Chapter One: The Moon-Anointed Witch
You believe you have chosen the most coveted discipline of mechanical engineering, only to discover it is, in full, the arcane art of Agricultural Machinery and Bioengineering.
Magic springs from inspiration; inspiration, from the divine bestowal of the gods.
Two bay leaves to purify the gaze, a trace of golden honey to anoint the lips, then the hands steeped in a silver basin where a mere shallow pool holds the distilled dew of three entire nights, shimmering with ripples of lunar radiance at the slightest touch.
At last, with those immaculate hands, seven tallow candles are kindled. The narrow chamber gradually suffuses with a warm, fragrant haze, illuminating a statue of the goddess in sublime opulence.
Cat’s-eye gems drink the offered flames. Dill beholds her own reflection fractured into countless shards; the goddess’s piercing gaze seems to dissect her very soul. The maiden instinctively clutches the tremor in her breast, her posture growing ever more reverent and abject.
The deity reclines upon a throne adorned with laurel boughs, crowned by a diadem woven of silver thread and lustrous pearls, while at her feet are carved the birds and beasts of the forest, ever at her command.
Around the divine seat, the candles cast a halo of sacred softness. The goddess’s eyes gleam, her countenance serene and exquisite, appearing almost alive. The rising incense renders the air breathless; one fears the slightest misstep might profane this resplendent moment.
Her flawless visage mirrors the devout beauty of the supplicant—until the girl, after long silence, betrays herself with a single utterance:
“Great Goddess, thy humble servant prays: may the egg hatch smoothly, may the ca cauldron open auspiciously…”
Snap!
A shadow darts. One candle vanishes, devoured. Startled, the girl has no time to investigate before the second, the third… An unseen hand extinguishes each flame in turn, darkness advancing inexorably.
Dill, panic eclipsing all else, ransacks her dwindling lexicon—Amitabha, Hallelujah, let holy light descend—while clutching for any throwable weapon.
Her fingers close upon the weighty Hymnal of Divine Praise. Treasuring it like a relic, she whirls to hurl it—only to meet a pair of limpid emerald eyes blinking back.
“…Miss Poppy.” Dill grits her teeth.
The candles reignite, revealing another figure lounging against the wall.
The woman claps a hand over her mouth, heedless of her lush golden mane spilling to the floor, doubled over with stifled laughter. Miss Poppy, the emerald-eyed calico, leaps lightly to her mistress’s shoulder; even through fur, Dill detects unmistakable disdain.
“I thought you too tense—meant to loosen you up. What were you chanting? Hahaha!”
Sometimes Dill truly suspects she is cursed.
Her given name is not Dill. The woman before her, Amber, purchased her from an Eastern merchant vessel—an infant left to wail upon the docks. Yet even an orphan was merchandise. Amber haggled the shrewd trader into oblivion, settling at last for two dozen bundles of dill. Too indolent to invent a name, the woman thereafter called the child Dill.
Under Amber’s half-playful, half-earnest guardianship, Dill grew safely, her fragmented memories rendering her precocious beyond her years, groping dimly toward this alien world. Amber acquired the infant neither as servant nor daughter.
In truth, the village abounded with such pairings: older women venturing afar to adopt clever girls—orphans like Dill, rootless and alone. Amber bade the child address her as “Lady” and imparted the world’s secrets to the bewildered girl.
Back to the present: Amber, laughter spent, recalls her mentor’s duty. With a flick of her thimble, a subtle ripple stirs the air; the toppled candles rise like obedient sentinels, reforming ranks beside the goddess.
Though Dill has witnessed this countless times, wonder still seizes her. No elaborate rites, no supplications—magic is to Amber as breath or water. She draws inspiration at whim from breeze, moonlight, a single dewdrop.
Composing her mischief, Amber gathers her skirts and glides forward as though clad not in rumpled nightgown but gala silk. In solemn mood, she is a poised, mature vision of golden beauty.
She sets the cat aside, approaches the idol, and—more extravagantly humble than Dill—murmurs contrition. Like all in this world, she reveres the divine source of power, yet few wield it with such caprice as Amber; she is no cloistered nun or solemn priestess.
Amber’s village lies eternally secluded, worshipping not the continent’s singular High God but an ancient Moon Goddess.
Amber proclaims herself “God-Touched” with chin aloft, though Dill knows the outer world brands their all-female sect—witches.
An orphan like Dill was fortunate indeed to be chosen. Amber appears indolent, cradling a plump cat, pockets of her patchwork robe yielding marvels at random. Yet Dill’s thriving in this otherworld owes everything to her patron.
Amber is High Priestess of the Moon Goddess, the mightiest—and most audacious—witch in the coven: in short, village tyrant.
Among Dill’s scant memories lingers a childhood awaiting owl-post. Thus, upon grasping this realm’s strangeness, the reborn girl plunged headlong into its wonders without hesitation.
Soon, however, she tasted the realm’s malice toward transmigrators.
Assured the goddess takes no offense, Amber saunters over, producing from some tattered pocket a long-handled bronze lens. Its crystal, she claims, is moonlight condensed, sharpening a witch’s sight to pierce blessings, curses, even truth itself.
Peering through it at the cauldron’s brew, Amber lifts her head to tease:
“Truly, must we invoke the Cauldron Benediction? How little faith my apprentice has—’tis merely a growth elixir…”
Dill glances instinctively toward the window. Sure enough, a feline shadow flits; a girl’s shrill cry rings out:
“Dill’s brewing potions again!!”
Pots and pans clatter without, footsteps converging in chaotic chorus—an instant mob.
Amber, ever blithe, registers the cue and winces in rare contrition as her apprentice buries her face in her hands. No need to imagine: every woman in the village now storms hither, soup ladle in grip.
Dill’s dream of magic has indeed come true—only with a slight deviation.
A deviation akin to believing you have enrolled in the most prestigious mechanical engineering program, only to learn its full title is Agricultural Machinery and Bioengineering.
