The Plan
The witch trial had been a farce, just as Lucia had foreseen.
The puppet, enchanted to look and react like Gloria, was dragged into the heart of the village. The air buzzed with the venom of jeering villagers. Even the children joined the chaos, hurling stones and clumps of mud, their innocent faces twisted by the hate that poisoned their elders.
Hidden in the shadows, Lucia watched silently, her expression unreadable. Intervention was out of the question; Gloria needed to see this.
She needed to learn the truth—that the world, cruel and indifferent, would show no mercy to those unwilling to wield their power.
The effigy screamed, mimicking agony, as the villagers condemned it to the stake. The pyre was lit, flames licking hungrily at the straw and cloth.
“Burn her! Burn the witch!” the mob chanted, their cries echoing into the cold night.
Lucia’s gaze flicked to Gloria, cloaked and hidden just beyond the circle of firelight. Her face was ashen, her hands trembling as she gripped the edges of her hood. Then, as the flames rose higher, something shifted. The trembling ceased. The palpable fear drained away, replaced by a cold, unnerving stillness.
Gloria’s hazel eyes glowed faintly, their intensity sharper than ever.
Lucia stepped closer, resting a reassuring hand on her back.
“They’ll regret this,” Gloria whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling flames. Without another word, she turned and disappeared toward the secluded cottage she shared with Lucia.
Lucia didn’t follow. Her work wasn’t finished. She waited, biding her time until the others arrived.
Sure enough, under the cover of darkness, they came.
The trio—siblings Fiona and Willam, along with the silent man in the long coat—slipped into the village, hoping to reach Gloria’s cell. Their plan was simple: a quick rescue, the removal of Salem’s oppressive anti-magic spell, and a decisive strike against the mastermind behind the trials.
But what they found stopped them in their tracks.
The pyre, now dark and smoldering, bore the charred remains of the puppet. Its unrecognizable form could have been mistaken for human were it not for the faint, imperceptible magical link they still felt in their blood.
Fiona, just 14, screamed, breaking into a sprint toward the pyre.
“Gloria! No!”
Before she could reach it, the man in the long coat grabbed her arm, stopping her with an iron grip.
“Wait,” he said sharply.
Willam hesitated, torn between rushing toward the effigy and assessing the situation. His movements betrayed his racing thoughts.
The siblings stood frozen—Fiona with wild, tear-streaked fury, and Willam, stoic but tense. The man with the cleaver lingered behind them, his sharp eyes scanning for danger.
“Are you Gloria’s siblings?” a calm voice asked from the shadows, interrupting their thoughts.
The trio spun around, startled. Lucia stepped into the firelight, her warm purple eyes gleaming with calm confidence.
“Who are you?” Fiona demanded, her voice trembling with anger and distrust.
The woman smiled enigmatically. “Don’t worry. Your sister is alive and waiting for you. Come with me.”
The man with the cleaver moved, pressing the cold edge of his blade to the stranger’s throat. “And how do we know you’re not here to hurt us?”
Lucia didn’t flinch, her calm unwavering even as the blade touched her skin. Her violet eyes held his, their depths reflecting a mix of sadness and resolve.
“The body on that pyre is a puppet I created,” she explained. “It was meant to give your sister a chance to escape Salem and live in peace. But we don’t have much time. Agatha will know you’re here, and when she does…”
She didn’t finish, her words trailing off as a cold breeze carried an ominous energy through the village. She was waiting for someone to follow the cue.
And on cue, a voice cut through the night. “Find out what?”
The woman who appeared was cloaked in power. Her red eyes and hair glinted like embers beneath her hood, her hands crackling with magic. Agatha had disguised herself, per Lucia’s request, but the force of her presence was no less intimidating.
Lucia quickly slipped into the shadows, hiding under her cloak, as a violent beam of magic shot toward where she had been standing.
“This wasn’t part of the plan,” Lucia cursed under her breath, looking at the pothole in front of her. If she had been any slower, she would have been dead.
Fiona tried desperately to manipulate her surroundings, but the anti-magic runes in Salem rendered any magical actions useless unless they were Agatha’s. The trio scrambled, their coordinated retreat faltering under Agatha’s relentless assault.
Lucia acted swiftly, casting a protective invisibility cloak over the group and guiding them out of the village.
When they finally crossed Salem’s borders, the oppressive weight of its spell lifted. The siblings collapsed onto the grass, gasping for breath, their bodies battered and minds racing. They were young and untrained, Lucia noted—perhaps a bit malnourished despite their rich upbringing.
Letting the trio calm down, Lucia dusted her cloak, her violet eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Now,” she said, her voice calm, “I suppose you’re ready to listen to me.”
She led them to her cottage, creaking the door open to reveal Gloria to the skeptical three.
“Fiona! Willam!” Gloria gasped, her voice breaking as she rushed forward.
“Sis!” they cried in unison, throwing their arms around her in a desperate embrace.
As they shared their reunion, Lucia and the man with the cleaver stood by, giving the siblings space to reconnect.
“So, have you always lived in Salem?” the man asked gruffly, his voice awkward from their earlier confrontation.
Lucia looked at him with a soft smile, her voice tinged with nostalgia. “Yes, I was raised in the Salem coven until it was destroyed.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his tone sincere.
Lucia replied, “It’s quite alright.”
“Do you know her? Agnes?” the man asked. Lucia nodded, her expression darkening.
“She’s the one who started the witch trials near my coven, absorbing the magic of any witch she could get her hands on. My mother was one of those witches. I was close to dying myself... but I was born unable to channel magic, so Agatha spared me. I’ve lived in solitude ever since. But when I saw another innocent witch being targeted by villagers, I couldn’t help but stand up for her, take her in.”
“I see,” the man murmured, his gaze flicking to the firelight. “I lost my mother as well to the trials...”
Lucia’s eyes softened for a moment, sympathy visible in her gaze.
“The trials... they destroyed everything. My mother, my home, my people. All for what? Fear. Greed. Power. I can’t stand to see it again. That’s why I’ve been fighting back.” His voice was low, filled with the kind of raw, painful truth that only comes from loss.
She patted the tall warlock, her mind racing with thoughts of what to do next—how she could satisfy the trio’s desire for revenge while making them loyal to her and getting Solomon alone with Agatha to fulfill her deals...
A confrontation.
It would have to seem genuine.
She could stage a fight with Agatha, make it look like an all-out brawl—one that would end with her being thrown out of Salem, her power stripped by the very witchcraft she sought to control. It would fullfill the trio’s desire for revenge. They would believe they had won, their enemy vanquished, the last threads of Agatha’s power scattered.
But there would be a catch.
Agatha would be fine all along. And with the joy of revenge, Lucia would ask the trio to join her "coven," while Solomon would leave to help other towns Agatha had visited. Where he would be ambushed and killed, and no one would be the wiser.
Afterwards, Agatha could return back to her original form and live on as she did, with one less enemy. Thankfully, Agatha had listened to Lucia's request to change her appearance before meeting the trio, or else this plan would be useless.
(End of Chapter)