Chapter Seven: The Witch of the Turning Hour
The next morning, Elara woke to the scent of burning sage and the sound of wind whispering through wood that had forgotten how to stand straight.
The old cabin groaned under the weight of time, but it hadn't collapsed—not yet. Like her, it endured.
Kairo had vanished before sunrise, leaving only a scribbled note on the dusty table: "Don't leave. Something stirs. I'll return by dusk."
But dusk came—and Kairo didn't.
Elara paced the room, her boots kicking up flecks of old leaves and forgotten magic. Her fingers tingled with the urge to do something—cast, summon, act—but she didn't know how. The grimoire was still under her bed at home, and the whispers in her blood offered no instructions.
She hated waiting.
So she didn't.
Against every instinct in her body, Elara stepped outside the cabin and into the clearing. The forest was quieter than usual. Too quiet. No birds. No wind. No life.
Then she heard the voice.
"Little veilborn," it sang, soft as silk and sharp as broken glass. "You're farther from home than you should be."
Elara turned, fists clenched, ready to summon something—anything—but the woman who stepped out from the trees didn't look like a monster.
She looked like fire wrapped in shadows.
Her hair was silver, not gray—like starlight spun into a braid that touched her waist. Her cloak shimmered between purple and black, stitched with constellations that seemed to move when Elara blinked.
But her eyes—those were the most unnatural. They were split: one gold, one red.
Elara didn't speak. She didn't need to.
The woman smiled. "You have your ancestor's eyes. Lysira would be proud. Or horrified. Hard to say."
"You knew her?" Elara asked.
"I trained beside her," the woman said. "Long before she gave up the coven. Before she tried to erase our kind from your family's blood."
Elara stiffened. "She didn't erase it. It found its way back."
"Yes," the woman said, eyes flickering. "Through you. Untrained. Wild. Delicious."
Elara stepped back.
"I'm not here to hurt you," the woman added. "Quite the opposite. I came to offer you truth."
Elara's hands tingled again, but not in fear—something else. Her magic stirred, like it recognized the stranger. Like it remembered her.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The woman bowed, low and theatrical. "They call me the Witch of the Turning Hour. I exist where time bends. Where the Veil thins."
"You're not human," Elara said.
"No," the witch agreed. "But I was, once. I crossed the Veil willingly. I embraced what your Kairo only survived."
Elara's breath caught. "You know about him?"
"I know more than he ever will. He's bound to you by accident. But you—" the witch stepped closer, "—you were chosen. The magic is blooming now. You feel it, don't you? The dreams. The ache. The pull to places no one else sees."
Elara didn't respond, but the answer lived in her silence.
"Come with me," the witch said. "I can show you what your power truly is. What your bloodline means. I can make you stronger than fear. Stronger than love."
"Elara."
The voice came from the trees. Sharp. Familiar.
Kairo.
He stepped into the clearing like a blade unsheathed—horns gleaming, shirt torn, eyes glowing like moonfire.
The witch smiled. "Ah. The cursed boy arrives."
Kairo stood between her and Elara, protective, pulsing with magic. "Leave her alone, Merra."
"She deserves the truth," the witch—Merra—purred. "You want to hide her in shadows. I want her to shine."
"I want her safe," Kairo snapped.
"Then tell her the rest of the story."
A silence stretched so thick it could've shattered.
Elara looked from Kairo to Merra. "What story?"
Kairo's voice was low. "She's lying."
"Am I?" Merra tilted her head. "Then tell her, cursed boy. Tell her why your soul answered hers. Tell her what the bond truly means."
Elara's heart thundered.
"Kairo?" she whispered.
But he didn't answer.
Because something in his eyes said: He couldn't