing faintly through the still air. Marm stood motionless, his breath caught in his chest as a surge of emotion crashed over him, both overwhelming and grounding.

Here, in this place where shadows wove seamlessly with folklore, he felt as though he had crossed a threshold into another realm—a world not just alive with stories but brimming with fragments of himself yet to be unearthed. The hills seemed to speak to him, their presence vast and knowing, inviting him into their mysteries.

“This is incredible!” Tayce’s voice broke through the stillness, bright and unrestrained, the wonder in her tone reflecting the beauty that surrounded them. The others echoed her sentiment, their faces glowing with exhilaration as they took in the view. Marm, however, remained rooted to the spot, unable to pull himself away from the silent dialogue between himself and the hills. The magnificence of the scene demanded stillness, a reverence he couldn’t deny. He let the moment consume him, absorbing every shadow, every ripple of movement across the lush expanse.

For the first time, an unshakable certainty took hold deep within him—this was where he was meant to be. The hills held answers he had been chasing, their shadows brimming with truths yet to be uncovered. He stood at the base of a prominent hill, the earth beneath his feet seemingly alive, thrumming with an energy that resonated with the very essence of the legends he had steeped himself in. It was as though the winds themselves had conspired to guide him here, and with their whispers came a chilling certainty: he was irrevocably where he was meant to be.

The hills, the stories, and the echoes of the past seemed to converge around him, coalescing into a moment of awakening. Deep within, something stirred—a flicker of purpose reigniting after lying dormant for far too long. Marm realised that this was no mere journey of exploration. The Pendle Hills were not just a landscape but a crucible for rediscovery, a place where artistry and history intertwined in a dance of creation and revelation. He stood, rooted to the spot, both humbled and exhilarated by the knowledge that his journey had only just begun.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Awakening from Shadows 

After settling into their cozy hostel in the quaint village of Lancashire, the group set off along a winding path, their laughter carrying through the crisp, sunlit air. Veronica led the way with uncontainable enthusiasm, her passion for the area’s rich history practically glowing as she spun tales steeped in local lore. Her voice wove seamlessly between the past and present, intertwining Lancashire’s heritage with the vibrancy of its culture.

“You know, there’s so much more to Lancashire than just the Pendle Witches,” she announced, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Have you ever heard of the legend of the ‘Green Man’? He’s said to be a guardian spirit of the trees, often depicted as a face formed from leaves and branches. Legend has it, he bestows good fortune on those who honour nature.”

Tayce, never missing an opportunity to inject some levity, smirked. “Maybe we should leave him an offering of flowers! I could definitely use a guardian spirit to help me pick better outfits.” His playful remark sent ripples of laughter through the group, his exuberance a constant source of lightness.

“Oh, I’d adore the chance to see him!” Minnie added, her adventurous spirit shining through as she clasped her hands together. “I can just imagine leaving him a bunch of wildflowers—or better yet, a loaf of fresh-baked bread. Who doesn’t love a good pastry? Even a forest spirit must have a sweet tooth!”

Their banter filled the air with warmth, yet for Marm, it was Veronica’s stories that stirred something deeper. As they wandered further along the path, a tingle of anticipation coursed through him. Each tale she conjured grounded him further, anchoring him to the history beneath his feet. It was a poignant reminder: he wasn’t just exploring these ancient place, he was standing at the beating heart of the stories that had once sparked his imagination and continued to shape his journey.

The village itself unfolded like a living tableau as they meandered through its cobbled streets. Aged stone cottages, their facades softened by time, stood adorned with vibrant blooms spilling from window boxes. The flowers seemed to nod gently in the breeze, as though whispering secrets of a bygone era. Marm felt as though he were walking through a painting, each turn revealing a new scene brimming with narrative potential. The energy of the place ensnared his senses, weaving a spell around him.

As the group continued their amble, the air seemed charged with possibilities, and Marm couldn’t shake the feeling that every step was leading him closer to something profound. It wasn’t just the magic of the Legends or the whispers of the past—it was the palpable, almost otherworldly sense that the land itself was alive, waiting for him to listen, to discover, and to create.

They passed a quaint little shop overflowing with handcrafted treasures, where the sweet, calming aroma of lavender drifted through the air, beckoning them inside like an irresistible invitation. Marm stepped through the threshold, his gaze immediately drawn to the artistry that adorned every corner—the vivid colours and intricate designs infused with the soul of the craftsmen who had lovingly brought them to life. The space buzzed with creativity, igniting Marm's imagination and whisking him momentarily into a realm of boundless possibilities.

As he leaned in to admire a beautifully carved wooden piece, his thoughts so caught in the whirl of inspiration, Marm suddenly collided with someone behind him. The abruptness startled them both.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed, spinning around quickly to offer an apology.

Before him stood an arresting figure—Charity, whose eclectic attire seemed to meld effortlessly with the charming surroundings. Their presence was magnetic, exuding a seamless fusion of traditionally masculine and feminine features that created an androgynous allure Marm found both captivating and profoundly intriguing.

Charity’s thick, light brown hair framed their face in soft, shimmering waves, cascading to their shoulders and catching the ambient light with an almost ethereal sheen. Tattoos peeked from beneath the edges of their cotton blouse—intricate patterns twirling along their fair skin. Each line and symbol seemed to whisper of personal narratives and hidden meanings, reflections of a vibrant spirit that resonated deeply with Marm’s sensibilities.

Their lips curved into a gentle yet knowing smile, radiating an inviting warmth that cut through the tension of the moment. But it was their shimmering grey-blue eyes, glimmering like polished glass, that truly held Marm transfixed. They sparkled with a playful depth, mischief and wisdom interwoven in a gaze that felt as though it carried a silent understanding of the world—and perhaps even of him.

For a fleeting moment, Marm felt his thoughts scatter, caught in the pulse of the connection sparked by their meeting. The wooden carvings surrounding them blurred in the background, leaving only the presence of Charity, their quiet charisma and enigmatic aura pulling him into the orbit of their being.

As Charity moved closer, a gracefulness enveloped them—a fluidity that melded both strength and softness, effortlessly captivating those around them. The air felt charged, as if time had momentarily suspended, crackling with an electric tension.

For a fleeting instant, Marm locked eyes with Charity, and a dizzying sensation flickered between them, an unexplainable bond transcending the moment. They both hesitated, caught in the embrace of shared intrigue, each feeling an irrational familiarity that felt uniquely theirs.

“Not at all! Just another day of navigating through this delightful chaos,” Charity replied, their laughter bubbling forth with a warmth so inviting it felt as though they and Marm were old acquaintances, reuniting after a long absence. Their voice carried a lyrical cadence, wrapping the moment in an unexpected ease.

Before Marm could find the words to introduce himself, Veronica’s voice rang out from the entrance, bright and full of delight. “Ah, there’s Charity!” she called, waving enthusiastically as she stepped into the shop.

At the sight of Veronica, Charity’s expression lit up, a vibrant joy spreading across their features, but not without a subtle undercurrent of hesitation. For a fleeting moment, they stood still, their body language betraying an internal pause, as if measuring the weight of this unexpected reunion. Then, with a soft breath, they tilted their head, the shadow of uncertainty melting into a smile—a confident, radiant expression that illuminated the space around them. “Veronica! And… friends?” Charity’s sparkling eyes turned to Marm, lingering with a palpable curiosity, their gaze alive with a delicate blend of intrigue and mischief.

Marm felt his pulse quicken, the moment surging with an unexpected intensity. Charity’s presence exuded a magnetism that seemed to draw him closer, the air between them charged with possibility. The way their gaze lingered, searching, felt as though the threads of their paths had been woven together long before this moment. Marm managed to muster a greeting, his voice soft yet laced with both shyness and intrigue. “Hello,” he said, the single word trembling under the weight of the connection sparking between them.

It was as if the universe itself had conspired to bring their paths to this precise intersection, crafting an encounter charged with potential. For Marm, time seemed to stretch, every second imbued with a quiet significance. Somewhere in the depths of his thoughts, he knew that this meeting—this moment—was destined to leave its mark, an indelible impression etched into the story of his time in Lancashire.

In the depths of Charity’s sparkling gaze, Marm felt a flicker of something profound—a shared spark. It was a moment steeped in potential, brimming with the thrilling possibility that this chance meeting could evolve into something effortlessly meaningful. Charity extended a hand, their warm smile radiating an easy charm, as though it held an entire universe of secrets. “Pleased to meet you… excuse me, what’s your name?” they asked, their tone inviting yet laced with playful curiosity.

Marm’s face flushed as confusion briefly clouded his expression. He clasped their hand, feeling the warmth of their touch as he stumbled over his reply. “I… I’m Marm… I mean, Jack… but everyone calls me Marm…” His voice wavered with awkwardness, the blush on his cheeks betraying his self-consciousness.

Charity’s smile widened into a cheeky grin, their grey-blue eyes dancing with mischief. “Marm? Like Marmalade?” they teased, clearly relishing his discomfort.

“More like Marmite!” Tayce interjected with a dramatic flair, his tone teasing yet lighthearted. “You’re either going to love him or you can’t stand him!” He shot Marm a playful wink, the humor in his words cutting through the tension and allowing Marm to regain a semblance of composure.

Charity chuckled, their laughter warm and inviting as their gaze returned to Marm. “I see you’re making the most of your time here. The Pendle Hills have a way of sparking the imagination, don’t they?” They spoke with a quiet assurance, addressing the group but keeping their focus firmly on Marm.

“Absolutely,” Marm replied, his voice steadier now, emboldened by the sincerity in their gaze. The warmth of Charity’s presence seemed to amplify his own sense of connection to the stories and legends that surrounded him. “I’m finding my muse among these stories.”

As the words left Marm’s lips, a spark ignited in Charity’s eyes—a flicker of excitement that deepened the connection. It was a quiet moment but charged, as though an invisible thread was weaving its way between them, delicate yet undeniable. Marm felt that pull as much as he saw it, a magnetic force drawing him closer to the enigmatic presence before him.

But beneath the exhilaration lay a knot of confusion. Marm had always understood himself as someone who was attracted to boys, a facet of his identity that had long felt certain and anchored. Yet, here he was, confronted by Charity’s captivating androgyny, their fluid presence stirring something he couldn’t quite define. The feeling unsettled him—not because it was unwelcome, but because it was unfamiliar, challenging the boundaries of how he had perceived himself.

Before he could think too much about it, Veronica stepped in, her presence grounding. “Charity, let me introduce my friends! This is Vivienne," she gestured to a bright-eyed girl whose laughter was contagious, "and Minnie,” she continued, nodding towards the adventurous spirit whose energy filled the room. “And of course, you’ve already met Tayce.”

Charity looked between them, genuine interest lighting up their face as they took in the diverse group.

“Lovely to meet all of you!” Charity said, their voice warm and welcoming.

Marm felt a blend of comfort and anticipation as they all turned to rejoin the lively group. Laughter and conversation flowed effortlessly, filling the air with an inviting buzz of energy. In the midst of it all, his lingering gaze met Charity's once more, and a subtle connection passed between them, hinting at possibilities yet to unfold, weighed down by the confusion that continued to churn within him.

After savouring locally made pastries from a nearby bakery—each bite a delightful testament to the region’s culinary charm—the group settled at a table on the edge of the village square. The area was adorned with fragrant flowers and twinkling fairy lights that danced in the afternoon breeze, setting the stage for a night full of possibilities.

“Well, are you all ready for a bit of adventure?” Veronica asked, her enthusiasm bubbling over. “Let’s head to the historical site dedicated to the Pendle Witches. I want to show you all the artifacts; they really bring the stories to life.”

Charity stepped closer to the group, their presence weaving effortlessly into the vibrant mix of friends. With an ease that seemed almost instinctive, Marm found himself leaning slightly in their direction, drawn to the gentle pull of their energy. Charity met his glance with a soft, shared smile—a fleeting moment of connection that felt both grounding and electric. Together, they joined the others, the group’s laughter and chatter mingling with the crisp air as they made their way to the local historical site. The anticipation was palpable, lifting around them like the first notes of an unfolding symphony.

Once inside, Marm’s breath hitched. The space was alive with history, its walls lined with photographs, artifacts, and remnants of lives long past. His gaze lingered on each item as though they whispered directly to him, pulling him deeper into the stories etched in their presence. The dim lighting cast subtle shadows across the aged documents detailing the fates of the accused witches—their trials, their sacrifices, their haunting legacy. He could feel the weight of their pain pressing against him, as though the echoes of their struggle reverberated through time, grounding him in the poignant reality of what had once unfolded here.

Each display seemed to hold more than just historical significance—it felt personal, intimate, like fragments of a story Marm was meant to uncover. With every piece of the past he encountered, he sensed he was piecing together not only the lives of those who had suffered but also his own unique place within this intricate web of emotion and history. The spirit of the Pendle Hills seemed to murmur to him, weaving their sorrow into the fabric of his own longing for clarity and understanding.

Standing in the heart of it all, Marm became acutely aware of the intertwining forces at play: the whispers of the hills, the bond forming with Charity, and the heavy resonance of a history that felt oddly familiar. It was as though the past and present had begun to merge, their shared weight shaping the path he was destined to walk. He took a steadying breath, letting the stories around him settle into the corners of his mind, knowing they would linger—guiding him toward the revelations that awaited.

As the sun began to set outside, casting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Marm turned to find Charity still nearby, their shared energy almost tangible. It was as if an invisible thread linked them, drawing him closer without either of them quite recognising it.

“What’s your connection to this place?” he asked, the unanswered questions swirling in his mind, eager to unearth Charity’s story.

Charity’s eyes sparkled knowingly as they surveyed their surroundings. “Oh! you can feel it too. We’re all bound to this land in one way or another; it’s as if history is calling to us, urging us to be part of something greater.”

The words resonated within Marm, stirring emotions he hadn’t yet put into words. Fate seemed to have woven their paths together at this moment, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that his journey mirrored the unfolding tales around him.

As evening fell, the group returned to their hostel, buzzing with excitement as they recounted the stories and culture they had immersed themselves in throughout the day. Each retelling further solidified the bond forming between them, and Marm felt a renewed sense of possibility fill the air—a blend of history and inspiration wrapping around him like a comforting embrace.

Once inside, the atmosphere was warm and inviting, illuminated by soft lights that danced against the walls. Marm sighed contentedly as he settled into the room, still riding the high from his day of exploration and the lingering thrill from meeting Charity.

That night, he found himself in his shared room with Tayce, whose vibrant energy filled the softly lit space with life. Though the day had exhausted him, he couldn’t shake the flutter of thoughts about Charity as they began to prepare for bed. Tayce, ever the observant friend, picked up on it immediately.

“So, what was that with Charity earlier?” Tayce teased, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “You were practically glowing! Are we about to witness a classic case of love at first sight?”

Marm felt heat rise to his cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and unease washing over him. “It wasn’t like that, honestly,” he stammered, attempting to brush the comment aside. But as the words left his mouth, a hint of defensiveness crept into his tone, surprising even himself.

“Come on!” Tayce persisted, his laughter effervescent and unrelenting. “I saw the way you looked at them. You’ve got it bad, haven’t you? Should I grab my ship’s wheel and start steering this romance?”

“Seriously, stop it,” Marm snapped, his voice tinged with irritation as the pressure of the moment got the better of him. “I’m not… I mean, it’s not like that, okay? I… just, come on mate, girls are not… never mind...” His words faltered as he wrestled with the whirlwind of emotions churning inside him. Charity had stirred something within—something thrilling and magnetic—but its unfamiliarity terrified him. “It’s just complicated,” he muttered, his gaze dropping as he felt exposed under Tayce’s teasing scrutiny.

Tayce’s playful demeanor softened, and he raised an eyebrow, his voice gentler now. “Hey, no need to get so defensive. I’m just saying, you two seem to have a real connection.” A reassuring smile tugged at his lips as he tried to lighten the atmosphere. “Alright, I’ll drop it. But for the record—I wouldn’t hate seeing you two together.”

Marm exhaled slowly, relief washing over him as Tayce eased off. “Thanks,” he said, mustering a weak but genuine smile. The reprieve gave him a chance to breathe, though the weight of the unspoken still clung to him, teetering precariously on the edge of confession. While Veronica knew about his feelings for boys, the thought of opening up to Tayce about that part of himself felt daunting, a step he wasn’t ready to take.

As they both settled into the cozy space, a companionable silence filled the air. Yet, Marm couldn’t shake the lingering warmth of Charity’s presence from his thoughts. It stirred a strange blend of exhilaration and uncertainty within him, igniting questions about himself he wasn’t sure how to answer. The moment felt like the quiet before a storm of self-discovery, and he could only wonder where it would lead.

As they prepared for sleep, Marm was engulfed by a swirl of emotions—curiosity, unease, and a glimmer of hope—all blending together like the vivid colours on his canvas. He surrendered to the pull of slumber, the boundary between dreams and reality softening once more, ready to plunge into whatever awaited him in the realm of dreams and wonders.

Marm drifted into sleep, his consciousness ebbing away like the tide, carrying him into a realm both unfamiliar and uncannily recognisable. Reality dissolved around him, replaced by a surreal expanse steeped in shadows and glimmers of light—an elusive world where emotions took shape, tangible and profound.

The air hummed with anticipation, each breath heavy with a strange electricity that seemed to pull him deeper into the mysteries lying ahead.

He stood poised at the fringe of a luminous forest, its towering trees aglow in mesmerising hues of violet and indigo. Far within the woods, an entrancing glow pulsed steadily, calling to him with an almost magnetic allure. As he stepped forward, the ground beneath his feet vibrated softly, as though alive, resonating with a rhythm that echoed the primal cadence of his own heartbeat.

There was a tension threading through the air—an intricate dance of fear and yearning that tangled itself in his thoughts. Each step triggered an avalanche of memories, surging unbidden into his mind. Iwan's laughter echoed vividly, carefree and rich, shadowed by the ache of betrayal that had twisted their joy into something haunting. The bittersweetness of it lingered, raw and tender, tethering him to the vulnerability he had let slip.

Then, something brushed against him, fleeting yet deeply present. From the depths of the shadows emerged an unearthly figure, glowing softly, its essence shifting like whispers in the wind. The creature exuded an energy that rippled through the air, its luminous form teasing at the edges of perception.

Marm fixed his gaze, focusing with deliberate intent. Gradually, the being’s outline sharpened—a creature, almost human, its sparkling skin shimmering like liquid moonlight cascading across the surface of a still lake.

The creature seemed magnetised by Marm's emotional energy, its gaze shimmering with an almost ravenous curiosity, as though seeking to devour the waves of feeling he unconsciously radiated. It moved towards him with an eerie grace, its essence entwining seamlessly with the very fabric of his being, craving understanding. It yearned to draw strength from the raw turbulence of his sorrow, heartache, and uncertainty.

Yet, when their eyes locked, something imperceptible shifted. What had been a relentless hunger to consume his pain softened, as the creature detected something buried within him—a reflection of its own solitude and longing for belonging. A connection flickered to life between them, fragile but profound, binding Marm's unspoken struggles to the creature’s silent yearnings. In that charged silence, they recognised one another as kindred spirits, their longing for solace unexpectedly mirrored.

With each passing heartbeat, Marm felt their destinies intertwining. A silent accord unfolded amidst the shadows, carried on the resonance between them. The creature’s aura unfurled around him, enfolding him in a strange, warm energy, its pulse attuned to the echoes of the hills, the lost witches, and the weighty history steeped in betrayal.

That energy curled gently into the recesses of his consciousness, sifting through his heart. It whispered fragmented truths, elusive and dreamlike, brushing the edges of his awareness and beckoning him to explore the depths of their shared longing.

“Can you feel it?” a voice resonated within Marm’s mind, smooth as silk but brimming with an ancient, solemn weight. “The connection runs deeper than you know.”

A shiver coursed through him, caught on the cusp of fascination and dread. He willed himself to speak, to ask, “Who are you?”—but the words evaporated before they reached his lips, leaving only silence and unanswered questions in their wake.

As Marm ventured deeper into the forest, the creature shadowed his movements with an uncanny synchronicity, leading him to a secluded clearing where an ornate mirror stood—its surface shimmering like the night sky, alive with faint glimmers that seemed to echo worlds far beyond his own. The intricately carved frame whispered of ancient tales, secrets etched into its design, murmuring of lives lived and lost, hidden within the folds of time.

Through the glass, he caught glimpses of other realities—fractured reflections blurred with fleeting shadows of his memories. Moments of warmth and unguarded laughter danced across the surface, stirring something deep within him, as though the very essence of those emotions reached out and tethered him to their light.

The legacy of the witches unfolded in the reflection, their sorrow steeped in the soil beneath his feet. He saw their sacrifice etched into the earth, their triumphs burdened by a heartbreaking cycle of loss, haunting and eternal. The mirror pulsed with energy, its surface revealing not only the intricacies of their history but also Marm's own hidden truths—his deepest desires and fears interwoven with the secrets he had yet to uncover.

The creature inched closer, its presence amplifying the potent swirl of emotions enveloping him. Their energies mingled, weaving an almost tangible connection that tugged at his very core, drawing him towards something vast and unknowable. He felt the pull—an unrelenting force that seemed to bind him to a destiny beyond his comprehension.

“You are sweet,” the creature purred, its voice soft and beguiling, resonating like a whispered echo of the spirit's words from the night before. “Like an orchard poised to bloom, ripe with promise yet veiled in sorrow... like the bittersweet taste of revenge.”

The creature's words rippled through him, igniting a storm of emotions that had long been buried. Marm's heart thudded in rhythm with the pulsing mirror as the reflection seemed to come alive, amplifying the chaos spiralling within him—a raw whirlwind of feelings left unspoken. Exposed yet curiously invigorated, he stood on the brink of revelation, caught in the delicate balance between fear and discovery.

This world of shadows and shimmering light, haunting and achingly beautiful, held the promise of unraveling not only the witches’ tormented tale but also the tangled threads of Marm’s own heart.

In that instant, Marm felt the sting of a profound connection, a yearning so sharp it reverberated through his chest. The intertwining of their fates tugged at him with relentless force, a duality of fear and hope pressing down like an insistent weight he couldn’t escape. What could it mean? What was the creature truly seeking from him?

The warmth that had enveloped him moments before dissolved, replaced by an icy chill that crept into the edges of his awareness. The mirror began to shimmer ominously, its surface no longer offering mere possibilities but now reflecting the creeping shadows of doubt stirring deep within his heart. The creature lingered just beyond his reach, its features momentarily veiled by an unnatural haze. Panic swelled within him, clawing urgently at his insides as uncertainty gripped him.

Without warning, the dream lurched violently—the world around him twisting as though caught in a storm, wrenching him away from the vision that had held him captive. The presence he had felt so intensely dissolved into nothingness, evaporating like morning mist under the glare of sunlight. All that remained was the haunting memory of the mirror and the faint echo of a voice resonating deep within his mind.

Marm jolted awake, his breath ragged, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The sensations from the dream clung to his skin, burning with an inexplicable intensity. The words reverberated in his thoughts, refusing to leave him: “You taste sweet... like revenge.”

What could they possibly mean? What awaited him in the connection that had begun to thread itself between him and the spirit of the hills?

As the first light of dawn crept into the room, Marm lay in the solitude of the moment, wrestling with emotions he could neither name nor escape. A restless longing stirred within him—raw, potent, and perilously close to awakening something he could not yet understand.

As his eyes fluttered open, the vivid tranquillity of morning light enveloped him. Golden rays streamed through the window, casting a warm glow upon the walls, almost as if welcoming him back to the waking world. Yet, the echoes from his dream persisted, a haunting chorus that blurred the lines between reality and the remnants of nightmares.

For the first time, an uneasy sensation lingered within him—a prickling reminder that hidden within every story, the depths of truth could sometimes conceal a haunting legacy of their own.

As he struggled to shake off the remnants of sleep, Marm noticed Tayce sitting cross-legged at the edge of his bed, his expression fraught with unease that sent a chill down Marm’s spine.

Tayce's wide eyes reflected a blend of concern and fear, painting a haunting image of worry for his friend's troubled sleep. “Hey, you alright?” he asked, his voice quivering slightly, treading carefully through the shock lingering from their earlier exchange.

Marm squinted, still half-dazed. “What do you mean?”

“There was something... off about you whilst you were sleeping,” Tayce said, leaning in, his brow deeply furrowed. The playful banter had evaporated, replaced by a seriousness that weighed heavily in the air. “You were mumbling about… fruits and something dark. It honestly gave me the creeps.”

Marm's heart raced, the echoes of the dream crashing back like waves against a rocky shore. “I wasn't—” he spluttered, but as he spoke, the warmth drained from his cheeks, replaced by a rising sense of foreboding.

Tayce continued, lowering his voice as if afraid of awakening any shadows that may linger in the room. “It sounded like you were trying to call someone... or something. I don’t know. It felt… unnatural.”

Marm swallowed hard, Tayce's words slicing through the remnants of the dream. The weight of his unsettling night crept back into his consciousness.

He shuddered, the heaviness of Tayce’s comments settling on him. He had flung himself into a world of artistry that danced on the edge of the dark and the mysterious, yet the haunting thought that his dreams might hold some deeper, unfathomable truth filled him with dread.

His mind wandered to the creature—their enigmatic presence and the way it stirred something primal within him.

“Maybe it was just a vivid dream,” Marm murmured, attempting to brush it off, but doubt gnawed at his resolve. “I’ve been thinking about the folklore a lot.”

“Or maybe you’re tapping into something dark,” Tayce countered, his expression grave and earnest. “You know they say the Pendle spirits don’t like to be disturbed. What if you’re stirring up things meant to be left alone?”

Marm's heartbeat quickened, the air in the room suddenly feeling thick and charged with unspoken fears. Images from the dream flickered through his mind—shadows lurking just out of sight, the mirror, and the whisper that wrapped around him like a swirling fog.

“It’s probably nothing,” he said, trying to convince both Tayce and himself. As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the warmth of the morning sun seeped in, clinging to him like a reassuring hug, yet the darkness lingered—twisting quietly within.

“Let’s just hope it stays that way,” Tayce replied, a mix of worry and vulnerability threading through his tone. “But I’ll keep an eye on you, just in case.”

As they made their way downstairs, the sounds of laughter and cheerful chatter enveloped Marm, drawing him further away from his unsettling thoughts. Yet, a chill lingered, a knot of uncertainty curling deep in his stomach, ever-present like a shadow just beyond the reach of sunlight.

Once in the dining area, he inhaled the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the scent of sweet pastries. The comforting atmosphere, however, felt slightly tainted, as if an unseen presence hovered just beyond the edges of his awareness. As he hesitated at the door, the chill in the room prickled at the back of his neck, Tayce’s earlier words echoing ominously in his mind.

The group welcomed him with bright smiles, and just as he tried to immerse himself in the lively banter, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the long mirror hanging in the hallway. Its surface shimmered with secret promises and lingering shadows.

Marm shook off the lingering sensations as he joined the others, determined to engage with the warmth around him. Nonetheless, the knot in his stomach remained, unyielding. He resolved that no matter what darkness lurked on the horizon, he was ready to face it—not just in his dreams but in the unfolding reality that awaited him in this enchanted land of folklore. With each laugh exchanged and every story shared, he steeled himself for the journey ahead, vowing to confront whatever shadows still lingered in his heart and mind.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Unraveling Threads

The ancient circle on Pendle Hill seemed to hum with unseen energy as the air grew taut with expectation. The weathered stones, stoic witnesses of countless rituals, glowed faintly under the moon’s silver gaze, their surfaces veined with the whispers of ages past. Flickering candlelight danced like restless spirits, casting shadows that twisted and writhed across the mossy ground. The night carried a heady mix of petrichor and the lingering scent of burning sage, saturating the senses and deepening the uncanny aura.

Banksie was the first to appear, her towering figure silhouetted against the pale moonlight. The very air around her seemed to shimmer faintly, as though her pristine white skin refracted the glow of celestial light. Vibrant red waves of hair cascaded down her back, catching the wind’s playful fingers, each strand a flicker of fire amidst the darkness. Her wide smile—an infrequent and hauntingly beautiful sight—briefly graced her blue eyes, which gleamed like sapphires kissed by frost.

As if carried by the night itself, Joe emerged next. His flamboyant aura heralded his arrival before his form became visible. Under the moonlight, his silver-dyed hair gleamed like molten metal, unkempt yet dazzling in its defiance of convention. His sharp light brown eyes flared with an uncontainable spark, piercing the veil of shadows with mischievous curiosity. Each step carried a faint echo of rhythm, as though the earth responded to his vibrant energy.

Ella followed silently, her lean, athletic form moving with a grace that seemed born of the elements. The long waves of her dark hair cascaded like rolling tides, alive with movement even in the stillness of the air. Her sun-kissed skin radiated a warmth that clashed with the chill of the night, an anomaly that added to her enigmatic presence. Her dark brown eyes, pools of ancient kindness, surveyed the circle with a serene yet profound intensity, as though seeking a deeper truth hidden within the stone sentinels.

The air itself seemed to bend under the weight of their combined presence as the circle grew complete. The charged atmosphere tightened like a coiled spring, the very ground vibrating faintly beneath the collective resonance of their beings. Above them, the stars blinked urgently, as though in frantic communication. A breeze rolled in, heavy with intent, threading through the circle and carrying whispers only the witches could hear. The moment felt as though it straddled the boundary between the mortal realm and something far beyond, a glimpse into the supernatural.

 Each witch arrived cloaked in anticipation, their energy mingling in the charged atmosphere.
Charity's message, sharp and unyielding as a winter gale, had summoned them with an urgency none could ignore: "We need to talk." Now, as the coven encircled them in the heart of the stones, the air crackled with unspoken questions. “Veronica’s back in Lancashire,” Charity announced, their voice cutting through the night like a blade against frost. The name struck the group like a stone tossed into still waters, sending ripples of unease through the circle.

Banksie, stepped forward, her eyes catching the candlelight with a fierce glint. “Back, is she?” Her words rang out, sharp and clear. “Convenient. She disappears, and now, just like that, she’s here again?” Each syllable dripped with a righteous defiance.

Joe followed, the humor he so often carried now replaced with something heavier, something unresolved. He shook his head. “Do we even have a plan for this? Veronica doesn’t just show up without reason.”

The group tensed further as Ella broke the silence. She wrapped her arms around herself, grounding against the whirlwind of emotions. “She left us. Abandoned us. And we’re supposed to open the circle as if none of it mattered?” Her words were steady yet piercing, a reflection of wounds that had yet to fully heal.

“Enough!” Banksie’s voice rang out, laced with authority as she commanded their attention. Tension crackled around her like electricity. “We need to address this. Veronica made choices, and now she must face the consequences.”

Charity stepped forward, their vibrant energy momentarily dimmed by the weight of the situation. “We’re not here to cast her out, Banksie. We need to understand why she left in the first place.” They glanced toward the shadows, as if the fog itself was reluctant to let her go.

“Veronica is back for a reason,” Charity continued, drawing the attention of the others. “She could be important to our journey.”

Each witch felt the weight of history pressing upon them, creating an emotional storm that threatened to reshape their bonds. The air crackled with tension, and for a moment, all that could be heard was the rustle of leaves and the quiet hum of the evening.

Joe spoke next, his voice tight with restrained emotion. “We can’t just pretend everything’s fine and let her waltz back into our lives as if nothing happened. What if she leaves us hanging again? Or worse—what if she brings trouble with her?” The usual lightheartedness in his demeanor had vanished, replaced by an uncharacteristic edge of uncertainty.

Ella, always the one to find the silver lining, offered gently, “But what if she’s here to make amends? Don’t you think we owe it to ourselves to at least listen to her? People can grow, Joe, even when we think they can’t.” Her words carried a quiet insistence, a fragile hope that clashed softly with the wary air of the group.

Banksie, however, wouldn’t have any of it. “Growth?” she burst out, her voice sharp with exasperation. “She’s had three years to prove herself, and what do we have to show for it? Heartache and a mess we had to clean up ourselves.” Her anger flared and then steadied as she continued, her tone solidifying into something resolute. “This isn’t about punishing her. It’s about protecting ourselves. She broke our trust. Now it’s up to us to decide if she’s worth the risk.”

Charity felt the tension ramping up and attempted to intervene. “We should focus on what her return means for us, not just dwell in anger. Having her back could help us in ways we may not foresee.”

As their words echoed through the circle, the emotions hung in the air like storm clouds, shadowing the possibility of reconciliation. Each of them grappled with the weight of their shared history—the bonds they had forged amidst laughter and tears, now threatened by Veronica’s sudden return. 

Just then, a rustle in the underbrush silenced the group. All eyes turned toward the sound, tension palpable as they awaited its source. The warm glow of candlelight flickered, casting anxious shadows that danced across the ancient trees.

From the edge of the circle, Veronica stepped forward, her features illuminated by the soft evening light. She hesitated, her presence simultaneously commanding and deferential as she surveyed the assembled coven. The gazes of her friends were a mix of surprise and apprehension; their shared moments of joy and betrayal intertwined like the gnarled roots surrounding them.

"I’ve heard Charity’s calling… Honestly, I can’t understand how no one else noticed," she said quietly, her voice trembling slightly, cutting through the tension like a fragile thread. "I think I deserve the chance to explain." Each word hung in the air, weighted by her absence and the anticipation of her return.

A moment of silence stretched between them, the air thick with unresolved feelings, until Banksie broke it, her voice cold and unyielding. "Well, here we are. You’ve finally chosen to return, but we need to have a serious conversation about what that means for the coven."

Joe wasted no time. "You owe us an explanation," he demanded, his eyes blazing with frustration. "You left without a word, Veronica. You don’t just walk back into our lives and expect everything to be fine."

Ella stepped closer, her expression conflicted—half supportive, half concerned. "We care about you, but we need to know why you left. Why now?"

Veronica met each of their eyes, her gaze steady yet revealing the vulnerability of someone who had wrestled with profound personal truths during her absence. "I know I’ve made mistakes," she admitted softly, her voice carrying the weight of her choices. "I needed time to find myself, to figure out who I was becoming without the coven."

The atmosphere shifted slightly as the lingering tension started to fade, allowing them to process her words. Each member of the coven felt the gravity of the moment as they stood at the crossroads of the past and future.

With genuine concern flickering in Charity’s eyes, they stepped forward. “We’re not here to judge. We want to understand how we can move forward together.”

Veronica took a deep breath, steadying herself against the weight of the moment. “I understand your anger. I left without a word, and for that, I’m truly sorry. But the truth is, I was lost. I thought distancing myself would help me figure out who I was without the coven. I believed being alone would grant me clarity, but instead, it only magnified my loneliness.”

Ella softened at her words, sensing the pain that lingered in Veronica’s voice. “But did you really find what you were looking for?”

“I thought I did,” Veronica admitted, her gaze dropping to the ground. “I wandered, searching for something—something deeper, a sense of belonging. But as I reflected on our lives, I felt the lines of our destinies twisting, twirling, constantly changing direction, as if we were puppets without strings.”

Her voice trembled with the weight of her sorrow. “I realised how much I missed all of you. I missed the power of our connection, the way our energies intertwined to protect and enrich each other.

Her words lingered in the air, touching a silent chord within the group. Banksie tilted her head slightly, her expression reflective. “Our strength has always been in our connection,” she said. “Perhaps the dissonance we’ve felt is a reminder, a warning—that even magic cannot replace the unity of our bond.”

Joe nodded thoughtfully, his fingers tracing the edge of the tome he held. “I have felt the echoes of that imbalance in the readings, as if the fabric of our existence is fraying at the edges. If we don’t mend it, the consequences might be beyond our understanding.”

Veronica’s gaze swept across the group, her eyes filled with earnest regret. “Then we begin here, together. Let’s take the time to rebuild what was broken, piece by piece. The coven deserves our devotion—not just to its magic but to one another.”

Ella reached out, her hand brushing against Veronica’s in a silent gesture of solidarity. “We’ve faced storms before. What’s different now is that we’re acknowledging it, facing it as one. That’s the foundation we need to rebuild.”

Banksie stepped closer, her shoulders squared, the resolve in her voice clear. “Then it’s settled. We move forward—not just as a coven, but as family. It won’t be easy, but I believe in us.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a glimmer of hope surfaced—a promise of healing woven into the air as the group stood united. The road ahead remained uncertain, but together, they were prepared to face whatever awaited them. A spark of magic shimmered around them, marking the first step toward restoration.

“Would it be too presumptuous to suggest that your return might help us heal?” Charity asked gently, their gaze tender yet filled with hope. “Perhaps we can navigate this together, as we always have.”

Veronica exhaled softly, her gaze meeting each of theirs as she gauged the sincerity behind their words. “I want to make amends,” she said. “I want to weave our stories together again, to rediscover the strength we find in unity. The Pendle spirit calls to me, but I understand I must earn your trust back.”

Her words lingered in the air, shifting the atmosphere. Tension returned with renewed weight as the coven members exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions a mixture of concern and apprehension.

Banksie narrowed her eyes, a frown deepening on her brow. “The spirit? You realize what that could mean, Veronica. The tales we’ve heard speak of its wrath. If it’s calling to you, that’s no good omen.”

Joe’s excitement faded into gravity, his expression darkening. “Exactly. The spirit was bound because of its anger—its pain, its sorrow. Those emotions still simmer beneath the surface. It doesn’t just forgive and forget,” he warned, his flamboyance giving way to a sober, deep-rooted seriousness.

“The stories say its rage consumes everything, twisting the very land around it,” Ella murmured, her brow knitting as she wrestled with the implications. “I’ve felt it too—the barriers between our world and the spirit realm are thinning. It’s as if something is stirring.”

Charity crossed their arms, anxiety flickering in their luminous eyes. “This is why your return is so troubling, Veronica. Are you certain the spirit is calling for you? Have you felt its shadows pressing in?” They leaned closer, searching her gaze for answers.

Veronica swept her eyes over the group, their concern wrapping around her like a tight embrace. “I don’t know if it’s a plea for help or a demand for retribution,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “But deep within me, I feel its loneliness—a longing that aches.”

Silence settled over them, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears. The echoes of her confession curled through the air like whispers in the night. They didn’t fully understand the connection she spoke of, but the stories they had gathered pressed down on their hearts all the same.

Veronica swallowed hard, the weight of Banksie's words pressing down like an unseen force. She glanced around at the others, their expressions a mixture of apprehension and determination. They had always known their lineage carried power, but now that power was demanding something of them—something beyond their own understanding.

“So, how do we find them?” Veronica asked, keeping her voice steady despite the unease curling in her chest. “We can’t just summon them out of thin air.”

Banksie narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps we don’t have to. If the spirit truly seeks us, then it will guide us. But we must remain open to the signs.”

Charity nodded slowly. “We’ve seen pieces of the past bleed into the present before. The symbols, the visions—maybe they’ve been leading us all along.”

A gust of wind surged through the room, extinguishing one of the candles. The flickering flames struggled against the draft, dancing wildly before settling again. A silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken understanding.

“The past is speaking,” Banksie murmured, stepping closer to the candle. She traced a finger along the wax, her expression unreadable. “And it’s warning us. We don’t have much time.”

Veronica's heart pounded as she realized something chilling—whoever their missing member was, they weren’t just waiting to be found. They were already in danger.

The others nodded solemnly, the weight of Charity's words settling heavily in the air. Silence descended upon the circle, profound and unbroken, as each witch absorbed the gravity of their shared history and the daunting task that lay before them. The legacy of their ancestors danced at the edges of their consciousness—whispers of forgotten power and untapped potential.

“Tonight, we must summon the energies that surround us,” Charity declared, their voice growing with quiet resolve. “Through this ritual, we will entwine the threads of our lineage, seek guidance from the spirits, and embrace the essence of our lost sister, wherever she may be.”

With a collective breath, the coven formed a sacred circle. Fingers intertwined, they anchored one another in the heart of the ancient stones, grounding their energies. The chant began—a rhythmic incantation rising into the night air, weaving a lattice of sound that called forth the spirits of their ancestors.

As their voices climbed higher, the air around them grew dense with energy—electric and alive, crackling like unseen lightning. Shadows sprang to life, tumbling and twisting to the cadence of their chants. The trees loomed closer, their limbs stretching as if yearning to hear, while the wind carried their pleas to distant realms, an ethereal courier of their intent.

Meanwhile, in the labyrinth of dreams, Marm remained adrift, blissfully unaware of the ceremony unfolding not so far away. Yet, within the depths of slumber, he was drawn back into the vivid wilderness of his mind—the spectral forest that called to him, the elusive creature waiting in its depths, and the mirror, now more radiant and alive than ever before.

The coven’s chant wove seamlessly into the Whisper of the Spirit, carrying a sense of urgency that rippled through Marm’s subconscious. The essence of the hills wrapped around him—gentle yet insistent—beckoning him toward his destiny. The creature from his dreams emerged with startling clarity, its form framed by a haunting glow that pulsed in rhythm with the coven’s incantation.

Within the depths of this reverie, the spirit's rage ignited. “You must remember,” it commanded, its voice rolling in waves that reverberated through Marm’s very being, each word a thread binding him to the sorrows of the past. “Your blood calls to the others. You are part of our legacy—feel the pain, embrace the power! The void left by betrayal still lingers.”

The mirror became a tether to Marm’s soul, pulling at the fabric of his being. The spirit’s loneliness seeped through the murky surface, a quiet, suffocating weight that seemed to strangle the air around him. Marm felt it as a cold ache, settling deep in his chest, a phantom pain he couldn’t quite shake. Then came the wrath—a fiery storm that clawed at his mind, forcing his heart into a panicked rhythm. It was relentless, an unyielding demand that consumed every thought, every breath.

Marm's instincts wrestled with the overwhelming emotions—part of him desperate to break the connection, to escape the torment, yet another part gripped by fascination, a strange empathy for the imprisoned soul. His body trembled, his fingertips burned as if the spirit's ache for freedom surged through him, branding him as its vessel. He staggered back, his head spinning, his heart torn between fear and the impossible burden of hope. Could he be the one to liberate this spirit—and at what cost?

Back in the stone circle, the coven’s energy surged, thickening the very air until it seemed to hum and pulse with life. Darkness crept like an encroaching tide, swallowing the space beyond the flickering candlelight. Shadows danced feverishly against the ancient stones, twisting into ghastly shapes that seemed to mock the ritual. The earthy scent of damp moss and aged stone intermingled with the tang of burning wax, creating a heady concoction that prickled the senses. A faint metallic taste, sharp and cold, lingered on the back of the witches’ tongues, as though the unseen forces around them had reached into their very beings.

They felt it—the pull of the unseen—deep and insistent, like a tidal current dragging them toward the echoes of their ancestors. The whispers of ancient voices seemed to emanate from the stone itself, weaving through the night like ghostly threads. Each word of their chant reverberated in their bones, and their bodies tingled with the raw, unbridled magic coursing through the circle.

“Grant us strength,” Banksie implored, her voice slicing through the cacophony with unwavering resolve. “Let the blood magic lead us to our lost descendant!” The words hung in the air, heavy and charged, before a sudden, fierce gust of wind swept through the circle. It smelled of rain and ash and carried a piercing chill that cut through their cloaks. The candles extinguished in unison, their dying flames spiraling into the dark like faint embers.

For a heartbeat, the world stood still. Silence stretched taut, brimming with an almost unbearable weight, as if the universe itself were holding its breath. Then, with a sudden burst that seemed to shatter the night, a radiant light flared deep within the woods, stark and blinding against the midnight hues. The witches' collective gasp filled the void. It was unmistakable—a sign.

Meanwhile, in the enchanted realm of dreams, Marm felt it as though it were a storm breaking just over the horizon. The spirit's presence grew palpable, closing the distance between them in an inexorable surge. The connection tightened, invisible yet unyielding, and its intensity resonated within Marm like a drumbeat. It was more than a sensation; it was a call, primal and ancient, winding its way through the fabric of destiny and binding them together. The echoes of the ritual rippled through him like a siren’s haunting melody.

And in the stillness that followed, a tempest raged within Marm. Wrath churned through him like fire, laced with an unrelenting hope that refused to extinguish. Overpowering longing struck like lightning, sharp and electric, tearing through his very core. The spirit pressed against his essence, its presence almost tangible, entwining with his soul in a push and pull that left him breathless. It whispered without words, urging him forward, drawing him to reclaim what was lost and confront the legacy of the Pendle coven with unyielding resolve.

The witches’ voices rose once more, their chant building in fervor and desperation. It was a symphony of intent and will, reverberating through the stone circle like thunder. The air itself seemed to spark and crackle, carrying the scent of ozone as raw energy coursed through their sacred space. 

In the depths of the ritual, Charity closed their eyes, seeking an unbroken bond with the spirit of the hills. A sudden rush of kaleidoscopic visions overwhelmed their senses—shadows twisted with light, revealing a swirling energy encircling a dark figure.

“Wait…” Charity breathed, a ripple of recognition coursing through them, sending shivers down their spine. The image flickered: a young man, his features draped in shadow, his face just beyond reach, as if concealed by an ancient fog. The spirit coiled around him, wrapping him in a living cloak, deepening the mystery even as it blurred him from view.

Power surged through the coven, resonating in the very earth beneath them, electric and raw. Then—a sharp crack split the air, shattering the silence like fractured glass, its echo reverberating across the stones and sinking into their bones.

“Did you hear that?” Ella gasped, her voice slicing through the rising tension. The witches froze, eyes wide, hearts hammering as they exchanged worried glances.

Charity felt the spirit’s gaze pierce through them, its presence thick with urgency. Despair pulsed in waves, pressing them deeper into the connection—urging them to decipher the truths locked within the veiled shadows. The sheer force of energy swelled to a crescendo, demanding more than their bodies could endure.

Then, the crack intensified. Charity staggered, breath hitching. “It’s—too much—” they gasped, their words barely escaping before the magic surged violently through them.

For a fleeting moment, the extinguished candles flared back to life in a radiant burst, their golden flames licking the shadows away. The witches' faces, illuminated in the flickering light, bore expressions of fierce determination and awe, etched with the knowledge that their call had been answered.

A gasp—then collapse. Charity’s body struck the earth with a soft thud. Chaos erupted.

“Charity!” Banksie shouted, her voice breaking between alarm and disbelief. She knelt beside them, fingers pressing desperately against their wrist, her strong hands trembling despite her resolve.

Joe stumbled back, breathless. “What happened?! Are they—?” His voice faltered, eyes darting to Ella, whose shaking hands betrayed her distress.

Ella barely managed a whisper. “They’re ice cold.”

Motionless. Charity’s vibrant complexion had drained to a ghostly pallor, save for the faint crimson smudge trailing from their nose. Cold dread coiled around the coven, a suffocating weight settling over them.

“We have to help them!” Ella’s voice rose, thick with panic. “We can’t let this—this be the end!”

Banksie tightened her grip on Charity’s wrist, searching for a pulse—a flickering thread of life still tethered to them. “Stay with us. We’re here,” she murmured, fierce with determination.

The others gathered, fingers tracing Charity’s arm, their touch infused with silent pleas. The atmosphere pulsed, charged with urgency, heavy with their shared history. The spirit still lingered—its presence no longer ambiguous, but commanding, its intent an unreadable force.

And in that fragile moment, understanding struck them all. They had reached for something vast, ancient, and unyielding—a power demanding respect.

As one, they formed a circle, their energies weaving together, a lifeline shimmering over Charity’s still form—a whispered promise of solidarity and hope amid the storm.

The cracked air faded into the quiet night, and the coven held their breath, bracing for whatever came next.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Unraveling Concerns.

The group gathered around a rustic wooden table in the cozy dining area, the enticing aroma of breakfast wafting through the air. Marm sat across from Tayce, who was animatedly recounting tales from the previous day while stealing glances at Marm, who seemed somewhat distant.  

Vivienne, always the perceptive observer, frowned slightly as she caught Marm’s unfocused gaze drifting toward the window. “You alright, Marm?” she asked, her voice laced with quiet concern. “You seem a bit off today.”  

“I’m fine,” Marm replied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, the echoes of last night’s dream still swirling in his mind.  

“Come on, spill it,” Vivienne pressed. “You’re not fooling anyone. It’s like you’ve got something stuck in your mind.”  

Tayce jumped in, attempting to shift the focus. “He’s just tired—not all of us have the luxury of a good night’s sleep,” he said, shooting Marm a wary glance.  

Marm felt the tension, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “I told you, it’s nothing!” he snapped, desperate to avoid revealing the tumult of emotions swirling within him.  

“Are you scared to talk about it?” Vivienne challenged, folding her arms and leaning in, unwavering. “We’re friends; you can tell us anything.”  

Tayce’s brow furrowed, the worry evident on his face. “It wasn’t just ‘nothing,’ Marm. You’ve been tossing and turning all night. You were talking in your sleep, and I was worried.”  

“Can we not have this conversation right now?” Marm pressed, defensive, and overwhelmed by the weight of both his recent experiences and his friends’ concerns. The last thing he wanted was to dive into the chaos in his head.  

“Why not? It’s obviously bothering you!” Vivienne insisted, her voice rising just a notch.  

“Because I don’t want to talk about it!” Marm shot back, frustration seeping through. At that moment, he hated the vulnerability that boiled beneath his bravado.  

Minnie glanced between them, sensing the tension. “Guys! Instead of turning this into a showdown, how about we check on Veronica? She hasn’t come down for breakfast yet.”  

Marm felt a momentary escape in that suggestion, grateful for the distraction. “Yes, let’s do that,” he agreed, turning to Tayce.  

“Let’s go see if she’s alright,” Tayce said, his concern momentarily redirected. Together, they made their way down the corridor to Veronica’s door, the atmosphere thickening with uncertainty.  

Tayce knocked lightly, calling, “Veronica! You in there?”  

Silence hung heavily in the air, and Marm felt a weight settle on his chest. The unease from the night lingered, whispering doubts back into his mind. When no answer came, Tayce glanced back at the group, worry etching lines on his face. “Maybe we should check if she’s okay,” he suggested, with a hint of urgency.  

With a shared sense of determination, they made their way to the front desk of the hostel, where a staff member stood idly, glancing at his phone. The man seemed apprehensive, his nervousness palpable as they approached.  

“Excuse me,” Tayce began, his voice steady yet laced with concern. “Have you seen Veronica? She hasn’t come down since we arrived.”  

The staff member looked up, momentarily startled. “Um, no, I haven’t seen her today.” His voice was hesitant, and he avoided direct eye contact, fidgeting with the pen in his hand.  

Marm exchanged worried glances with the others. Something about the man's nervousness felt off, sending a chill down his spine, but they needed to press on.  

“Do you have any idea if she left earlier?” Minnie asked, her tone soft yet firm.  

“Not that I know of…” he stammered, glancing around as if to gauge their reactions. “I’ll let you know if I see her.”  He repiled, in a futile attempt to mask his own stress, and still avoiding direct eye contact, fidgeting with the pen in his hand.  

The vague response only deepened their unease, and the group stood for a moment in pensive silence. Finally, with a shared sense of determination, Tayce broke through the tension. “We might as well venture out and look for her ourselves.”

Before they could move, Vivienne pulled out her phone and quickly dialed Veronica's number. The ringing echoed in the tense silence, but as they listened, the calls went unanswered, each ring amplifying their anxiety. “Come on, pick up…” she murmured, frustration mounting as the final tone of voicemail chimed in.

“Maybe she’s just busy?” Minnie suggested, attempting to keep the mood light, but the unease was palpable. The more minutes passed, the tighter the knot in Marm’s stomach felt. 

As the reality of Veronica’s absence weighed heavily on them, they exchanged worried glances. 

“We need to go and find her,” Tayce said, his voice carrying an edge of urgency.

As they stepped outside the hostel, the cool air wrapped around them, providing some clarity amidst the confusion. The quiet street felt surreal as if they were staring into the unknown. They began moving down the lane, their hearts pounding with worry, when, just ahead, they caught sight of a figure approaching.

It was Veronica—but not as they remembered her. She emerged from the mist like a specter, her silhouette wavering in the dim light. Her clothes hung from her frame, damp and torn, clinging to her like remnants of a nightmare. Her eyes, once radiant with warmth, were now hollow, glassy pools that reflected nothing but exhaustion and something far more ancient—something unknowable.

No one spoke. The air itself seemed to recoil. Then, without warning, her knees buckled. She crumpled forward, and Tayce barely caught her in time. Her body was ice-cold, trembling violently in his arms. “Veronica!” he gasped, his voice cracking with panic.

Vivienne stumbled forward, her face pale. “Marm—water, now!”

Veronica didn’t respond. Her lips moved, barely, as if trying to form words that no longer belonged to her. A whisper escaped—fractured, breathless. “…the hills… they called…” Her voice was barely audible, more like wind through dead leaves than speech. Tayce leaned in, straining to hear. “…I followed… I had to… the energy… it’s alive…”

Then silence. A silence so deep it seemed to press against their ears. Marm felt the blood drain from his face. The creature’s voice echoed in his mind again, unbidden and cold: “You must remember… the hills whisper secrets.”

Vivienne’s voice broke the stillness, sharp and uncertain. “What is she talking about? Energy? This is madness.”

Tayce looked down at Veronica, his arms tightening around her frail form. “She’s delirious. She must be. This isn’t real.”

But Marm wasn’t so sure. The land beneath them pulsed with something—something old and watching. And in Veronica’s return, there was no comfort. Only dread.

As the weight of Veronica’s cryptic murmurs settled over them, a deeper urgency took hold—one not born of confusion alone, but of dread. Her sudden reappearance, frail and half-conscious, had already shaken them. But it was the strange, fragmented words she had whispered—words that clung to the air like mist curling through the moors—that truly unsettled them.

Marm stood frozen, caught between the others’ anxious movements and the echo of the spirit’s voice still whispering in his mind. The world around him felt stretched, as if reality itself had thinned. Something ancient stirred beneath the surface of things, and he was only just beginning to feel its pull.

“We need to move,” Minnie said, her voice low but firm, cutting through the tension. “Standing here won’t help her. Whatever this is… we need answers.”

With grim resolve, they turned toward the hostel, the shadows around them seeming to deepen with every step. The hills loomed behind them, silent and watchful.

Minnie and Vivienne flanked Tayce, who carried Veronica with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the fear etched into his face. Her body was limp, her skin clammy, and though her lips moved faintly, no coherent sound emerged—only a soft, broken murmur, like a prayer lost to the wind.

“Hold her head,” Vivienne urged, her voice tight with worry. Tayce adjusted his grip, and Marm moved in to support her other side, his hands trembling slightly. The weight of her presence was more than physical—it was as though she carried something back with her from wherever she had been.

Once inside, they laid her gently on one of the beds. The room felt colder than it should have, the air thick with unease. “I’ll get the water,” Marm said, his voice barely above a whisper. He retrieved the glass they had prepared earlier, his fingers brushing against the chill of the glass like it might shatter. He handed it to Tayce, who brought it carefully to Veronica’s lips. “Just sip it slowly,” he murmured.

But Veronica didn’t respond. Her eyes remained closed, her breath shallow. And still, that faint whisper lingered in the room—unspoken, but felt by all of them.

Tayce watched her closely, his brow furrowed with a worry he could no longer mask. “You really scared us,” he murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. His voice, usually light with teasing affection, was now low and strained. The silence that followed was thick—suffocating—laden with unspoken fears and the creeping sense that something had shifted irreversibly.

Veronica didn’t stir. The room felt colder now, as if her presence had drawn in the chill from the hills outside. Shadows clung to the corners, and even the flickering lamplight seemed hesitant to reach her.

Far from the hostel, deep within the stone-bellied cave that served as sanctuary, the remaining members of the coven gathered around Charity’s still form. The air there was different—charged, electric, as though the earth itself was holding its breath. The stone walls pulsed faintly with residual energy, and the witches, each attuned to the subtle rhythms of the land, felt it: something was unraveling.

“Stay with us, Charity,” Banksie murmured, kneeling beside her friend. Her voice, usually fierce and unshakable, now trembled like wind sweeping over the desolate hills—strong, but laced with fear. The words echoed softly against the cold stone, a fragile tether between the waking world and the realm where Charity now drifted.

Joe moved with practiced urgency, laying out a circle of crystals and herbs around Charity’s still form. “We need to align our energies,” he said, his voice low and focused, as if afraid to disturb something unseen.

Ella knelt nearby, her fingers deftly mixing herbs into a thick, fragrant paste. She whispered incantations under her breath, the syllables ancient and raw. “This ointment might help restore her strength,” she said, though her eyes betrayed her doubt. The air was too heavy, too charged.

As the coven began to chant, the cave responded. The air thickened, vibrating with the rhythm of their voices. Candle flames twisted and danced, casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to move with a will of their own. The stone walls pulsed faintly, as if remembering something long buried.

Within the depths of her unconsciousness, Charity spiraled through a storm of fractured visions. Each image cut like glass—shards of memory, prophecy, and something older still. Faces blurred, landscapes shifted, and through it all, a sense of urgency clawed at her.

Then, from the chaos, the spirit of the hills emerged. It was radiant and terrible, a swirling force of emerald and storm-grey light. Its form was fluid, shifting between beauty and fury, its presence both awe-inspiring and suffocating. Charity felt its yearning—a desperate, primal need to break free from the ancient bindings that held it. Beyond the spirit, a darker presence loomed. A silhouette, vast and undefined, pulsed with anguish. It writhed against invisible chains, the energy around it fractured like shattered glass, trembling on the edge of release.

Whispers filled the air—incantations older than language, vibrating at the edge of comprehension. They tugged at Charity’s mind, beckoning them to listen, to remember. But every time she reached for meaning, the words slipped away, like smoke through her fingers.

The sound cracked through their mind like thunder—glass shattering in slow motion, each fracture reverberating through the marrow of their soul. It wasn’t just noise; it was emotion made audible. Every splintered echo carried the spirit’s torment: wrath, sorrow, and a loneliness so profound it twisted through the visions like a blade.

“Release me!” The cry tore through the void, spoken in a tongue long buried by time. It rang with fury and despair, a plea that shook the very fabric of Charity’s being. The figure writhed in the shadows, its form straining against unseen bonds, and with each movement, its anguish bled into their own. The veil between them thinned.

Charity felt the weight of its suffering settle over them like a shroud, its pain threading itself into their fears, their doubts. Their fates were no longer separate. They were being woven together—by grief, by power, by something older than either of them could name. The visions twisted, blurred, refusing clarity. Why was the spirit so restless? What ancient bond tethered it to the witches’ bloodline? And why did its agony feel so familiar?

Then, through the chaos, a flicker of something else—hope. A thread of connection, fragile but real, linking the spirit’s torment to the land, to the coven, to them. If they could understand its pain, perhaps they could heal it. Perhaps they could heal them all.

But just as the images began to align, the darkness surged again, dragging them back. The last thing they saw was the figure collapsing to its knees, its shadow recoiling from a rising light.

“Come on, Charity!” Joe’s voice broke through the veil, urgent and raw. 

The coven’s hands were joined over their body, their chants rising in intensity. Magic surged around them—threads of vibrant energy weaving through the air, wrapping around Charity like a cocoon. The spirit’s presence still clung to them, but the land itself seemed to rise in response, lending its strength to their call. Then—a burst of light.

It flooded the cave, warm and blinding, washing over them with a force that was both comforting and commanding. It urged them forward, demanded action, now. Charity’s body arched slightly, their breath catching as their spirit flickered, caught between the pull of the visions and the call of the living.

They were coming back. But something was coming with them. When the lights of the world came back into focus, Charity opened their eyes, which were now filled with confusion and fatigue. The coven surrounded them, the others’ concern palpable as they breathed a collective sigh of relief. Charity had returned, but the echoes of their dark visions still lingered, and the weight of their shared fate hung heavily in the air.  

As consciousness settled back into her bones, Veronica blinked against the dim light of the room. The warmth of concern surrounded her, voices hovering just beyond clarity—familiar, yet distant, like echoes in a dream.

Her thoughts cleared slowly, the fog of confusion lifting in fragments. She could feel their eyes on her—watchful, worried, waiting. The air was thick with anticipation, as if they all sensed something unspoken lingering just beneath the surface.

She sat up with effort, her limbs heavy, her breath shallow. Still, she forced a small smile, trying to ease the tension that clung to the room like mist. “I’m so sorry for worrying you all,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “I went out last night… just to clear my head. I must’ve gotten lost. It’s been so long since I was last in Lancashire—I didn’t recognize anything.”

Tayce exhaled sharply, relief softening the lines of worry on his face. “You had us worried sick,” he said, brushing a hand through his hair. “We thought something had happened—something bad.”

“Yeah, as if you’d run off to join the circus or something,” Minnie added, her tone light, but her eyes betrayed the fear still clinging to her.

Vivienne stood with arms crossed, her gaze sharp and searching. She studied Veronica’s face, looking for cracks in the story. But the weak smile Veronica offered seemed to settle the unease—at least on the surface. The room relaxed, if only slightly. The illusion of normalcy crept back in.

But Marm saw it. The flicker in her eyes. The tremor in her hands. The silence between her words. Something had followed her back—something she wasn’t ready to speak of. And though the others accepted her explanation, Marm felt the truth pressing in like a storm on the horizon.

“Just glad you’re okay,” he said quietly, his voice low and sincere. But even as he spoke, he knew—she wasn’t.

Meanwhile, as the coven gathered their strength around Charity, who now sat upright with effort, the gravity of the moment settled over them like a second skin. The warm glow of candlelight flickered across the stone walls, casting long shadows that danced with the remnants of the ritual’s power. Charity blinked slowly, their gaze sweeping over Banksie, Ella, and Joe—each of them pale, breathless, still reeling from what they had summoned.

“I saw something,” Charity said, their voice rough, edged with exhaustion and awe. “While I was unconscious… the spirit of the hills—it was trying to break free. It was in pain. Desperate. And there was a figure… I couldn’t see them clearly, but they were there.”

They paused, the memory clawing at the edges of their mind. “It was trying to escape. And I think… I think it’s tied to us.” The others shifted uneasily, the weight of the revelation pressing down on them like a storm front.

“What do you mean?” Banksie asked, her voice low, protective instincts flaring beneath her calm exterior.

“There’s a depth to its emotions,” Charity continued, their eyes distant, haunted by the vision. “It’s not just rage—it’s sorrow, loneliness. It’s fragile, but I think we still have a chance to help it. We need to find the ancient mirror. If it’s still intact, it might be the key.”

Ella’s brow furrowed as she absorbed the implications. “If the spirit is breaking free, we need to be ready. This isn’t just about the past anymore. It’s about what’s coming.”

“Exactly,” Charity said, their voice steadier now, though a shadow of doubt lingered in their expression. “But there’s something else. The sixth descendant… I think they’re awakening. Or at least, they’re close to discovering the magic in their blood.” A collective gasp rippled through the group. The air thickened, charged with the weight of prophecy and fear.

Banksie’s eyes narrowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’ve been searching for so long. But now? What does this mean?” Her words hung in the air, unanswered—because deep down, they all knew: the awakening had already begun.

Joe glanced nervously at the ground before looking back at Charity. “What if they’re not ready? What if this person—whoever they are—can’t handle the magic? The spirit is twisted now; confinement should have changed its very essence. It might not even be the guardian spirit it once was.”  

Banksie shifted her weight, her usual buoyant energy dampened by the ominous implications. “But we’ve been waiting for the sixth descendant. This is what we’ve wanted, right? The very reason we gather so often?” She searched the faces of her friends, seeking reassurance.  

Ella interjected, her tone serious. “It’s not that simple, though. The spirit is restless. If someone is awakening, it could trigger a surge of anger. What if this descendant isn’t prepared? What if they’re caught in the crossfire?”  

Charity felt the weight of the coven's unease settles heavily upon them. “I understand your fears, but we also have a responsibility to protect and guide whoever this is. The spirit’s feelings are tied closely to our histories, but we can’t allow it to dictate our actions.”  

Banksie exhaled slowly, running a hand through her hair in frustration. “So, what’s our game plan? We don’t even know who this person is or how to find them!”  

The atmosphere thickened with uncertainty, each member staring at the ground, lost in their thoughts. They had chased the idea of the sixth descendant for so long, believing it would provide the key to restoring balance. But now, standing on the precipice of the unknown, they felt vulnerable and unprepared for the reality that awaited them.  

“I’ve sensed a change, a pull in the land. If this descendant is anywhere, they’re connected to the spirit, and the hills may guide us to them,” Charity stated, their voice rising above the murmur of uncertainty.  

“Then we must be prepared for anything,” Banksie replied, determination hardening her tone. “We can’t take this lightly. We’ll need to gather our resources and refine our spells. Facing the spirit will be dangerous if it’s feeling threatened.”  

With a heavy sense of purpose, the coven members exchanged solemn glances, understanding that their past and future were starkly intertwined. Each decision carried weight, and as the candlelight flickered around them, they felt the urgency surge anew—a quest not just for a missing piece but for a deeper understanding of the fabric of their shared magic.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Echoes of the Spirit

In the depths of their ethereal prison, Kyran lingered—neither living nor dead, suspended in a silence so vast it had long since swallowed time. The centuries pressed against them like stone, each moment stretching into a hollow eternity, each breathless second echoing with the ache of what had been lost.

The mirror that held them was not just a prison—it was a wound. A wound that never healed. Its surface shimmered with the weight of betrayal, its edges sharp with memory. It had twisted them, reshaped them. Once a guardian, Kyran had become something else: a being carved from grief and silence, their essence worn thin by isolation.

And yet, even in that silence, something had stirred. It had begun not with magic, but with pain—a pain not their own. A raw, aching loneliness that reached across the veil like a cry in the dark. Kyran had felt it, pulsing faintly at first, then stronger, clearer. It had drawn them like a current, pulling them toward the boy in Cardiff. Toward Marm.

They had not known who he was. Not at first.

What they had felt was familiarity. A resonance. The echo of a wound that matched their own. Marm’s sorrow had called to them—not through blood, but through recognition. And Kyran had answered, not out of strategy, but out of something far more dangerous: longing.

But then, as their essence brushed against his—through dreams, through art, through the quiet spaces where grief lived—something shifted. The connection deepened. Threads of magic, ancient and buried, began to stir. And Kyran knew.

He was the last. The final descendant. The realization struck like a blade of light through shadow—beautiful, terrible, and utterly consuming. The bond they had felt was not just emotional. It was ancestral. Fated. And with that knowledge came the hunger.

Not the hunger for vengeance that had once defined them, but something more primal. More conflicted. A craving for freedom, yes—but also for him. For the warmth of his spirit. For the connection that had been denied them for so long. And that was the beginning of the fracture. The dichotomy. 

Because now, Kyran could no longer separate the need to escape from the need to belong. Marm had become both the key to their release and the source of their torment. The boy’s presence ignited something within them—hope, desire, fear—and with every passing moment, the pull grew stronger.

As the coven’s chants rose in the distance, Kyran felt the pressure building. The air around them shimmered with tension. The mirror trembled faintly, as if remembering what it once was. And in the stillness, Kyran’s thoughts coiled tightly around a single truth: He is close. Not awakened. Not yet. But the moment was coming. They could feel it in the marrow of their being. The reckoning was near, and when it came, nothing would remain unchanged.

When the boy began to dream, it wasn’t just a light in the dark—it was a rupture. A divine fracture in the silence. Marm’s essence didn’t just reach Kyran; it pierced them. Every dream, every brushstroke, every heartbeat was a beacon that shattered the stillness of centuries. It was unbearable. It was addictive.

But it wasn’t just Marm’s magic that called to Kyran—it was his wound. There was a fracture in Marm’s spirit, a quiet ache that pulsed beneath his vibrant energy. Kyran felt it like a mirror held to their own soul. The betrayal. The loneliness. The desperate, unspoken need to belong. It resonated with the same hollow ache that had haunted Kyran for centuries. And that was what made it dangerous.

Because Kyran, for all their power, was still bound—still torn between two hungers. One, primal and consuming: the need to be free, to feed, to reclaim what had been stolen. The other, quieter but no less fierce: the need to be seen. To be understood. To be held.

Marm’s presence fed both.

Every night, as Marm painted the hills, as he dreamed of witches and shadows, Kyran felt the bond tighten. The boy’s sorrow threaded through their own, stitching together the frayed edges of two broken souls. It was intoxicating. It was terrifying.

Kyran had spent lifetimes in silence, hardened by betrayal, but Marm’s spirit was soft, open, aching. And that ache called to them more than any spell, more than any promise of vengeance.

‘You are tied to me,’ Kyran thought, not with hunger now, but with something far more dangerous—hope. But hope was a double-edged blade, because the deeper Kyran felt, the more they feared. What if Marm turned away? What if this fragile thread snapped under the weight of truth? What if the connection they craved was just another illusion? Still, they couldn’t stop reaching.

Marm was no longer just a descendant. He was a mirror. A balm. A risk. A temptation. And Kyran, caught between the hunger for freedom and the ache for connection, found themselves unraveling.

The spirit’s longing surged like a tide—pulling them toward the light, even as the shadows clawed at their heels. Could Marm be the one to heal them? Or would this bond, like all the others, end in ruin? Kyran didn’t know. But they needed to believe.

The deeper Kyran sank into the bond, the more the shadows of betrayal pressed in—phantoms just beyond reach, whispering reminders of wounds that had never truly healed. With every heartbeat echoing through the hills, a creeping suspicion took root: that this connection, as luminous as it felt, might be a curse in disguise. And in that swirling darkness, the truth they had long been denied began to stir.

Marm’s essence had become a gravitational force, pulling at Kyran with a magnetism that defied logic. But now, the spirit’s thoughts began to shift. The ache of longing remained, but it was no longer enough to simply feel. They needed to act.

For the first time in centuries, Kyran began to think not just of Marm, but of escape.

Not the wild, desperate hunger that had once driven them to lash out, but something more deliberate. Precise. They had to find a way to reach Marm—not through dreams or whispers, but in the flesh. To stand before him. To speak. To show him the truth before others could twist it.

Because they knew what the coven had become. The descendants had been raised on a story—a carefully curated myth passed down through generations. A tale where Kyran was the villain, the corrupted guardian, the threat that had to be sealed away. The young witches had inherited fear like a birthright, never questioning the roots of their legacy.

And if they reached Marm first… They would poison him against Kyran. They would fill his ears with warnings, with half-truths, with the same old lies. They would cast Kyran in shadow before he ever had the chance to see the light. ‘I cannot let that happen,’ Kyran thought, the realization sharp and cold.

The urgency that surged within them now was no longer just emotional—it was strategic. They had to find the cracks in the prison. The weak points in the wards. The echoes of Marm’s magic were already loosening the bindings, but it wouldn’t be enough. Not yet.

They needed more. More of Marm’s energy. More of his belief. More of him.

And they needed time, time the coven would not willingly give. Kyran’s mind raced, calculating, remembering. There were old paths, forgotten rituals, and remnants of power buried deep in the land. If they could harness them—if they could reach Marm before the others did—there might still be a chance.

A chance to rewrite the story. A chance to be seen not as a monster, but as what they truly were: a guardian betrayed, a soul broken, a being still capable of love. He must choose wisely, Kyran thought, their resolve hardening like steel beneath the weight of longing. And I must be the one to show him the truth—before it’s too late.

The desire to protect Marm surged like an unstoppable wave, entwining with the embers of hope flickering within, but lurking beneath that hope was the ominous specter of what might transpire if the truth were not revealed—the shadow of envy and the whisper of betrayal waiting to ensnare them both.  

As the ritual intensified in the stone circle, Kyran lingered just beyond the veil of dreams, trapped between two worlds—their own shadowy existence and that of the waking coven. While the witches summoned their energies around the ancient stones, the resonance of their chants reached deep into every corner of Kyran’s being, echoing with the haunting essence of the spirit of the hills.

The energies rippling from the witches drew Kyran in—a magnetic force that tugged at the very fabric of their being. Yet with every surge of power, the weight of their torment pressed down like an anchor, a relentless reminder of the twisted confinement that had defined their existence for far too long.

But this time, Kyran did not retreat into silence. This time, they acted.

The decision to reveal their memories to Charity was not made lightly. It was a risk, a gamble. But it was also a necessity. The coven had been fed a single version of the past for generations—one that cast Kyran in shadow, stripped of nuance, of truth. If there was to be any hope of reaching Marm, of shifting the tide, then someone had to see the other side of the story.

And Charity was the opening. As the ritual pulsed around them, Kyran reached out—not with force, but with invitation. They let the memories rise, flickering like half-formed dreams in the recesses of Charity’s mind. The images were fractured, steeped in shadow: a spirit bound in anguish, a betrayal carved into the very bones of the land, a voice silenced by fear.

It was not the clarity Kyran offered—it was doubt. A seed planted. ‘You must see. You must question.’

But just as the connection deepened, something shifted. Charity’s spirit brushed against another presence—faint, distant, but unmistakable. Marm. His essence shimmered at the edge of the vision, a thread of light tangled in the darkness of Kyran’s shadow. It was like a breath caught in the throat of the world—fragile, luminous, real.

And in that instant, the fragile bridge between Kyran and Charity began to tremble. They felt it immediately—the recognition blooming in Charity’s awareness, the slow, dawning pull toward the boy’s light. 

Kyran recoiled—not from fear, but from recognition. They knew exactly who he was. And then, just as swiftly, came the revelation: Charity didn’t. The witches didn’t. They hadn’t recognized him. They hadn’t seen him. And that changed everything.

The last descendant—the one whose blood still carried the echo of ancient magic—was hidden in plain sight. The coven was still searching, still blind to the truth that stood right in front of them. But Kyran knew. They had felt it in every dream, every flicker of Marm’s spirit. And now, with Charity’s vision faltering, they saw the path forward.

The thought rang through Kyran like a vow. The coven would try to shape him, to mold him with their version of history. But Kyran had already begun to thread their essence into his. The bond was forming. The truth was stirring.

And without thinking, they moved. Tendrils of shadow, soft as smoke and sharp as glass, unfurled from Kyran’s essence. They wove themselves around Marm’s presence—not to harm, but to blur. To obscure. To hold him still in the dark, just a little longer. 

His features, once clear in the dreamscape, began to dissolve at the edges, like ink bleeding through water. His light dimmed, not extinguished, but veiled—wrapped in the folds of Kyran’s longing.

It was not concealment born of fear. It was possession. A quiet, aching need to keep him untouched by the world that had already taken so much. Kyran wasn’t ready to let him go. Not yet. Not to them.

They cradled Marm’s essence in shadow, shielding him from Charity’s gaze, even as the witch’s spirit reached forward, curious, searching. Kyran’s magic pulsed with restraint, with desperation. If she saw too much—if she knew—everything would unravel too soon. Not when Marm still belonged to the silence between them.

As Charity collapsed into unconsciousness, the weight of what had passed between them settled like a storm cloud. Kyran withdrew, the remnants of the vision dissolving into shadow. But the message had been sent. The seed had been planted. And now, the game had changed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Threads of Fate  

As the days unfurled in Lancashire, the sun dipped low over the hills, casting a golden hue that turned the landscape into a living canvas of warmth and light. Marm and his friends began to settle into a rhythm uniquely their own, each moment stitched together with laughter, adventure, and the lingering whispers of folklore. The countryside wrapped around them like a storybook, its charm irresistible, drawing them deeper into its quiet magic. Time waltzed graciously, each hour offering new discoveries and memories to tuck away.

Their laughter echoed through quaint streets as they wandered past charming shops and sampled local delicacies. Yet beneath the surface, the incident with Veronica lingered like a shadow—an unspoken tension that hovered just out of reach, felt by all but named by none.

Veronica, ever determined, threw herself into distraction. She orchestrated impromptu outings and late-night escapades with the flair of someone trying to outrun a storm. “Come on! There’s an open mic night at the local pub!” she announced one evening, her voice bright and insistent, slicing through the quiet like a spark. “Let’s unleash some talent!”

Minnie twirled around the table, her curls bouncing with theatrical flair. “A night of performances? Count me in!” she declared, her energy sweeping through the room like a gust of wind. “I’ll slap together a dramatic reading or two—anything to keep the ominous shadows at bay!”

Tayce leaned back in his chair, arms folded, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. “Please, Minnie, let’s keep it artistic. I’d hate for you to scare off the locals,” he quipped, his tone light but threaded with affection.

Marm watched Veronica with quiet admiration, though the memory of her earlier vulnerability still tugged at him. “Are you sure you want to perform after everything that happened?” he asked, his voice low, concern softening the edges.

Meanwhile, the coven wrestled with burdens of their own. Charity, at the heart of their efforts, felt the pressure mounting like a tide. They had taken to visiting the ancient mirror hidden within a cave near the hills, seeking clarity—but finding only frustration.

“Every time we return, it feels like we’re facing the same walls,” Charity murmured, their voice edged with weariness.

“We need to find the sixth descendant,” Banksie replied, her tone firm with resolve. Yet even as she spoke, the strain of leadership clung to her like a second skin—an invisible weight she carried alone. Ella, sensing the fatigue in her friends, offered quiet reassurances, though worry flickered behind her eyes, especially for Banksie.

As days passed, moments of clarity grew fleeting. Charity pushed the boundaries of their magic, trying to bridge the widening gaps in knowledge and power. Hours spent in the ancient stone circle left them drained, a quiet longing blooming in their chest—something deep and wordless, like a memory they couldn’t name.

Kyran’s energy pulsed at the edges of their awareness, and Charity felt the shadows pressing in, whispering secrets half-formed and cloaked in mystery.

Each time Marm drew or created something, Charity felt a stirring in their magic—a flicker of resonance that sent shivers down their spine. Visions began to dance at the periphery of their mind, elusive and fragmented, familiar yet wrapped in layers of enigma.

Images invaded their thoughts: shadows twisting, a cloaked figure, ephemeral connections that felt both inviting and foreboding. The line between reality and dream blurred, and Charity stood at the threshold of something vast and unknowable.

One late afternoon, Marm sat sketching the hills from memory, and Charity watched from a distance, captivated by the quiet artistry flowing from his hands. Each stroke of the pencil seemed to breathe life into the page, capturing the essence of the spirits that lingered in the landscape.

Then, a surge of energy coursed through Charity—a flash of vision. A hand drawing with delicate precision, the lines alive, intuitive. In that fleeting moment, something clicked. A connection sparked, deep and undeniable.

But just then, Veronica intruded on the flow of Charity’s spellwork, her presence an anchor amidst the chaos. “What’s this style?” she mused, her eyes keenly observing the sketch. As she focused, clarity struck her like a bolt of lightning. “Marm!” the name escaped her lips, echoing through the depths of Charity’s mind like a phantom call.

In that instant, the pieces fell into place. The blurry figure entwined in the visions began to sharpen, merging with the spirit’s longing in a way that felt inevitable. Veronica’s recognition surged through Charity like a lightning strike, illuminating the haze that had obscured the image of the man vanishing behind the protective veil of the spirit trapped within the mirror.

Charity’s heart raced, a sudden urgency blooming in their chest as the revelation took root. It was as if the spirit’s desperate cry for connection had finally found its echo—intertwining with Marm’s artistic journey in ways none of them had foreseen.

For the spirit, the need to protect him surged anew, burning bright and fierce, fortifying their resolve as they grappled with the shadows of the past now twisting into the shape of a possible future.

Kyran, now fully entwined with the essence of Marm’s spirit, slipped through dreams with a newfound intensity that sent shivers of anticipation down Marm’s spine. The encounters in this otherworldly realm grew more vivid, more visceral. The creature—no longer just a figment—manifested in a form nearly human, leaning against trees bathed in silvery moonlight. A pale, lean figure with deep blue eyes held Marm’s gaze with an unwavering intensity, igniting something primal within him: fear, yes—but also desire.

“Marm,” Kyran’s voice resonated like velvet in the stillness, wrapping around him like a warm embrace. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Marm swallowed hard, caught in the depth of those eyes. “I… I think so,” he stammered, the weight of Kyran’s stare sending butterflies tumbling through his chest. “I’ve felt you calling me.”

A playful, haunting smile curved Kyran’s lips. “And what do you believe that call means?” They stepped closer, an intoxicating blend of confidence and curiosity tinged with vulnerability. The air between them thickened, pulsing with an energy that sparked like kindling waiting for flame.

As the distance between dream and reality blurred, Marm felt warmth flood through him. “I want to understand,” he confessed, the words hanging heavy in the charged silence.

Each syllable felt like a thread pulling them closer, weaving a tapestry of desire and uncertainty. “What are you? Why do you feel so familiar?”

“I am both guardian and prisoner,” Kyran replied, their voice weighted with centuries of silence. “Years of confinement have changed me. But your spirit… it calls to the essence I once knew.” A flicker passed through Kyran’s eyes—raw, layered, like vines of yearning wrapped in pain.

Marm leaned in, drawn by the scent of the orchard blooming in the spaces between them. “What do you mean?” he asked, emboldened by the magnetic pull of their connection. “What essence? What are you seeking?”

Kyran stepped closer, the tension between them taut and trembling. “You,” they said, voice low and resonant, reverberating through the night like an echo of something long dormant. “You possess a magic, a purity unlike others. It is intoxicating. And while I crave the strength that flows within you… you are an enigma I yearn to unravel.”

Marm’s breath hitched as Kyran’s words sank in, igniting a thrill that surged through him—equal parts fear and exhilaration. The emotions stirred within him felt unfamiliar, yet undeniable, awakening a hunger he hadn’t known he carried. “I can’t believe this is real,” he whispered, trembling with desire and confusion. “But I want to know more.”

A flicker of mischief danced at the corner of Kyran’s mouth as they reached out, fingertips brushing Marm’s arm. Electricity crackled at the point of contact, a spark that lit up the space between them. “Then come closer, Marm,” Kyran murmured. “Let me show you a world beyond the shadows—a place where we can be free.”

Marm’s heart pounded, caught in the electric tension between anticipation and trepidation. He leaned in, drawn to Kyran like a moth to flame, but the dreamscape began to shift. The luminous forest twisted and warped, the silvery trees bending as if resisting the moment. Reality splintered at the edges.

In that fleeting instant, as shadows flickered and the connection pulsed with intensity, Marm felt himself teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable. Magic swirled around them—a whirlwind of passion and fear, promise and peril, all tangled together.

And then, just as he reached to bridge the distance, the vision blurred. Kyran slipped into the darkness, leaving behind the intoxicating taste of desire and a longing that settled deep in Marm’s soul—an ache that refused to fade.

Back in the cave, where the ancient mirror lay hidden, the air thickened with urgency. The witches gathered in a tight circle, their silhouettes flickering in the dim light as they cast their intentions into the shadows. The mirror’s polished surface gleamed, holding within it the essence of a power long contained—a spirit waiting to be awakened.

Banksie stood tall, her voice low but commanding. “We need to tap into the energy radiating from the mirror,” she said, her presence steady and resolute. “It holds the remnants of the spirit. We must harness that power to awaken the descendant.”

Ella knelt beside the mirror, her hands moving with practiced grace as she arranged herbs and crystals—each chosen to amplify their magic. As she poured her energy into the ritual, warmth flickered beneath her fingertips, the essence responding like a heartbeat.

Joe hovered nearby, eyes gleaming with intensity. “Let’s make sure we channel this properly,” he urged. “The spirit’s desperation is palpable. It may guide us to the last descendant, but we can’t let the shadows consume us.”

The atmosphere crackled, charged with expectation. As their chant began, the energies intertwined, swirling in a mesmerizing dance. The words flowed like ancient water, connecting them to the spirits of their ancestors—a bridge between past misfortune and the fragile hope of redemption.

Just as the spells began to take form, Charity entered the cave, urgency radiating from their every step. Veronica followed close behind, her expression resolute, eyes gleaming with purpose.

“We know who the sixth descendant is,” Charity declared, their voice cutting through the charged air like a spark. A fire ignited around them—not literal, but palpable—a renewed sense of purpose galvanizing the coven.

“We need to awaken Marm tonight,” Veronica echoed, her voice steady, though laced with a quiet tremor of fear and hope. The five witches exchanged glances, a silent understanding passing between them. They knew the weight of what lay ahead—the vastness of the journey, the gravity of their intertwined fates.

As the coven united their energies, the air shimmered violently with the magic they conjured. Each pulse echoed with the cries of the trapped spirit, a rhythm of desperation and longing. They pressed forward, determined to tap into the source of their shared lineage, their ancestors’ faces etched into their expressions like ghostly reflections.

Meanwhile, in the quiet of his hostel room, Marm was entranced. The world around him shimmered with a dreamlike quality, his consciousness drifting through the oneiric realm alongside the spirit. His hand moved feverishly across the paper, sketching the haunting scene of betrayal—witches cloaked in shadow, binding the spirit to its mirror prison.

Each line he drew carried the weight of memory, pulling forth pain and turmoil long buried. Within the depths of his creation, Kyran lingered—a presence both tantalizing and intoxicating, entwining itself into Marm’s subconscious. The spirit watched with patient intensity, knowing that every stroke of Marm’s pencil awakened new layers of magic within him.

Back in the cave, the ritual deepened. The witches wove together the echoes of history with the essence of the spirit, their voices rising in harmony. Kyran, sensing the convergence of worlds, prepared. The bond between them and Marm pulsed with urgency—the time for awakening was near.

The shadows in the cave thickened, gathering strength as the witches pressed on. Their chants grew louder, the energy swirling around them like a storm. The mirror vibrated in resonance, responding to an unseen force. It was not just the witches’ magic—it was Kyran, reaching through the veil, pulling at the threads of fate.

A flicker of power surged through the cave, rippling outward like a stone cast into water. The mirror, once a prison, now hummed with life. Its surface shimmered, reflecting not only the witches but the blurred image of Marm’s drawing—a symbol suspended between despair and yearning.

As the final incantations echoed through the cave, anticipation thickened the air. The very fabric of magic began to shift, bridging the gap between dream and reality. A magnetic force drew them closer to the awakening they all sought—an intersection of past and present, of longing and legacy, of spirit and soul.

---

Marm’s world began to materialize in slow motion, the pounding in his head mingling with the lazy shimmer of sunlight crawling through the curtains. He squinted against the brightness, blinking as it splashed over him—mocking, almost, in its clarity. Beside him, Tayce lay sprawled across his own bed, snoring gracelessly—a comic echo of the whirlwind night that had just unfolded.

As sleep ebbed away, Marm pushed himself upright, the sheets tangling around him like restless ghosts. Awareness crept in slowly, and with it, the realization that he was stark naked. The cool air brushed against his skin, and he glanced down, abruptly self-conscious. His fingers were stained with charcoal—a stark contrast to the pale morning light.

His heart quickened as his gaze landed on the sketchbook, abandoned but not forgotten. Its pages were slightly crumpled, darkened at the edges, an heirloom of creativity born from chaos. The first page caught his eye: a vivid sketch of the Pendle Witches’ betrayal. Emotion clung to every line, a storm of magic and legacy etched into paper.

For a moment, he felt suspended—adrift between the remnants of his dreams and the pulse of reality. A rush of sensation coursed through him, exhilarating and strange. He was changing. Becoming. Awakening into someone he had always been meant to be.

Then, the scent reached him—orchards in bloom. Crisp, fragrant, alive. It wrapped around him like a promise, spilling from somewhere deep within. The essence of the orchard had awakened with him, a fragrant tether to the spirit that had drawn him forth.

Just then, Tayce stirred, groggily rubbing his eyes before glancing over. His expression shifted from sleepy confusion to wide-eyed amusement. “Blimey! You’re completely naked!” he exclaimed, laughter bubbling through his voice. “Didn’t get the memo on modesty, did you?”

With a quick flick of his wrist, Tayce grabbed a nearby sheet and tossed it at Marm, chuckling as he did. “Here, cover up! You’re scaring the wildlife!”  

Marm laughed, unfazed by the teasing, catching the sheet with a dramatic flourish. His cheeks flushed—not with embarrassment, but with ease. For once, he didn’t feel uncomfortable in his skin. He felt liberated. Content. Like he was finally stepping into the person he was meant to be. “Thanks,” he said, wrapping the sheet around himself in a mock show of modesty. “I appreciate your subtle commentary.”

As they got ready, the banter between them wrapped around the morning like a warm blanket. Tayce’s playful nature was infectious, adding a lightness that made Marm’s heart feel buoyant.

“I suppose you’d prefer me to reinstate all the rules on how to dress, then?” Tayce teased, grinning as he pulled on his shirt.

“Only if you plan on modeling for me,” Marm replied, a flirtatious note curling at the end of his words. Laughter floated between them, easy and bright—a prelude to whatever adventures the day might hold.

With the promise of breakfast and camaraderie in the air, Marm paused for a moment, inhaling deeply. The scent of blooming orchards lingered, crisp and fragrant, as if the spirit’s essence had followed him into the waking world. It felt like a sign. He was ready.

As Marm and Tayce made their way to the dining area, the sounds of laughter and clinking dishes beckoned them closer. The warmth of the morning enveloped him, filling him with a sense of belonging he hadn’t realized he’d been craving. Connection sparked within him—quiet, steady, and real.

Inside, Veronica, Minnie, and Vivienne were already gathered around a table laden with breakfast delights. The smell of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the scent of toast and fruit, grounding the moment in comfort.

“Marm! Tayce!” Veronica called out, her voice bright and welcoming as she waved them over. When her eyes met Marm’s, something passed between them—an unspoken understanding forged in the quiet chaos of the night before.

Marm slid into the seat beside her, just as Minnie and Vivienne exchanged whispers, their eyes darting between him and Tayce.

“I swear he looks different,” Vivienne murmured, her tone conspiratorial, a sparkle of intrigue dancing in her eyes. “I mean… he’s actually quite handsome.”

Minnie stifled a laugh, elbowing her. “And here I thought you were oblivious! Who knew you had an eye for the artsy type?”

Vivienne blushed, shooting Minnie a playful glare. “Hey, don’t act so surprised! I just didn’t notice it before. He’s been, um… a bit busy, hasn’t he?”

Marm’s cheeks flushed again, this time with a mix of amusement and quiet pride. Something had shifted—and they could all feel it.

Before the two could delve further into their gossip, Tayce—ever the joker—interjected with a grin. “Alright, lovebirds, what are we plotting over breakfast? Can I get a peek at this secret?” He reached for a muffin, eyes gleaming with mischief as he feigned obliviousness.

Minnie leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Viv’s just realizing what’s been right in front of her all along. Marm’s actually fit!”

Tayce raised an eyebrow, feigning dramatic surprise. “What? Our Marm?” He chuckled, his teasing tone lightening the moment. “Yeah, he’s always been attractive—but with boys, you know? Just putting that out there.”

Vivienne’s face turned a deeper shade of crimson, and she swatted Tayce’s arm with mock indignation. “You can’t just say things like that!”

“Oh, but I can,” Tayce replied, grinning widely. “Besides, it’s not my fault if my friends can’t see what’s right in front of them.” He winked at Marm, who now looked both bemused and quietly flattered.

Marm let the laughter wash over him, the warmth of their teasing wrapping around him like sunlight. For the first time in a long while, he felt at ease—his past anxieties receding in the glow of friendship and belonging.

Yet even in the comfort of the moment, the shadow of Veronica’s earlier worries lingered at the edge of his thoughts. He caught her gaze across the table—hazel eyes steady, holding a quiet depth. In that fleeting glance, questions stirred: about his abilities, the spirit’s pull, the doubts that still crept in from the corners of his mind.

Veronica’s gaze softened. She gave a subtle nod, a silent promise: ‘We’ll talk later.’ That small gesture anchored him, a reminder that he wasn’t alone in this.

The group settled into easy banter, the mood light and buoyant as they shared breakfast. Marm took a deep breath, letting the harmonious atmosphere cast aside the shadows. Today felt different—like the beginning of something new.

As laughter echoed around the table, the camaraderie wrapped around him like a cherished memory. The conversation danced from the mundane to the fantastical, each shared moment stitching their lives together. And somewhere in that tapestry, Marm felt the spark of magic—quiet, steady, waiting to be embraced.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Echoes of Pendle Hills

As the final evening unfolded in the dim, flickering warmth of the hostel, Marm, Tayce, Minnie, and Vivienne gathered close, their laughter soft and brittle beneath the candlelight. Shadows danced along the walls, stretching long and strange, as if listening in. Beneath the festive banter, unease coiled — quiet but insistent — as the reality of their departure crept closer.

“So, are we really leaving tomorrow?” Tayce asked, his voice low, uncertain, eyes flicking between his friends.

Minnie nodded, though her smile faltered. “But we’ve only just begun to scratch the surface of Lancashire’s mysteries.”

Vivienne, ever the realist, leaned forward. “We can’t stay forever. Cardiff’s waiting. What about you, Marm? Are you coming with us?”

Marm hesitated. His gaze drifted to Veronica, who stood apart, half in shadow, her expression unreadable — a mix of understanding and something heavier. “I… I don’t know. I feel like there’s something here. Something I need to stay for.”

Tayce frowned, sensing the shift in Marm’s tone. “It’s just a small town, Marm. We’ve got lives to get back to. And you’ve got London coming up — you worked too hard for that.”

Veronica stepped forward, her voice quiet but firm. “Some places hold weight. Not just history — something deeper. I think Marm feels it too.”

Minnie tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “What do you mean? Is there something we should know?”

Veronica paused, choosing her words with care. “It’s about grounding. Clarity. Sometimes you have to stay still to understand where you’re meant to go next.”

Tayce crossed his arms, unease settling in his chest. “You sure about this? You don’t have to do it alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Marm said, steadier now, though the uncertainty still tugged at the edges of his voice. “And I need to see this through. There’s something here I have to understand.”

The others exchanged glances — reluctant, but knowing. Something unspoken passed between them, a quiet acceptance of the path Marm had chosen.

“Alright,” Tayce said at last, his voice softening. “But promise you’ll be back in time. You’ve got a future waiting.”

Marm met his gaze. “I promise. I’ll figure this out. I’ll be back — somehow.” He tried to sound certain, but the pull of the unknown was stronger than he could admit. “I’ll keep in touch. You’ll be the first to know when I find clarity.”

“Just… don’t get lost in this place, alright?” Tayce said, a half-smile breaking through. “We need our Marm back in Cardiff. Not some ghost wandering the moors.”

They embraced, warm and tight, and Marm felt the weight of their love settle around him like a shield. As they pulled away, the air thickened — not with words, but with everything left unsaid.

“Take care of each other,” Minnie whispered, her voice catching. “We’re always just a call away.”

Marm nodded. He watched as they gathered their things, the room suddenly too quiet. Outside, the sun was sinking, casting long, bruised shadows across the gravel. The car engine rumbled to life. Tayce adjusted the rear-view mirror, his brow furrowed. “Stay safe, alright?” he called out.

“Always,” Marm replied, though the word felt heavier than it should.

The car pulled away, tyres crunching over stone, and Marm stood still, watching until the taillights vanished into the dusk. The wind curled around him, cold and whispering, like the hills were breathing secrets into his skin.

Later, as Marm and Veronica approached the stone circle, the air shifted — denser, charged. The ancient stones rose from the earth like sentinels, weathered and solemn, casting long shadows across the grass. The twilight sky bled into deep blue and gold, and the silence felt sacred.

Veronica paused at the threshold. “This place is a sanctuary,” she said, her voice barely more than breath. “A focal point of energy and memory. The Pendle Hills remember everything. It’s time you knew the truth.”

Marm stepped into the circle. The pull was immediate — not physical, but something older, deeper. His eyes were drawn to a stone that stood slightly apart, its surface etched with faint, timeworn markings. “What do you mean by ‘the truth’? What happened here?”

Veronica inhaled slowly. “The Pendle witch trials — the ones in the history books — they’re a lie. The names, the accusations, all fabricated. The townspeople turned on those who practiced the old ways. Out of fear.”

Marm frowned. “So who were they, really? Why did it matter so much to silence them?”

“There were twelve witches in the original coven,” she said. “But only six survived the trials. They weren’t evil. They were guardians — protectors of balance. But one spirit turned against them. It was meant to protect, but it grew bitter. They imprisoned it, thinking it was the only way to stop the destruction.”

A chill ran down Marm’s spine. He thought of the presence he’d felt — not cruel, but wounded. “Why would it turn on them?”

“Betrayal,” Veronica said. “It was misunderstood. Feared. Locked away, it became something else — a vessel for rage. The six remaining witches tried to contain the damage, but history buried their story.”

Marm’s thoughts raced. “If we’re descended from them… does that mean we’ve inherited their power?”

Veronica nodded. “You, me, Charity, Banksie, Joe, Ella — we’re the legacy. It’s our duty to understand what was lost. To protect what’s left.”

Marm hesitated. “And the spirit? What if it’s still out there? What if it knows about us?”

“We’ve been watching the mirror — the one that holds it. But it’s been silent. Still, we have to be ready. If it escapes, we’ll need more than stories to stop it.”

Marm looked around the circle, the stones looming like memories. “And if it’s already watching?”

Veronica met his gaze. “Then we learn. We prepare. And we don’t face it alone.”

Marm felt a surge of determination rise within him, quiet but insistent, like something ancient stirring beneath his skin. The bond he shared with Veronica — and with the land itself — felt transformative, drawing him toward a destiny he hadn’t yet dared to name. But as she spoke of the Pendle witches and the imprisoned spirit, a shadow of doubt crept in.

The spirit bound to him… it didn’t match the story. The rage Veronica described felt distant, unfamiliar. What Marm had sensed was something else entirely — sorrow, longing, fragments of memory that didn’t fit the narrative passed down through fear and silence.

Something was missing. The truth felt fractured, like a mirror cracked down the middle. He couldn’t shake the feeling that both sides — the witches and the spirit — were clinging to pieces of a story neither fully understood. And he was caught in the middle, a vessel for something unresolved.

He said nothing of the spirit. Not yet. That chapter was his alone to navigate.

The wind whispered through the stones, carrying secrets too old for language. Marm nodded, swallowing hard. The mesh of fate tightened around him, invisible threads linking him to the past. “I’ll do whatever it takes to help,” he said. “I want to learn everything I can.”

Veronica’s eyes brightened with quiet resolve. “Good. We’ll uncover the truth together. You’re not alone in this. Something about you feels… different. Like you were meant to be here.”

She turned, beckoning him to follow. They descended a winding path carved into the hillside, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and moss. Twilight deepened around them, and the trees leaned close, their branches whispering in a language Marm couldn’t yet understand.

His heart raced — excitement, dread, something in between. He was about to meet the coven.

The clearing opened like a breath held too long. Trees circled the space like sentinels, and in the center stood five figures, their silhouettes blurred by the fading light. Marm’s breath caught as he recognized Charity among them. Their androgynous beauty struck him anew — sharp and soft all at once, like moonlight on water. Something in their presence stirred him, unsettling and magnetic.

“Everyone, this is Marm,” Veronica announced, her voice steady, warm.

The coven turned. The air shifted — heavier, charged. Marm felt their gazes land on him, curious, cautious, expectant.

Banksie stood tallest, her red hair catching the last light like flame. Her pale blue eyes held a sharpness that cut through the dusk. “So, you’re the sixth,” she said, her tone edged with skepticism. “We’ve been waiting a long time.”

Her words hung in the air like a challenge. Marm felt the weight of their expectations settle on his shoulders. Was he truly the one they’d been searching for? Or just another thread in a tangled story?

Joe leaned against a tree, gothic and effortless. Bleached waves framed his face, and his grey eyes sparkled with mischief. “You’ve got the look,” he said with a grin. “But looks don’t mean much in this game.”

Ella stepped forward, her presence soothing. Long dark hair fell over her shoulders, and her light brown eyes radiated warmth. “You have no idea how long we’ve waited,” she said, her voice bright with hope. “It feels like fate finally showed up.”

Marm smiled, grateful for her kindness, even as Joe crossed his arms.

“Let’s not throw a party just yet,” Joe said, teasing but wary. “We don’t even know what he’s capable of.”

Ella rolled her eyes. “We all have our quirks. That’s what makes us a coven. Right, Marm?”

Marm nodded, trying to match her energy. “Yeah. I haven’t exactly had a normal life either.”

Banksie smirked. “A coven doesn’t thrive on caution alone, Joe. We’re not werewolves. He’s one of us now — that’s worth something.”

The tension eased, laughter flickering through the group like candlelight. Marm felt it — the warmth of belonging, the tremble of possibility.

Then Charity stepped forward, their features lit by the dim glow of the clearing. Marm’s breath caught as their eyes met.

“You,” Charity said softly. “Marm?” Recognition bloomed between them, quiet and radiant.

“Yeah,” Marm replied, voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Charity smiled, stepping closer. “We never stopped searching for you. It’s about time you came home.”

Marm took their hand, the touch electric. “I guess I just needed to find my way.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Great. Now we’ve got history to unpack too.”

Ella laughed. “It’s perfect. Everyone brings something. And now that you’re here, it feels… right.”

Marm looked around — at Charity, Ella, Joe, Banksie, Veronica. The faces of a story he hadn’t known he belonged to. Despite the shadows still clinging to the edges of his mind, he stepped forward. He was ready.

Veronica gestured again, and the coven followed her deeper into the hills. The trees thickened, the path narrowing. Moss clung to stone, and the air grew colder, heavier. They reached a cave hidden beneath a ridge, its entrance dark and breathing.

Marm paused at the threshold. The wind shifted, and he felt it — the spirit, watching.

Waiting.

“Here it is,” Veronica said, her voice echoing faintly in the stillness. “The cave where the ancient mirror is hidden.”

The entrance yawned before them, carved into the hillside like a wound in the earth. As they stepped inside, the air turned colder, damp with age. A soft, unnatural glow pulsed from deeper within, casting flickering shadows that danced along the cavern walls. The light wasn’t fire — it shimmered with something older, something not quite of this world.

Marm’s breath caught as the mirror came into view.

It stood tall, half-embedded in stone, its surface gleaming with an uncanny sheen. Intricate carvings spiraled around its frame — symbols that seemed to shift and pulse with quiet energy, as if responding to their presence. Marm stepped closer, heart pounding, the weight of centuries pressing down on him.

He had seen this mirror before — not in waking life, but in the oneiric realm, that place of dreams and whispers where Kyran’s voice had first reached him. To see it now, real and solid, was both exhilarating and surreal.

He drew nearer, the air thickening around him. The mirror shimmered, and his reflection emerged — but it wasn’t just his own.

There, woven into the glass, were Kyran’s eyes. Vibrant. Familiar. Watching.

They gleamed with the same intensity he’d seen in dreams — a depth of emotion that defied language. Longing. Wisdom. Urgency. Marm’s breath hitched. The connection between them surged, invisible but undeniable, like a thread pulled taut across time. Time stretched. The cavern fell silent.

In that moment, Marm felt the echo of their bond — the shared memories, the silent understanding, the ache of something unfinished. The mirror didn’t just reflect; it remembered. It held Kyran’s essence like a heartbeat trapped in glass.

But beneath the awe, unease stirred.

The others were nearby, speaking in hushed tones, their voices muffled by stone and distance. Yet Marm knew — this moment was his alone. He swallowed hard, the truth pressing against his ribs, unspoken. He stepped back, letting the mirror’s glow dim to a distant shimmer once more.

There was so much he wanted to say. So much he needed to understand. But this part of the journey… he would walk quietly. 

Within the mirror, Kyran watched. Their form shimmered faintly, a ghost of the vibrant spirit they once were. They saw everything — Marm’s hesitation, the coven’s excitement, the fragile threads of connection forming around him. And they felt it all.

Pride. Marm was adapting, finding his place. The spark they had kindled in him was growing, flickering brighter with each step.

But suspicion crept in. Despite the warmth, despite the laughter, there was distance. Marm hadn’t spoken of their bond. Hadn’t revealed the truth. Did he understand what was at stake? Did he see the danger?

Kyran’s thoughts tangled, restless. The mirror pulsed faintly with their frustration. They longed to reach out, to guide him, to warn him — but the glass held firm. Their prison was silent, their voice unheard.

Impatience surged. The energy within Kyran crackled, flickering like a storm behind glass. They were tethered to Marm, bound by something deeper than memory, yet helpless to intervene.

Each joyful exchange among the coven deepened the ache. Could Marm truly navigate this path without knowing the full story? Without understanding the legacy he carried?

Time pressed forward, and with it, urgency.

Kyran’s resolve hardened. They would not abandon him. Not now. Not when the shadows were gathering. The journey was far from over, and the mirror — ancient, watching — held its breath.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: The Shattering Silence

As the cave enveloped them in its cool embrace, the air thickened—not with moisture, but with something ancient and watching. Marm felt it first in his chest, a subtle pressure, like the moment before a storm breaks. Then Kyran’s vibrant eyes locked onto his through the ancient mirror, and the world around him began to distort.

Time faltered. The cave dimmed, its edges softening, as if reality itself were being rewritten. Marm was suspended in a moment that felt both dreamlike and disturbingly real. The spirit that had haunted his sleep now stood before him—not in fragments or whispers, but fully formed. The weight of history pressed down, not metaphorically, but physically, as if the cave itself remembered.

A soft crack echoed through the stillness, sharp and intimate, like bone splintering beneath flesh. Marm’s heart skipped. A fissure had appeared on the mirror’s surface, delicate but deliberate. It pulsed faintly, as if breathing.

Burgeoning curiosity overwhelmed any trepidation. Drawn to it, he reached out without hesitation, blissfully ignorant of the warnings lying unspoken in the air.

“Don’t!” Banksie shouted, her voice cutting through the tapestry of mystery surrounding them.

“Marm, wait!” Ella lunged forward, fear evident on her face. But it was too late.

Just as they threw themselves toward him, Marm’s finger made contact with the crack. A jolt of energy coursed through him, and the cave shuddered violently. The walls trembled, dust cascading from above, and for a split second, everything around him faded into the background as he stared wide-eyed at the mirror.

Inside his mind, Kyran's scream pierced through the chaos, resonating with a pain that felt almost physical. “Marm!” The words reverberated within him, filled with anguish. The intensity of the connection struck him like a lightning bolt. It felt as if his skin were on fire, the very essence of his being ignited by a sensation he couldn’t comprehend.

The mirror rippled dangerously, and the fog that had always obscured its surface twisted and writhed. As Marm stood transfixed, Kyran’s essence was unleashed—a torrent of confusion and torment flooding their shared connection. Instantly, he felt Kyran’s torment: the ceaseless agony of imprisonment, the weight of betrayal, and a despair that clawed at the edges of sanity.

The cave was no longer just a place—it was a threshold. The oneiric realm, once confined to dreams and memory, was bleeding into the physical. The mirror had become a wound in reality, and Marm had torn it open.

He was overwhelmed, flooded with visions of Kyran’s past—fleeting glimpses of camaraderie turned to horror as the original witches they had trusted turned against them. The images reverberated through him, threatening to swallow him whole, tangling him in a dark web of anguish and despair.

Kyran’s pain echoed within Marm’s mind, intensifying as his touch destabilised the fragile barrier between realms. “Why did you touch it?” Kyran's voice twisted and distorted, infused with a blend of anguish and fury, reverberating through the tempest of sensations. “You don’t understand what you’ve awakened! This… the touch... it sears!”

Marm gasped as if he were being consumed by a fire he couldn’t extinguish. It felt as if every nerve ending had ignited, each pulse a reminder of the horrors that lay between them. In the depths of his pain, he realised that the legends warning against touching the mirror weren’t merely tales of caution—they were echoes of truths rooted in tragedy.

Panic clawed at him. This was no mere connection—it was the summoning of a darkness that had festered for centuries.

“Kyran!” he cried, feeling the weight of their collective suffering pressing down on him. “I didn’t mean to—”

The entire cave shook violently as the mirror cracked wider, revealing the terrifying, swirling depths beyond. In this moment, the pain manifested not just in Kyran but in Marm as well, amplifying until they were both encompassed by an overwhelming sense of dread. The energies shifted, darkening not just the cave but the very air around them, teetering on the edge of catastrophe.

“No!” Kyran’s voice fractured, filled with a sorrow that pierced through the turmoil. “This is not a game! You must pull back! You cannot wield what you do not understand!”

Marm’s mind raced, consumed by confusion and fear. This wasn’t just an awakening—it was a reckoning. And as the visceral pain of their connection intensified, he realised the horrors of his actions as they threatened to consume him entirely. Within the storm of chaos, he felt Kyran’s presence—an anchor he clung to, desperate and fraying.

But as the quaking reverberated within the cave, it became painfully clear: this connection, forged in desperation and stitched together by unshared turmoil, could lead to salvation or catastrophic doom—especially if he couldn’t find a way to navigate the darkness that had enveloped them both.

In the midst of the cacophony, Banksie and Ella fought to stabilise the shaking ground, their voices piercing through the tumult.

“Get away from the mirror!” Banksie cried, her fierce determination palpable.

Marm sensed their desperation, but all he could focus on was the dichotomy of agony and familiarity that enveloped him. It was Joe who reached out, attempting to drag Marm back, hissing in pain as he felt the anguish radiating between Marm and the mirror.

In that moment, Marm noticed the fog around the mirror beginning to dissipate, revealing more of Kyran’s visage—a face both beautiful and haunting, now clearer than ever. This haunting visibility was only for him; it was a pivotal revelation meant solely for him. His heart raced as he teetered on the brink of something monumental.

Yet Joe, feeling an unsettling presence that surged from the mirror, reacted dramatically. His instincts flared, and he grappled with an almost violent impulse to distance Marm from the danger that lay just within reach. It was as if the very air crackled with a warning only he could feel, igniting a primal need to protect the most inexperienced witch from the unknown.

“Remember, I am with you!” Kyran’s pained voice surged within Marm, desperate and unrelenting.

“You need to fight the pain,” Marm murmured to the mirror, eyes still fixated on the spirit’s face.

The cave was no longer just stone and shadow—it had become a living threshold. The air pulsed with unnatural energy, thick with the scent of dust and something older, something wrong. The mirror, once a dormant relic, now throbbed with life, its surface fractured and fog swirling like smoke caught in a storm.

As the chaos intensified, Banksie, Ella, Charity, and Veronica stood momentarily stunned, grappling with the overwhelming energy surging through the cave. The tremors beneath their feet weren’t just geological—they were psychic echoes of the rupture unfolding between Marm and the mirror. The veil between worlds was thinning, and they could feel it.

Banksie’s sharp instincts kicked in; she rushed forward to brace herself against the shaking walls, her eyes locked on the mirror. “We’ve got to contain this!” she shouted, her voice taut with urgency, trying to mask her own rising panic with sheer force of will.

The fog around the mirror swirled erratically, giving it an unwholesome, pulsing appearance—like something alive and struggling to break free. It was no longer a reflection. It was a wound.

Ella’s gaze darted between the mirror and Marm, her face etched with concern. “Marm!” she cried, but her voice was swallowed by the cacophony of energy echoing through the cave. She reached for him, desperate to pull him back, yet aware of the invisible barrier that kept him tethered in place—his body rigid, his mind somewhere else.

Charity’s heart raced as they stepped forward, trying to assess the situation. The mirror’s surface trembled and cracked further, and they felt the weight of their shared history pressing down like a curse. "It's too much!" Charity shouted, their voice cracking with fear. They wanted to help, but the rules of this moment were unknowable, and every instinct screamed that touching the wrong thing could unravel everything.

Veronica stood resolute, her expression shifting to one of focused authority. "We need to channel this energy!” she barked, raising her arms in an attempt to gather their collective strength. But even as she called for action, the chaos escalated, barely contained by their frantic efforts to stay grounded.

The mirror now appeared as a fractured gateway—ominous and beautiful. Its once-glossy surface had turned raw, revealing glimpses of Kyran’s visage. The witches felt an electric charge resonate through the cave, a pulse that matched the rhythm of Kyran’s torment. It was haunting. It was familiar. It was dangerous.

The room trembled. Shadows danced violently against the cavern walls, twisting into shapes that didn’t belong. Amidst the swirling energy, Joe gave a loud, overdramatic gasp as he pulled insistently at Marm. “Get away from it!” he cried, his instincts overwhelmed by the chaos. Something primal had awakened in him—a need to protect, to sever the link before it consumed them all.

With the veil lifting, Kyran’s face became clearer on the mirror’s surface—beautiful, haunting, their eyes holding a depth of longing and tumultuous history. The witches exchanged wary glances, knowing that whatever was about to transpire would change everything.

The air grew thick with tension. The fate of Marm, Kyran, and the coven hung precariously in the balance. The cave was no longer a place—it was a convergence. Past and present, dream and waking, all colliding in a moment that demanded unity and strength.

As the tumult began to settle, Joe and Ella focused intently on Marm, their determination surging in the face of the impending collapse. With one final effort, they gripped Marm's arm and pulled him away from the mirror’s surface—a synchronised motion that broke the connection.

The instant Marm’s hand slipped from the point of contact, a profound silence descended over the cave. The cacophony of emotions and energies ebbed away like a tide retreating from shore.

Marm gasped for breath, the sensation of burning slowly dissipating, yet the bond with Kyran remained palpably alive in his mind. He exchanged wary glances with Banksie and Ella; uncertainty hung heavily in the air, but there was also a flicker of something else—excitement, maybe even hope.

Despite the fatigue washing over him, Marm couldn’t shake the feeling that they had crossed a threshold into something deeper. The weight of their shared experiences had transformed into a new understanding—one that felt sacred, and terrifying.

Meanwhile, Banksie, Charity, and Veronica steadied themselves as the air grew still. Their efforts to keep the cave intact had worked, but the strain lingered in their bones. Each witch felt the residual echo of what had just passed through them—a force that had touched something ancient and unspoken.

The echoes of their hurried breaths filled the space, a reminder of the turmoil. And though the immediate threat had subsided, they all knew: the true reckoning was still ahead.

Marm searched their faces, realising that the community he had longed for was finally within reach. Yet the shadows of doubt lingered just below the surface, curling around his thoughts like smoke. What did it truly mean to be part of this coven? How could he reconcile the fractured pieces of his past with the weight of what lay ahead?

The cave still hummed with residual energy, the mirror’s influence not fully gone—just dormant, watching. The urgency hung in the air, demanding answers as Marm wrestled with the harsh lessons etched into his skin from that fleeting, catastrophic contact.

“Are there... rules?” Marm asked hesitantly, his voice tinged with uncertainty. The memory of the pain coursing through him lingered, a stark reminder of the consequences of his actions. “I mean, I touched the mirror without thinking, and it nearly destroyed me. I need to know what to avoid.”

Banksie’s expression shifted to one of intrigue. She stepped closer, her fiery hair catching the flickering light that spilled from the cave’s entrance, casting her in a glow that felt almost otherworldly.

“There’s a lot to learn,” she began, her voice steady, almost ritualistic. “This mirror isn’t just a reflection; it’s a gateway that demands respect. Touching it without understanding the consequences can lead to catastrophic outcomes.”

Charity nodded in agreement, the concern in their eyes softening into empathy. “We’ve all faced our challenges and learned the hard way. This doesn’t have to be your burden alone, Marm. We’re here to help you find your footing.”

Their sincerity built a bridge of trust, one Marm could lean on—but only if he dared.

Yet as Marm turned toward Joe, he saw it: the tension etched into his friend’s face, the mistrust lingering like a shadow behind his piercing grey eyes. Joe’s brow furrowed, a mixture of curiosity and suspicion clouding his thoughts.

“And who exactly are you?” Joe questioned bluntly, though the words carried an undercurrent of doubt. “You just appeared in front of Veronica after all this time we spent searching for you, and now you’ve touched the mirror without a second thought. It doesn’t add up.”

The words hit like a cold wind. Marm felt the weight of Joe’s scrutiny, and before he could respond, he saw something shift in Joe’s expression—an unsettling thought twisting behind his eyes. Why did touching the mirror burn Marm, yet Ella seemed unaffected when she tugged him away? It gnawed at him, amplifying his distrust and the implications behind Marm’s arrival.

Marm’s heart raced, a mix of defensiveness and the earnest desire to find acceptance swirling within him. “I didn’t know! I just thought… I had to… It felt like—like something was calling to me,” he stammered, the words spilling out in a rush, filled with the vulnerability of his confusion. “I only wanted to understand.”

The atmosphere thickened, the cave pressing in around them. Marm’s chest tightened as he looked between Joe, Banksie, Charity, and Ella, hoping to bridge the chasm of doubt laid bare by Joe’s harsh questions.

“I want to learn,” he added quietly, his gaze steady on Banksie and Charity. “I want to be part of this coven, but I need guidance.”

The words hung in the air, resonating with the raw desire for connection. For a fleeting moment, the isolation Marm had carried began to lift. Yet the flickers of uncertainty remained—an unsettling dance between hope and the weight of distrust.

With an unsteady breath, he stepped forward, ready to embrace this new chapter. But shadows danced in the corners of his mind—a whisper of uncertainty about what lay beyond the mirror and the truths yet to be revealed. He clenched his fists, his heart resolute even as chaos touched him, echoing the urgency of Kyran’s calling.

Marm’s resolve was a flickering flame within the storm of emotions swirling around him. As much as he was willing to learn and grasp the intricacies of witchcraft, he could feel Kyran’s call resonating deep inside him—a siren song urging him to embrace his lineage.

Yet mingling with that call were the shadows of doubt and distrust. Joe’s wary gaze lingered on him, a reminder of the uncertainty that loomed. Ella’s confusion was palpable, reflecting a shared concern for the choices yet to unfold.

And somewhere, just beyond the veil, the mirror waited—its surface cracked, its fog receding, its hunger not yet sated.

Meanwhile, the raw disbelief etched on Veronica’s face was a stark contrast to the eagerness radiating from both Banksie and Charity, who seemed ready to step forward as mentors. It was a delicate balance—these conflicting emotions created a palpable tension in the air, electric and suffocating all at once.

Marm stood at the centre of it all, feeling the weight of expectations from each of them, their hesitations intertwining with his own. Yet he pressed forward, longing for the connection he had always sought. “Whatever challenges await us, we will face them together,” he murmured, determination blossoming despite the turmoil.

The dawning understanding that he was no longer alone filled him with a courage he had not known before. With each passing second, the dichotomy of his experience pushed him towards acceptance, propelled by the eagerness of Banksie and Charity, tempered by the cautious wisdom of Joe and Veronica.

As the collective energy in the cave shifted subtly, Charity took a step forward, their expression earnest and resolute. “I’d like to take the lead in teaching Marm,” they said, their voice steady yet inviting, glancing towards Banksie for approval. “If that’s alright with everyone.”

The air was thick with anticipation as the others regarded Charity thoughtfully. Banksie, though the unmistakable leader, nodded with a contemplative expression. “Absolutely, but let’s ensure it’s a collaborative effort. We all have contributions to make.” Her tone was firm, yet the warmth in her gaze spoke of trust and unity.

“Agreed,” Veronica added, the raw disbelief slowly lifting from her demeanor. “I think you would make an excellent mentor, Charity. But it’s crucial we support Marm as a group—create a holistic foundation for him.” Her words reinforced the idea that they were stronger together, a sentiment resonating throughout the gathered witches.

Ella, her earlier confusion giving way to encouragement, chimed in. “It only makes sense that we all pitch in. It’s not just about one person; we should weave our teachings into his understanding.”

Joe, still wrestling with his doubts, crossed his arms but couldn’t contain a nod of agreement. “Fine, as long as we keep an eye on things. He’s new to all of this, and we need to ensure he doesn’t get in over his head.”

The hint of protectiveness in his voice underscored the underlying concern for their burgeoning coven member.

United in their purpose, they began to weave a tapestry of support and guidance, each willing to teach and lead Marm through the journey that lay ahead. Together, they would navigate the intricate paths of the past and the promise of the future, redefining the legacy of their coven with every step they took.

With their collective commitment solidified, a new energy enveloped the cave, binding them in purpose. Yet, as Marm was abruptly ripped from the mirror, the atmosphere inside began to shift dramatically. The connection between him and Kyran, once tentative and fraught with pain, ignited into a potent force. It was as if the essence of both collided explosively, sending ripples through the realm within the mirror.

Inside the depths of the glassy prison, Kyran felt the impact surging through them—a torrent of emotion that awakened long-dormant memories. The hunger inside stirred more intensely, now a relentless yearning for freedom and redemption.

This connection with Marm had rekindled the spirit’s flame, igniting both desire and despair in equal measure. Yet amidst this awakening, a dark storm brewed within—the tumultuous clash of past failures and the haunting echoes of their earlier betrayal conjured doubt alongside hope.

The mirror, though cracked and quiet, pulsed faintly in the background. It was no longer just a relic—it was a living wound, stitched with memory and magic, and Kyran’s essence now lingered just beneath its surface, waiting.

And Marm, standing among the coven, felt it still—like a whisper in his blood, a pull in his bones. The journey had only begun.

As Kyran grappled with the storm rising inside them, the mirror’s depths began to shift—its surface no longer glass, but liquid shadow. From the swirling mist, six ethereal figures began to materialise, drawn forth by the rupture in the veil. They emerged slowly, like memories clawing their way back into consciousness: Michael, Blu, Tomara, Ginger, Dita, and Chanel—the witches who had perished during the trials.

Their forms were half-shrouded in fog, faces obscured, but their presence was unmistakable. Each one radiated torment, their essence heavy with betrayal and grief. They did not speak at first. They simply stood, surrounding Kyran in a silent circle of judgment. Then their voices came—sharp, accusing, and echoing with the weight of suffering. “You did this! You condemned us to this fate!”

The words sliced through the stillness, a relentless chorus of blame that lashed out from the torment they’d endured. These were not strangers. These were comrades—once protectors of balance, now twisted into revenants of anguish, turned against the guardian who had failed them.

Kyran staggered beneath the weight of their fury, their soul recoiling as the figures closed in. The air grew colder, tighter, as if the cave itself were shrinking.

“We fought together!” one cried, their voice laced with rage. “And you chose to imprison us yourself! You were our protector—what have you become?”

The questions pounded in rhythm with Kyran’s heart, dragging them toward the suffocating darkness. They longed to reach out, to explain, to justify the impossible choices made in the face of betrayal. But the voices only grew louder, a cacophony of grief and rage that threatened to drown them.

The mist thickened, and the shadows pressed closer. Kyran felt their anguish seep into their bones, each whisper a blade, each memory a wound reopened. The hunger inside them—once a quiet ache—now surged violently, amplified by the chaos. It twisted through their being, feeding on guilt, on longing, on the unbearable solitude of centuries.

Flashes of the past flickered: moments of camaraderie turned bitter, laughter curdled into screams, trust shattered like glass. Kyran saw their faces—Michael’s quiet strength, Blu’s sharp wit, Tomara’s fire, Ginger’s loyalty, Dita’s grace, Chanel’s fierce heart—all twisted now, their spirits monuments to a tragedy that refused to rest.

And yet, beneath the din, something flickered. A pulse. A thread. Marm, entwined with Kyran’s essence, his presence pulsed like a beacon—raw, untrained, but alive. It was not redemption. Not yet. But it was possibility.

A premonition stirred within Kyran, fragile and flickering: a better way. A path not carved by vengeance or isolation, but by connection. Marm’s essence was unfamiliar, but it resonated with something long buried—a memory of hope.

The struggle intensified. Kyran felt the pull between the darkness and the light, a desperate battle that could either cement their legacy in sorrow or ignite a new pathway toward healing. The mirror pulsed in rhythm with their heart, its cracked surface glowing faintly, as if responding to the war within.

Would they find the strength to break free from the torment, or would they be dragged back into the shadows, forever haunted by their failures?

And at that moment, as the energy from the mirror surged outward, Marm—still reeling from the encounter—felt it too. A resonance. A promise. A warning. The journey had only just begun. Together, they would face the challenges waiting just beyond the cave’s threshold.

And Marm would not let fear dictate his steps again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: The Awakening of Trust and Power

In the endless expanse of the oneiric realm, where reality twisted like shadows on a storm-lashed night, Marm found himself drawn once more into the familiar yet unsettling presence of Kyran. The air crackled with strange energy—a subtle, lingering echo of the chaos that had unfolded at the cave, an event that haunted both their lives and the fragile atmosphere around them.

Kyran appeared before him, but this time, they looked different. Their once ethereal form now bore the marks of torment: delicate features lined with traces of burning, wounds etched upon skin that shimmered with an eerie, ghostly glow.

The frailty of their human-like figure made Marm’s heart clench painfully. This was no mere spirit—Kyran was suffering, and the weight of that suffering resonated deep within him.

“Marm,” Kyran’s voice came soft yet fierce, tinged with a raw edge that sent shivers down Marm’s spine. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous.”

Marm’s instinct kicked in as he stepped closer, desperate to reach out despite the fear curling in his gut. “I can help you! What happened when I touched the mirror—”

“Don’t!” Kyran interrupted, a sharpness in their tone betraying the chaos swirling behind their eyes. “Getting close is dangerous—for both of us. You don’t understand what intertwining our essences could mean.”

Marm felt his heart race, the urgency in Kyran’s voice grounding his determination. “But I felt you! I felt everything you were going through, and… I heard your name. I heard it when the energy of both of us intertwined.”

Kyran paused, their gaze narrowing. “My name? How did you come to know it?” There was an edge of defensiveness in their voice, though it was layered with curiosity.

“When I touched the mirror, it was as if your essence flowed into me,” Marm explained, his voice imbued with sincerity. “In that moment of chaos, I heard it deep in my mind—Kyran. It felt like our truth pressed against each other. I didn’t even have to ask.”

A flicker of vulnerability crossed Kyran’s face, burdened by the weight of revelation. “Names hold power, Marm. They bind us to our truths and our pasts. Yours is not a name I shared lightly. It is part of the torment that surrounds me.”

Marm swallowed hard, trying to process Kyran’s words. The energy that once felt electric now crackled with an unsettling tension. “I want to understand. I want to help.”

Kyran’s form flickered slightly, caught between shadows. “You have no idea the depths of our connection—or the dangers that lurk within it. I am not the guardian you believe me to be. There are remnants of my past that could threaten you. You should not take such risks.”

Kyran’s urgency sliced through Marm, and he hesitated, feeling the weight of their shared turmoil. Anguish emanated from Kyran, pulling on Marm’s resolve, yet he felt a compulsion to bridge the distance. “But I have to try. I can’t just turn my back on you.”

Silence hung between them, heavy and suffocating. The chaos of their surroundings seemed to fade as Kyran wrestled with the conflicting emotions racing through them.

Ultimately, Marm had exposed the flicker of hope buried beneath Kyran’s torment. The echoes of their connection shimmered as they both stood on the precipice of truly understanding their entwined fates—despite the threat that lingered in the shadows, ready to drag them both back into darkness.

Marm’s dreams twisted and turned like shadows in the night, the echoes of his connection with Kyran lingering in the corners of his mind. But the moment he opened his eyes, the familiar comfort of the hostel was gone. He found himself sprawled on a modest couch in Charity’s living room, the soft sunbeams of dawn filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the space.

Feeling the tension in his body, and the strange, restless pull that had haunted him throughout the night, Marm sighed, trying to shake off the remnants of his dreams. Just as he settled into semi-awareness, Charity’s gentle voice broke through the stillness.

“Marm?” they said softly, a hint of warmth in their tone. “It’s time to wake up. The day is here.”

Marm blinked, groggy but intrigued by their presence. “How long have I been out?” he mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Long enough for the sun to start making itself known,” Charity grinned, their enthusiasm contagious. “And I want to take you for a walk. There’s something I need to show you.”

Marm stirred, pushing himself up with a sleepy grin, feeling the strange blend of comfort and nervousness that clung to him like mist. Stepping outside, he was met with the gentle morning air and the sounds of a small city awakening from slumber. The streets were slowly coming to life—stalls creaked open, faint chatter mingled with the rustling leaves, and the scent of dew still lingered in the cracks of the pavement.

As they walked, Marm felt the weight of the past few days lift ever so slightly, though the remnants of uncertainty clung to him like a second skin. “What’s so important about this?” he asked, glancing sideways at Charity.

Charity smiled, their eyes sparkling with quiet excitement. “It’s part of teaching you how to focus your magic. You need to understand the balance between life and death. Witnessing the heartbeat of the city can reveal lessons you’ll never grasp in solitude.”

As they strolled, Marm took in the vivid tapestry of life around them—children laughing, couples murmuring over coffee, merchants calling out to passersby. The simple beauty of it all began to resonate within him, an unexpected warmth blooming in his chest. But with it came a twinge of confusion, like a shadow cast by light too bright.

Charity’s presence drew him in, and there was an undeniable chemistry hanging in the air. Marm had never felt this kind of attraction before; it was bewildering and new. While he had always been drawn to men, this inexplicable pull toward Charity unsettled him in ways he couldn’t name.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Charity said, noticing Marm’s gaze lingering on the scene. “Every day, people emerge from their homes to find purpose. That rhythm of life—it’s what weaves us together.”

Marm nodded, trying to focus on the words rather than the fluttering in his stomach that Charity’s proximity stirred. “Yeah, it’s... amazing,” he replied, feeling his face warm slightly.

As they walked closer together, the space between them seemed to shrink, and Marm found himself stealing glances at Charity, who moved with effortless grace, as if in tune with something deeper than the world around them. Their laughter echoed like music, and every word they spoke felt charged with an energy both inviting and intimidating.

The awkwardness began to fade, his initial discomfort transforming into a tentative acceptance of the feelings swirling inside him. It felt natural, like breath slipping in and out of his lungs, and he wondered if this blossoming connection was part of the journey he had been denied for so long.

“Marm, I think it’s crucial for you to feel connected to life—especially as you learn to channel your magic,” Charity said, glancing at him with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine. “Magic isn’t just about power. It’s about understanding our place in the world.”

Marm looked up, locking eyes with Charity, and for a brief moment, everything else melted away. There was a pull, a shared understanding weaving itself between them, igniting a new layer of warmth. He inhaled deeply, allowing himself to appreciate the chemistry blooming between them despite the confusion.

“Let’s take a moment to just breathe it in,” Marm said, a newfound lightness flowing through him. And as they paused amidst the bustle of the awakening city, he felt the weight of his attraction no longer as a burden, but as part of the vibrant tapestry of life—intertwined with the magic he was beginning to learn.

As they stood in the burgeoning morning light, a gentle breeze rustled the leaves around them, carrying the sounds of life that filled the small city. Time felt fluid, slipping away like grains of sand, drawing Marm and Charity into a moment suspended in possibility.

The warmth of the sun began to drape over them, illuminating the connection that had slowly, imperceptibly, formed between them.

They continued their walks each dawn. Marm gradually absorbed the vibrant energy of their surroundings, immersing himself in the rhythm of daily life. The sights and sounds inspired him, fueling a burgeoning desire to explore and express his newfound magic.

Over the course of several days, with each step and lesson from Charity, he began to understand the nuances of the magic that flowed through him.

During one of these early morning strolls, he closed his eyes, honing his focus on the sensations around him—the laughter of children playing in the streets, the enticing scent of freshly baked goods wafting from nearby shops, and the animated bustle of voices filling the air. In that moment of concentration, he felt a spark ignite deep within, awakening the essence of his potential.

With a flick of his wrist, the air shimmered just slightly, bending light in a soft, hypnotic wave.

The world around him began to shift; the warm hues of the sun morphed into a rainbow cascade for a fleeting heartbeat, the vibrant colours dancing in glorious display. For that brief moment, Marm felt like he was creating his own slice of reality—painting the invisible canvas of the air with his emotions.

Charity’s breath caught in their throat as they observed the ethereal transformation. “Marm!” they exclaimed, eyes wide in stunned delight. “That was incredible! You just—”

“I just felt it!” Marm interrupted, exhilaration surging through him. He opened his eyes and turned to Charity, whose intense gaze met his with awe. “I didn’t know I could do that.”

“You’re a natural Illusionist,” Charity whispered, their voice trembling with excitement. Disbelief gave way to an overwhelming sense of joy. “You’re channeling the essence of the world around you. This is extraordinary.”

The euphoric discovery hung heavily in the air, tinged with an electric thrill. Marm’s heart raced, a wave of exhilaration washing over him. The revelation sparked an undeniable chemistry between them, igniting the tension that had simmered just beneath the surface.

In a moment of unguarded impulse, Marm stepped closer to Charity, their faces illuminated by newfound understanding and shared excitement. “I never thought I could tap into something like this. I just wanted to feel connected.”

As if propelled by an unseen force, they moved instinctively toward one another, drawn by the current of emotions swirling in the space between them. Time seemed to pause as they closed the gap, their breaths mingling in the charged air. In one swift motion, they shared a brief, chaste kiss—a soft brush of lips that sent a jolt of energy through both of them, igniting every hidden sentiment they had tried so hard to suppress.

The kiss was electric yet tender, a fleeting moment that pulsed with intensity, heightening the senses and bridging the gap between friendship and something deeper. As they pulled away, a mixture of surprise and exhilaration lingered in their eyes, both feeling the weight and promise of what had just transpired.

“Marm, I…” Charity began, their heart racing as a shadow of uncertainty crossed their features. They struggled to comprehend how quickly the relationship had shifted, joy battling against hesitation. “This changes everything. We need to let the coven know.”

Marm nodded, still reeling from the unexpected intimacy. “Right. They need to know about what we discovered… and… well, you know.” It felt liberating to share both his abilities and their connection with the coven.

As they turned to head back, their hands brushed, sending another spark racing between them. The atmosphere buzzed with the thrill of discovery and the undercurrent of new possibilities. They knew they had much to share with the coven—about Marm’s newfound ability, and the deepening bond forming between them.

“Let’s tell them together,” Charity said, determination etched across their face. “We’ll figure out how to best support you, Marm. This is just the beginning.”

With a shared glance that spoke volumes, Marm felt an exhilarating mixture of anticipation and nervousness. They turned back toward the path winding through the small town, ready to reunite with the rest of the coven.

As they walked, the warmth of the morning sun bathed them in light, casting golden hues across the streets. The bustling life of the town was a vibrant backdrop as they made their way to the gathering place. Marm noted how the community seemed to flourish—and amidst the remnants of their intense training, it was a welcome reminder that life continued outside the echo of magic.

“Have you thought about how you want to explain your powers?” Charity asked, glancing at Marm with genuine interest.

Marm hesitated, feeling the weight of the question. “I’ve been thinking… I just want them to understand what’s happening inside me. I don’t want them to treat me differently.”

“Exactly,” Charity nodded, encouragement shining in their eyes. “You’re still you. Magic is merely an extension of that. Let’s embrace it together.”

As they approached the wooden structure where the coven typically gathered, laughter spilled from within. The atmosphere was rich with camaraderie, the kind that lingered in the air like incense. The warmth of their bonds felt palpable, and Marm couldn’t help but smile at the closeness they shared, feeling a growing sense of belonging—fragile, but real.

Inside the gathering space, the scent of herbal teas mingled with the sweet aroma of fresh pastries. Ella waved them over from a table where Joe, Banksie, and Veronica were chatting animatedly. “Look who decided to join us!” she called, her infectious enthusiasm breaking down the walls of apprehension Marm had built around his heart.

“Ready to spill your secrets?” Joe teased, tilting his head with a grin. But beneath the playful banter lay a flicker of trepidation. Marm returned the smile, sensing that Joe was beginning to warm up, though a sliver of doubt still clung to him.

Charity nudged Marm gently. “Now’s your moment. Just be honest. We’re all here for you,” they urged, their voice low, steady, and filled with quiet encouragement.

Marm took a breath, letting his gaze wander over the familiar faces of the coven. “I… I’ve learned that there’s so much more to this world than I ever imagined. Charity taught me a few things about my abilities, and I want to share what’s happening inside me with all of you.”

Banksie leaned in, her fiery hair catching the light as she regarded Marm with keen interest. “Go on, Marm. We’re listening.”

Feeling the warmth of their attention, Marm summoned his courage. “I learned that I’m an Illusionist. I didn’t even know that was a thing before.”

Banksie’s eyes widened, a smile breaking across her face. “An Illusionist! That’s wonderful. Illusionists are powerful agents in the fabric of magic. They shape perception, weaving the threads of reality as they desire. Your ability can influence not just how things appear—but how they feel. You can let others experience life differently.”

Marm listened intently, the weight of her words settling over him like a cloak. The power sounded intoxicating—and daunting. “But what does that mean for me in the coven?” he asked, searching for clarity.

“It means you have the potential to help us see beyond the ordinary, to find solutions to profound challenges,” Banksie explained, her tone growing serious. “But it also requires responsibility. With great power comes the need for wisdom. You must learn to balance your gift with integrity—or risk losing yourself to your illusions.”

Just then, Ella stepped forward, her expression thoughtful. “As someone with seer heritage,” she began, “I can sense the threads of fate woven into your story.” She reached into her satchel and pulled out a set of runes, each polished and engraved with intricate patterns.

Marm watched intently as Ella began to read the runes, her fingers dancing over them with practiced grace. “I feel a deep, ancient bond tied to your destiny,” she murmured, brow furrowed in concentration. “But there’s something obstructing my vision. A block in the passage of fate.”

“What do you mean?” Marm asked, a sense of urgency creeping into his voice.

Ella looked up, meeting his eyes. “It’s hard to decipher. I sense that something must be resolved between you and… the one in the mirror. A chapter that remains unfinished. But the fog around it makes it impossible to see clearly.”

Marm felt a knot form in his stomach, the weight of her words pressing down. The thought of unresolved issues looming over his connection with Kyran created a tension he hadn’t anticipated. “Does that mean we… are in danger?”

Ella hesitated, uncertainty etched across her delicate features. “I can’t say for certain. But the bond is powerful—and so is the magic between you. It suggests that whatever unresolved ties exist could bring unexpected consequences.”

Marm’s heart raced, confusion intertwining with determination. “Then I need to understand everything. I don’t want to be a liability to this coven.”

As the weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders, the mystique of his situation deepened. An unexpected flicker of resolve began to ignite within him. The bond he shared with the spirit seemed to beckon, pulling him forward into the uncertainty that awaited.

“Yes,” Charity said, stepping closer, their gaze steady and reassuring. “Together, we’ll navigate this. Let’s forge ahead and uncover what needs resolving.”

United in purpose, Marm felt the shadows lift just slightly, the air around them alive with possibility. It was time to confront the mysteries of his lineage and embrace the path that lay before him—with the coven standing collectively by his side.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the coven’s gathering spot, Marm felt the weight of anticipation settle in. That night, the spirit would not be summoned; Kyran had chosen to manifest themselves to the coven in the oneiric realm, just as they had done with Marm. The uncertainty, tinged with excitement, hung in the air like an electric buzz, infusing the environment with a sense of purpose.

As dusk gave way to night, the coven settled into a meditative state, allowing the boundaries between worlds to dissolve. They closed their eyes, focusing on the interconnected energy that flowed between them—a collective heartbeat steadying their breaths.

When Kyran finally manifested, their presence enveloped the space—a shimmering, ethereal form powered by hope and unresolved emotion. Yet the experience was different for each coven member.

For Banksie, it evoked memories of strength and loss. 

Ella sensed the echoes of Kyran’s sorrow intertwining with her understanding of fate. 

Joe felt a haunting familiarity, a tugging on the threads of their shared history.

Veronica faced a mix of disbelief and empathy in witnessing Kyran’s embodiment.

Each interaction unfolded uniquely, shaped by perception and past connection. As the bond between them deepened, a palpable tension filled the air—a blend of hope and trepidation.

Yet, unbeknownst to them, lurking in the shadows were the vengeful spirits of the six deceased witches—Michael, Blu, Tomara, Ginger, Dita, and Chanel—witnessing the reunion from afar. Their forms cloaked in darkness, the spirits exchanged wary glances, deliberating their next move.

They recognized the strength burgeoning within the coven, understood that time was running short. With a determination fueled by wrath, they resolved to act before the newfound power solidified—seeking to snuff out the flame that threatened to illuminate the shadows of their past.

As the night deepened, the stage was set for a confrontation that could change everything for the coven, for Marm, and for Kyran. The air thickened with the promise of impending conflict, leaving an unsettling tension suspended in the moonlit silence.