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The world was on fire.

Tabitha Wysteria ran from the faceless trees into the marshlands, heedless of the ghost-stories whispered in dark corners about the spirits lurking beneath those murky waters.

The tales did not deter her; not now, not when the acrid scent of burning wood filled her lungs and the distant glow of flames turned the sky into a bleeding wound.

Her home was burning.

Elmwych.

The place where she had left her lover.

The cold water rose up to her thighs, but not even its biting touch could wake her from the trance of terror that gripped her bones. Fear had curled itself deep within her belly, a living, breathing thing, strangling her from the inside. Her town was turning to ash, and her husband was still there.

The unseen hands of the drowned reached for her, skeletal fingers skimming her ankles, their presence lingering like whispers of forgotten sorrow. But it was not yet her time. Not yet .

No one entered these waters. They were sacred, the resting place of their dead. But on this night, on this cursed, unholy night, Tabitha would have waded through the rivers of the underworld itself if it meant reaching him.

She pressed her trembling fingers to her lips and murmured a spell into her palms, the ancient words trembling in the air like a prayer.

‘Deduc me in tenebris.’

Guide me through the darkness.

The world stilled. A hush fell over the marsh, eerie and unnatural—an unspoken permission. The spirits relented.

Tabitha ran.

Her breath came in ragged sobs as she fought through the freezing mire, each step carrying her closer to the inferno. Closer to home. Closer to what remained of Elmwych.

Then she heard them—the screams.

Not of the living. No, the living were long gone. The wails belonged to the dead, to those trapped between this world and the next, watching in horror as their village crumbled into embers, their bones reduced to dust.

Smoke clawed at her throat as she stumbled through the cobbled streets, past the ruins of familiar doorways, past the remnants of laughter and life now lost. She did not stop. She could not stop.

He would be waiting.

He had promised.

They were to meet by the weeping willow, where the river kissed the earth. She had hidden their child—he was supposed to remain hidden too. He had sworn to her that, no matter what, he would not leave that place.

Tabitha ran faster, her feet barely touching the ground as she left the town behind. The flames roared at her back, licking at her skin like the cruel hands of fate itself.

And then she saw it.

The willow was burning .

Tabitha’s scream tore through the night, raw and broken. A sound of pure, unfiltered agony.

And there—there at the centre of it all—was the body strapped to the tree, swallowed by fire.

She did not need to see his face. She knew .

Her legs gave way. She collapsed onto the scorched grass, hands clawing at the earth as the sobs ripped free from her throat. She reached for him, fingers stretching towards the flames, but the fire only snarled in response.

‘Liber flammarum,’ she choked, her voice cracking with grief.

The fire receded, but the damage had been done. Ash clung to her fingertips, the scent of burnt flesh curling in the air like a final curse. She curled in on herself, the heat of the embers beneath her body a cruel contrast to the emptiness in her chest.

In the far distance, dragons prowled the night, their metallic wings flashing silver against the darkness. They came in waves, spewing fire, drowning the town in ruin. For every flame the witches extinguished, another was spat down in its place.

Tabitha lifted her head, her gaze locking onto the sky one last time before her vision blurred into blackness.

…

She awoke to silence.

The weeping willow stood charred and lifeless, its sorrow carved into blackened bark. And beneath it, where the roots curled around his fallen body, her beloved lay cold and still.

She did not cry. The tears had dried. The grief had hollowed her out.

All that remained now was hatred.

Tabitha Wysteria pressed her palm to the earth, her fingers digging into the soil. Her voice, when it came, was steel wrapped in shadow.

‘I curse the kingdoms and their gods.’

Her purple eyes glowed like dying stars, seething with power.

‘Let it be that, on the night of my lover’s death, a hundred years from now, darkness shall descend upon them. Let them suffer as we have suffered. Let them know ruin as we have known it.’

The winds howled. The marshland trembled.

‘Only when fire breaks through the shadows shall they be forgiven.’

Tabitha stood, hollowed and unmade, as she watched the waters rise. She did not stop them as they reached out, did not flinch as they took his body, did not whisper a farewell as the marsh carried him away to the land of the dead.

When at last the darkness swallowed her whole, the witch was never seen again.