The marshlands were thick with mist the night Mireya first saw
the shadows take a soul. She was only a child then, standing
behind Daelviaha's skirts as the witch whispered incantations
under her breath. The tendrils of darkness twisted and writhed,
slithering over a lifeless body before vanishing into the night.
Mireya never forgot the cold, sharp sting that followed—a
reminder that the shadows were always watching, always
waiting.
Daelviaha had been the closest thing Mireya had to family
after her parents' deaths. The old witch had lived in the woods
for as long as anyone could remember, known for her sharp
tongue and powerful magic. Though the coven kept their
distance from her, Mireya knew the truth—Daelviaha had been
the one to find her mother, Elzara, already lifeless by the
river's edge. The old witch had nearly walked away, believing
there was nothing more she could do, until she noticed a faint
movement from Elzara's still form. The child in her womb was
still fighting for life. Cutting Elzara open required little strength,
but Daelviaha knew the baby would not survive without help.
With steady hands and whispered prayers, she delivered the
newborn girl and held her close, willing her tiny body to
breathe.
Daelviaha had kept this truth from Mireya, knowing it was safer
that way. Mireya believed her parents had died naturally, their
souls freed in peace. Daelviaha knew better—she knew their
souls had never been freed, but lost to wander aimlessly,
unable to rest. Their powers had been passed on to Mireya in
a final act of protection during the attack that took their lives.
And the scar Mireya believed was a birthmark was something
far more dangerous—a mark Daelviaha had concealed to
protect her.
The enchantment that hid Mireya's mark was not without cost.
Such a spell—meant to conceal something for a long
time—took its toll on Daelviaha's magic. While she still
retained her knowledge and skill, her power was far weaker
than it had once been. She had accepted this as a necessary
sacrifice to keep Mireya safe.
***
Years later, standing at the edge of the village of Qwronias,
Mireya felt that same chill crawling over her skin.
Qwronias sat at the heart of the realm of Asthaemere, a land
both beautiful and cruel. The marshes stretched for miles,
choked with reeds and tangled roots. The air was thick with
the scent of wet earth, and the low hum of unseen creatures
drifted on the breeze. The witches of Asthaemere were
powerful, their magic drawn from the very ground beneath
their feet.
Mireya knew she was stronger than most. Stronger than all of
them, perhaps. But she had spent her life hiding that power. To
reveal it would mean death. The coven's leaders—bound to
the crown—would see her as nothing more than a tool to be
drained of her magic and cast aside. So she fought like an
ordinary witch, masking her abilities with clever spells and
well-timed strikes.
Her fingers traced the faint scar that lay hidden beneath her
collarbone—a mark she believed was just a birth defect. It had
been there for as long as she could remember, a jagged, pale
line that sometimes itched or burned without reason. Mireya
never thought much of it; just another imperfection, nothing
more.
Tonight, that scar seemed to burn hotter than usual, but she
ignored it, focusing instead on the lingering unease settling
over Qwronias.