The Gathering Storm
As the days turned into weeks, Gloria and Lucia fell into a steady rhythm. Lucia taught Gloria not only the distinctions between magic and mutation but also practical skills that didn’t rely on supernatural abilities—how to ward a house, brew simple potions, and detect traces of magical energy. Each lesson chipped away at Gloria’s initial hesitation, shaping her into someone far removed from the timid girl she had once been.
Meanwhile, the puppet Gloria, hidden by her grandmother, was soon captured by the villagers, betrayed by her uncle’s meddling. Gloria watched the farce from the shadows, her stomach twisting as they dragged her lifelike replica to a prison cell. Each day she visited the village in secret, her hooded cloak shielding her from prying eyes, and watched the spectacle unfold.
At first, she felt nothing but numbness. The puppet was not truly her. It was a construct, a decoy, yet seeing it suffer stung in ways she couldn’t fully articulate. Her grandmother, though frail and visibly withering under the stress, persisted in writing to Gloria’s parents every day, pleading for their intervention.
But as the days turned into weeks, no reply came.
At first, Gloria clung to hope, convincing herself it was merely a delay. Yet with each passing day, her faith eroded. After two weeks, she faced the painful truth: her parents weren’t coming.
She watched as the villagers’ cruelty intensified, their jeers growing louder, their punishments harsher, as they realized the puppet’s mortal fragility. Every lash, every act of torment, was a silent reminder of her own helplessness.
One night, watching the puppet curl into itself in its prison cell, Gloria’s despair finally boiled over.
Why does it hurt so much? she thought bitterly, gripping the cold iron bars of the cell window. It’s not me. It’s just a thing—a tool. So why does it feel like I’m the one suffering?
The puppet’s head lifted, its lifeless eyes staring directly at her. For a moment, Gloria swore she saw rage in its expression—directed not at the villagers, but at her.
Guilt clawed at her chest. She turned away, stumbling into the shadows as the weight of her emotions threatened to crush her.
Back at their secluded home, Gloria appeared distant, her normally sharp gaze dulled by what she had witnessed. Lucia observed her silently, sensing the storm brewing within the girl.
“I saw her,” Gloria finally said one evening, her voice quiet but steady.
“Your puppet?” Lucia asked, feigning neutrality.
Gloria nodded. “She’s... angry. So angry—at everyone. At me, at the villagers... even at our parents.” Her voice faltered, and she looked down at her hands. “I want to meet my sister. I know you told me to keep it a secret, but—”
“It’s all right,” Lucia interrupted gently, patting her shoulder. “You don’t have to keep secrets from me. I’m only here to guide you for now. Once things settle, you can decide what comes next.”
“...Can I return?” Gloria’s voice cracked, her eyes shimmering with tears. She thought of the villagers’ hatred, her parents’ indifference, and the puppet’s silent accusation. “After everything, can I even go back?”
"Lucia...Why does everyone hate us?”
Lucia hesitated.
The question wasn’t easy to answer. She had intended to manipulate Gloria, to make her doubt everyone else and bind her loyalty to herself. But the vulnerability in the girl’s voice chipped away at her resolve.
“They hate what they don’t understand,” Lucia said finally, her tone softer than she intended. “They hate what they don’t understand,” she said carefully. “Fear makes people cruel. It’s easier to destroy something unfamiliar than to try to understand it.”
Gloria absorbed the words in silence. Something shifted in her expression—a quiet resolve that chilled Lucia.
Over the following days, Gloria transformed. The timid, naive girl who once hesitated to use her powers was gone, replaced by someone colder, more focused. She no longer questioned Lucia’s teachings or faltered during lessons. Instead, she immersed herself fully, her intensity unsettling even Lucia.
One evening, as they practiced runic magic in the dimly lit study, Gloria paused, staring at the glowing symbols in the air.
“Lucia,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion, “do you think power makes you evil?”
Lucia’s answer came after a brief pause. “Power itself isn’t evil. It’s how you use it that defines you.”
Gloria nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Good. Because I won’t be weak anymore.”
Lucia watched her, a mixture of pride and unease swirling in her chest. She had succeeded in breaking the girl’s ties to her past, but in doing so, had she created something beyond her control?
ever to return. The hatred burning in her heart would smolder for decades, shaping her into the formidable woman Lucia had glimpsed in her visions.
“Fiona… Fiona! Wait!” William finally caught up to his stubborn younger sister, breathless. “Are you really going to do this?!”
“Let go,” Fiona said coldly, shaking his grip.
“Listen to me! We all know how powerful Gloria is when she’s serious. If she could escape, she would have by now. But she hasn’t, and that means one of two things: she’s either planning something, or the person behind Salem’s sudden spike in witch trials is no ordinary foe. Going in blind is like walking to your death!”
“SO WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO DO?! LET MY SISTER DIE? DO YOU WANT GLORIA TO DIE?” Fiona’s voice cracked with anguish, her pain raw and exposed. Above them, the storm mirrored her inner turmoil, lightning streaking through the sky like jagged scars.
William stepped back quickly to avoid the pulse of energy that radiated from her but refused to release her arm. “Of course I don’t want her to die! But rushing in without a plan will only get you killed—or worse. Gloria wants you safe, Fiona. Alive, not dead.”
Fiona’s chest heaved as she struggled to rein in her fury. Rain drenched them both, plastering her hair to her face, but she didn’t care. “Then what’s your plan, William? Sit and wait, like Mother and Father? Celebrate the death of a witch? Or pray to the good Lord that someone else will save her?”
“No,” he said firmly. “We prepare. If you want to save Gloria, you’ll need help—and not just from me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Help from who?”
William hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as if someone might emerge from the shadows. “There’s someone in Salem who knows more about the trials than anyone else. Someone who’s been watching the town far longer than we have.”
Fiona frowned. “Who?”
“A hunter. An old ally of the family. He goes by the name Solomon.”
“Solomon?” Fiona repeated, her tone wary. “What kind of hunter?”
“The kind who doesn’t kill witches,” William clarified quickly. “He’s the son of a witch himself. He hunts those who prey on them. He’s tracked the dark forces in Salem for years, but his methods… let’s just say they’re unconventional.”
Fiona crossed her arms. “Why would he help us?”
“Because he’s been looking for a way to end the witch trials for years,” William explained. “But the wards surrounding Salem have kept him out. He needs allies, but he doesn’t trust easily. I’ve been trying to gain his help for weeks.”
Fiona considered his words, her anger simmering just below the surface. Finally, she said, “Fine. Take me to him.”
The rain eased by the time William and Fiona reached the dilapidated inn where Solomon was rumoured to stay. The air smelled of damp earth and wood smoke.
“Are you sure he’s here?” Fiona asked quietly.
William nodded. “If he’s not, we’ll leave word. He’ll find us.”
Inside, the inn was dimly lit, the floorboards creaking beneath their boots. A few patrons huddled over their drinks, muttering softly. In the far corner, a lone figure sat with his face obscured by the brim of a wide hat.
William approached cautiously. “Solomon.”
The man didn’t look up, but his hand shifted toward the hilt of the blade strapped to his side. “I told you Knoblach brats to stay out of Salem.”
“Things have changed,” William said. “Gloria’s been taken.”
At this, Solomon tilted his head slightly, revealing piercing eyes that glinted like steel. “And you want me to save her?”
“We need your help,” Fiona interjected, stepping forward. Her voice was steady, though her desperation was palpable. “I don’t care what it costs or what you want in return. Just help us find my sister.”
Solomon’s gaze shifted to her, studying her with unsettling intensity. “You’re brave. I’ll give you that. But bravery without strategy is foolishness. Why should I risk my neck for your family’s mess?”
“Because the witch trials aren’t just a family mess,” Fiona snapped. “Something dark is feeding them. If we don’t stop it, more lives will be lost—witches, humans, innocents, children everyone.”
Solomon leaned back, his expression unreadable. After a long silence, he said, “Meet me at dawn. Bring weapons, not just magic. If you’re serious about saving your sister, you’ll need to be ready for war.”
Back in Salem, Lucia stood at the edge of the wards surrounding their secluded home, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The storm raging in Virginia had sent ripples of magical energy through the air—a sign of something stirring.
“Lucia?” Gloria’s voice broke her reverie. The girl stood in the doorway, clutching a book of runes to her chest. “Is something wrong?”
Lucia forced a smile. “Nothing you need to worry about, my dear. Come inside—we still have much to learn before the next moon.”
Gloria hesitated, sensing her unease, but nodded and retreated indoors, leaving Lucia alone with her thoughts.
“It’s happening,” Lucia murmured to herself, a slow, wicked smile curving her lips. “Just as I foresaw.”
(End of Chapter)