My mother is a witch

Chapter 7: The Mark on My Heart

The witchhunters didn’t speak much as we traveled.

They moved like soldiers, precise and silent, slipping through the forest like they’d done it all their lives. I stayed near the back, close to the girl with the runes on her hands. She didn’t offer her name. I didn’t ask.

We made camp before dark. The leader—his name was Cael—drew a circle of salt and ash around the perimeter. The others watched me, always with hands resting on weapons, as if I might explode at any moment.

They weren’t wrong.

I could feel the blood stirring again.

My back burned. My eyes ached. I kept hearing Enoch in the wind, laughing softly, whispering things I tried to ignore.

The girl approached while the others sharpened blades and lit their enchanted fire.

“You’ve never been bound,” she said, not asking—knowing.

I shook my head. “My mother didn’t want the blood suppressed. She said I had to understand it before I could control it.”

“She was wrong.”

“Was she?”

She hesitated, then sat beside me.

“My name’s Lira. I was born into a coven. A bloodline like yours—different father, same curse.”

I glanced at her. “Did you kill your parents too?”

She didn’t answer for a moment.

Then: “No. But I watched them rot from the inside. The mark doesn’t just give you power. It consumes you.”

“I don’t feel consumed.”

She pointed at my chest. “Lift your shirt.”

I hesitated—but did as she asked.

And there it was.

A mark, just over my heart.

A black spiral etched into my skin, surrounded by five crooked branches. It hadn’t been there before. It looked like a burn—but it pulsed softly, like it was alive.

Lira’s eyes narrowed. “It’s already blooming.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means your father has more than your blood. He has your soul tethered. If we don’t cut the bond—”

“You’ll kill me.”

She looked away. “Cael would, yes.”

I exhaled slowly. “So I’m walking on borrowed time.”

She didn’t deny it.

Later that night, I sat by the fire alone while the others slept in shifts. I opened the grimoire and flipped to a spell my mother had marked in red.

The Severing.

A ritual that breaks blood ties—permanently. It required pain. Memory. Sacrifice. And something living from both parent and child.

I had only one.

The dagger glowed faintly on my belt. Its edge had tasted Enoch’s shadow once. I wondered if that would be enough.

Then the pain came again.

Sudden. Searing.

I fell forward, gasping. My chest felt like it was on fire. The mark was expanding—curling tendrils across my ribs, down my arm. I clenched my teeth, trying not to scream.

And then—his voice.

“You let them mark you, boy? Salt and ash? Like a rat hiding from fire?”

“Get out of my head.”

“Why would I? I built it. Every thought you have—I planted the seed. Every doubt, every rage, every c***k of your bones—it’s mine.”

I slammed my hand to my chest. The mark flared.

And in my mind, I saw him.

Sitting on a throne of bones.

Chains still wrapped around his limbs—but looser now. His eyes burned like suns.

“You can’t kill what you are, Isaac. And you can’t run from your name.”

Then, silence.

I looked at the mark. It had stopped growing—for now.

But I knew it would return.

And unless I acted soon, I wouldn’t need hunters to kill me.

I would do it myself.