Chapter 5: A Kingdom of Ash and Promise

The fire had burned low, casting long shadows that danced against the trees. Seren had finally fallen asleep, her breathing steady, curled beneath a conjured cloak of warmth and protective wards. Elara knelt beside her, brushing a lock of tangled hair from the girl’s face. “Sleep deeply,” she whispered, placing her fingers gently on Seren’s temple.

A soft pulse of magic flowed from her fingertips. Dreamless slumber took hold of the frightened child.

Elara stood, her crimson eyes glowing faintly beneath the moonlight. The forest responded to her rising power—the leaves trembling as if in fear, the wind whispering secrets only witches could hear. Her gaze turned toward the east, where the scent of steel, smoke, and cruelty lingered in the night air.

“They’re still close,” she murmured. “Good.”

Her cloak of shadows enveloped her as she vanished into the forest, moving like a phantom between the trees. The spirits guided her, revealing the trail of blood and footprints, the lingering echo of hateful voices. She found them by a broken grove—three hunters and a lone mage, camped around a dying fire. Their weapons were bloodied, their laughter coarse.

They never heard her approach.

She struck without mercy.

The first hunter was dead before he drew breath. A spear of shadow pierced his chest and pinned him to the tree behind him, his dying scream swallowed by Elara’s silencing spell. The second turned in confusion, only to have his mind flooded with phantom horrors—visions of fire devouring his flesh, of claws raking his soul. He fell screaming, eyes burned white by illusion.

The third tried to run. Elara gave him a head start—then snapped her fingers. The roots beneath the earth answered her call, rising and twisting into cruel, thorned coils. They dragged him down, screaming, into the soil, where the earth drank his blood.

Only the mage remained.

He stood his ground, his staff raised high. Magic shimmered at his fingertips, golden and clean, blessed by human rites. “Demon,” he spat. “Witch-spawn.”

Elara didn’t strike. Not yet. Her gaze was piercing. “What have we done to you?” she asked, her voice low and sharp. “Why hunt us like beasts? Why burn children, families? Why do you hate us?”

The mage’s jaw clenched, his knuckles white around his staff. “Because you are wicked,” he hissed. “You twist nature. You consort with the dead. You destroy.” His voice cracked. “You killed my family.”

Elara’s expression shifted—surprise, then bitter understanding. “I did?”

He stepped forward. “Not you. One of your kind. A witch cursed my wife with madness. My son... he—he walked into the flames believing he could fly.” His voice faltered. “I’ve seen what you are.”

For a moment, silence passed between them, heavy and terrible.

Then Elara whispered, “I’ve seen what you are, too.”

The mage raised his staff, but Elara was faster.

Dark tendrils lashed out from the shadows behind her, wrapping around him like vipers. He screamed as they lifted him into the air, his staff clattering uselessly to the ground. Elara stepped closer, her eyes glowing with ancient fury.

“I did not kill your family,” she said coldly. “But you chose to burn others. Children. Sisters. You let hatred make you into the very thing you claim to hate.”

She raised her hand. His scream was swallowed by a burst of shadow and flame.

By dawn, Elara returned to the camp.

Seren stirred as the morning light filtered through the trees. She sat up slowly, her eyes wary and confused. “Elara…?”

Elara stepped into view, calm and composed. In her hand, she carried a burlap sack—stained dark and wet at the bottom. She said nothing at first, only walked to a large, flat stone and emptied the contents.

Three hunter heads. One mage’s.

Seren stared, wide-eyed, her breath catching in her throat. “You… you killed them?”

“Yes,” Elara said simply. “I did.”

Seren didn’t speak. She didn’t cry. Slowly, her shoulders relaxed. “Good.”

Elara looked down at the grim display. “They will not harm you again. Or anyone like us. But there are more. Far more. This world… it fears us. Hates us. Hunts us.”

Her voice grew harder, colder, as the weight of years and the memory of Lyra's death returned. “We hide in holes. We beg for scraps. We let them burn us in the name of peace. No more.”

She turned to Seren, her voice rising with power. “We will not run. We will not hide. We will build.”

“Build?” Seren whispered.

Elara nodded. “A place for us. A sanctuary. A kingdom.”

Seren’s eyes widened. “A kingdom… of witches?”

“Yes.” The word held weight. Fire. Destiny. “A kingdom where no child is hunted. Where magic is not feared, but revered. A place where we are free.”

“But… can we really do that?”

Elara’s gaze burned. “We must. If we do not carve out a space in this world, we will be erased from it. I will gather others like us—those hiding, those hunted, those lost. Together, we will build a haven in the ashes of their hate.”

Seren stood, stepping to her side. “Then I’ll help. I’ll fight too.”

Elara smiled faintly. “You’ll do more than fight, Seren. You’ll rise.”

And so, beneath the golden morning sun, with blood still fresh on the stone and hope trembling in the air, a kingdom was born—not with trumpets or crowns, but with resolve, grief, and a fire that refused to be extinguished.

The Witch Queen had spoken. The world would tremble in time.

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