“Only fifteen, and you are extremely strong.” Nora cups my face, “Not since your mother has our coven seen such power. And even she was not nearly what you are. What you will become.”
Her eyes gleam with intensity, locking onto mine. As she speaks, I understand the desire in her eyes. Not unkind, rather, it’s an expectation.
Purpose.
Her pride in me means everything. And in these moments, I feel worthy.
“I will help make you stronger. You trust me, yes?”
Her voice weaves through me so easily. Silken. Coaxing.
I nod before I even think.
“Of course, I love you,” I squeeze her hand trying to reassure her.
“Of course you do,” Nora smiles warmly.
She releases my hands, raising one toward the ceiling.
Beneath the amethyst crystals, the water stirs with a ripple, a shift. It rises.
A single tendril spirals up from the pool, slithering through the air like a living thing. I watch, until it coils into her palm.
It changes. The liquid solidifies, stretching its form and revealing a base, a stem, and then the cup.
It’s a chalice born from nothing. Yet, there is something awful about its surface.
I trace the engravings—a faceless creature with a mouth open wide. There are no eyes. Its arms—four of them—are clawed and jagged. The depiction is craved in jagged scribbles. The lines are too faint to form a clear image in the chaos, but a chill crawls up my spine.
The stem is bone. The base is a fragment of a human skull.
Slowly, the cup fills. The liquid is thick, black, and slick as oil. My breath tightens. My heartbeat pounds.
Everything in me screams—run. Like a ship’s horn in the fog blasting in my head.
Something in here is wrong. Deeply, irreparably wrong
The tendril retracts, sliding back into the pond. The water ripples and then stills, as if nothing had disturbed it at all.
Nora lowers the cup to my lips.
“Drink,” she murmurs. Her voice is smooth and unshakable. There’s no room for argument.
“Drink to never go hungry, to never go cold, to never let your coven die again—"
“To avenge your Mama.”
Her eyes do not waver.
I do not want to need for things.
I do not want this emptiness.
I do not want to be weak ever again.
I do not want to let Mama down.
With a shaking hand I reach out. My fingers brush the chalice stem; it’s deathly cold. A grimace twists my face as the chill bites deep, sinking into my bones. Even the snow outside—the mounds of snow gathered with my bare hands—could not compare.
