Rain whispered gently against the wooden roof of the secluded cottage, hidden deep within an ancient forest untouched by time. Vines curled like watchful fingers around the edges of the moss-covered stone walls, and the air smelled of damp earth and wild herbs. Inside, a warm, flickering glow lit the room, cast from an enchanted fire that crackled without wood.
Delara Shun stood barefoot before a round stone basin filled with water. She is a powerful but compassionate sorceress.
Her long silver-gray hair was tied in a thick braid that reached past her waist. Deep lines creased the corners of her eyes, not from age, though she was older than she looked, but from a life heavy with sorrow and watching.
The basin rippled. A figure formed on the water.
It was billionaire Callum Jay.
He sat behind his massive glass desk at Jay Enterprises, unmoving. His expression was hard. Hollow. That face, Delara had seen it a thousand times in the last fifteen years. But it never failed to tighten her chest.
"Still searching," she whispered, her fingers brushing the surface of the scrying pool.
A small glowing plant on the windowsill pulsed gently, a soft green light blinking like a heartbeat. Delara turned, pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, and walked toward it.
The plant's glow dimmed as her hand hovered near it.
"Easy now," she murmured. "Something's stirring, isn't it?" She knew this feeling. An old familiar unsettling feeling.
She closed her eyes. Morgana.
Her sister's essence clung to the air like oil in water. Impossible to ignore.
Delara firmed her jaw. "You should've stayed dead." She turned back to the pool. Callum was speaking to someone, his assistant, Lola. The poor girl adored him, but Callum wouldn't even notice a meteor falling outside if it didn't carry Liora's name.
Delara sighed and sat by the window, letting the soft rain hum against the panes.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years since that blood-soaked engagement.
Since that beautiful girl crumbled into Callum's arms, breathless and fading. Since her body vanished without a trace.
Delara looked toward a worn, leather-bound book resting on a table nearby. She picked it up, opening to a page marked with dried lavender flowers. Her fingers stopped at a photograph tucked between the pages. A young girl, eyes bright, smile wide.
Mia. Her only daughter.
Delara blinked hard. The image swam in her vision.
"I still see you in my dreams," she murmured. "I still hear your laugh." She leaned back, her fingers tightening around the book. Her gaze drifted to the fire.
"You trusted her. We both did."
Mia had gone to visit her Aunt Morgana one summer. Just a short trip, a holiday. Delara remembered the way Mia had packed her bag, excited about spending a few days with the aunt who gave her shiny trinkets and told magical stories.
She never came back whole. "Morgana used you," Delara said through gritted teeth. Her voice cracked. "She took your beauty, your light. Drained it for herself."
Mia had returned with an odd rash, and soon, her skin began to decay. No healer could explain it. No spell could cure it. She wasted away like a flower caught in frost. Delara, helpless, watched her child die.
Only later did she uncover the truth. The rituals. The spellbook hidden behind Morgana's shelves. The selfish sorcery.
"My own sister," she spat. "You killed my daughter. You destroyed her just to stay young, just to be adored."
They had not spoken since. Morgana vanished not long after. Vanished, or so she thought.
Delara felt it now. That familiar pull in her bones, the faint warping of the air. Her magic trembled.
"You hated your own child," Delara whispered, rising to her feet. "You envied her innocence." The fire flared.
Liora. Sweet, stubborn, brave. Delara wrapped her shawl tighter and paced the room. The air had grown colder.
"You couldn't love anyone. Not even your daughter. Not even your own blood."
She turned sharply, the hem of her robe brushing the floor.
"And now I feel you again." She walked to a tall wooden cabinet and opened it slowly. Rows of vials glinted in the dim light. She selected one with a silver seal and uncorked it. A soft blue mist curled from within.
"If you're alive, Morgana," she whispered, pouring the contents into a shallow bowl, "then so help me, I'll find you. I'll finish what the world failed to."
A flicker passed through the scrying pool. Callum again.
He sat at his desk, staring into something off-screen. A small flicker of light danced near his shoulder, a glitch in the footage, maybe, or something more.
Delara narrowed her eyes. She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her temples.
"He's lost enough." The glowing plant on the windowsill pulsed once more, but this time with a reddish hue. The color of warning. Of blood.
Delara opened her eyes, steeled now.
"I will not let you take anything more." She placed both palms on the edge of the scrying basin and whispered an incantation. The water churned, clouded, then cleared, showing a different image.
A forest. The shadows of the trees stretched unnaturally. Delara's breath hitched.
"She's moving," she said softly.
The mirror fogged again.
Delara looked out the rain-flecked window, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "And so it begins again..."
Delera hated her sister with every fiber of her being. The love they once shared as children had curdled into a bitter poison.
She tightened her fists, eyes burning with unshed tears.
"How can a woman hate her own child?" she whispered. "And another's?
What kind of monster are you, Morgana?" Her voice trembled with rage. "You took Mia from me…. "I will destroy you, sister. By any means. Even if it's the last thing I do."
Wherever Morgana was, hidden behind spells, shadows, and shifting faces, she had no idea her only sister still burned for her. Still wept for what was taken. Still hated her.
Delara's words would never reach her ears, not yet. But somewhere, in the cold silence she'd built around herself, Morgana might have felt that sting of memory.
She had sworn she didn't kill Mia. Sworn with tears in her eyes the last time they fought. But lies meant little when a child lay in a grave.
And Liora… her own daughter… shot down on her engagement day. Morgana had done nothing. Said nothing. She vanished, like a ghost with a bleeding heart, and stayed gone.
Perhaps it was guilt. Or perhaps she
had stopped feeling altogether.
But the truth remained, two daughters lost, two sisters broken.
And one day, they would meet again.