...
The forest whispered with the breath of midnight, its branches clawing at the sky like gnarled hands.
A pale fog crept low to the ground, licking at the moss and roots like the tongues of restless spirits.
Through this darkness, a woman ran — her cloak torn, her feet bloodied, her arms wrapped tightly around a small child no older than five.
The girl's head rested against her mother's shoulder, her wide pale eyes open, unblinking.
Behind them, shadows moved — men cloaked in black, their faces hidden beneath hoods stitched with silver thread.
They made no sound, no shouts or curses. Their footsteps were as silent as falling snow, and they gained with each breathless second.
The woman stumbled through the underbrush, heart pounding not with fear, but with desperation. She knew what they wanted. They were not here for her.
She pushed through the thorns, ignoring the sharp cuts across her cheeks and hands. The child stirred in her arms but did not cry. She hadn't cried since the night she was born.
"Almost there," the woman whispered, more prayer than promise.
The forest thickened before her, until a narrow clearing opened at the foot of a crooked birch tree. There, as though she had been waiting for centuries, stood an old woman.
Her back was bent, her white hair hanging in coarse braids, and her eyes shimmered with a light that did not belong to this world.
The mother fell to her knees, breath tearing through her lungs. The girl slipped from her arms and stood, watching the crone with unnatural stillness.
"She is the one," the old woman said, her voice crackling like firewood. "The Moonwitch."
"Please," the mother gasped. "They're coming. She's not safe with me. You must take her."
The woman's eyes widened as she took in the scene. She nodded, "I'll protect her, she will be safe with me", she promised.
The mother's heart ached as she whispered,"I'll come back for you".
The crone's eyes fell upon the child. "Does she know what she is?"
The child tilted her head, curious. Her lips parted as if to speak, but she said nothing.
"No," the mother whispered. "But she knows. In her bones, she knows."
The mother's heart shattered into a million pieces as she gazed at her daughter, memorizing every detail of her small face.
She whispered a silent prayer, hoping that the crone's magic would be enough to keep Elira safe. As she touched her daughter's cheek, a surge of love and longing overwhelmed her. She knew she might never see Elira again, and the thought was almost too much to bear.
Her eyes brimming with tears while glancing at her daughter.
She stood tall, ready to face whatever lay ahead, knowing that her sacrifice would give Elira a chance to fulfill her destiny.
The crone bent low and placed a hand on the girl's head. Her lips moved silently, ancient words forming like smoke in the air. The girl blinked slowly, then nodded.
From behind them came the first flicker of steel, the shimmer of movement between trees.
"Go," the crone said. "Leave her to me.
Her eyes never leaving her daughter.
She touched the girl's cheek. "Be brave, my star. You are more than they can understand."
The girl reached for her, but the crone drew the child close, her cloak wrapping around them both like a shroud.
With a whispered incantation, they vanished into the roots of the birch.
The woman turned to face the forest as the first of the cloaked men stepped into the clearing.
"Where is the girl?" a voice rasped from beneath a hood.
The woman straightened, blood dripping from her fingers. "You will never find her."
They did not hesitate. Steel flashed. The woman fell.
But beneath the birch, deep in the folds of the earth where the old magic ran like veins of fire, the girl opened her eyes. The crone watched her with both awe and fear.
"You are the end and the beginning, child," the old woman said. "The fire reborn. The curse and the cure."
Outside, the hunt raged on.
But the Moonwitch was hidden.
And the world would never be the same again.
---
Beneath the surface, in a chamber carved from stone and glowing roots, the old woman stoked a fire made of blue flames.
Strange herbs hung from the ceiling, and jars filled with whispers and shadows lined the walls. The child sat upon a fur-covered bench, silent.
"They will come again," the old woman muttered. "Even the deepest magic cannot hide you forever. But we will prepare."
She stepped closer, kneeling before the child. "Do you remember your name?"
The girl blinked. "Elira."
The crone nodded. "Elira. You will remember that. For names are power. And you are going to need all the power you can hold."
Elira looked down at her small hands. They were unmarked, soft, but there was a strange warmth in her fingertips. When she pressed them to the ground, the moss beneath her grew greener.
The crone watched with guarded expression. "The blood sings in you already. More strongly than I feared."
Elira looked up. "Am I a witch?"
"You are what witches fear. What kings fear. What the world buried and forgot. You are Moonwitch"
The girl absorbed this quietly, her gaze steady.
Above them, the forest shuddered as the wind carried the scent of fire and iron. Somewhere, the men in black torched a village in search of a child who was no longer there.
But they would never stop. The Moonwitch had lived. The prophecy had stirred.
And war would follow her footsteps.
Far away, in the palace halls of the Black Flame Order, a raven landed on a high perch.
A letter bound with thorn twine hung from its talons. A hooded figure retrieved it and read the sigils inked in blood. The girl had vanished, but the mark had awakened.
"She lives," the figure said aloud.
The High Inquisitor rose from his chair of bone and flame. "Then we will burn the world to find her."
Deep in the hollow, Elira turned toward the stone walls as if she had heard the words herself. Her eyes glowed faintly with silver fire.
The Moonwitch had taken her first breath in the world of power.
And the shadows trembled in her wake.