Chapter Three – The Witch’s Fire
1320 Words
The mark burned.
It had not been minutes since Seraphine left the stone circle in the forest, yet her skin was already aflame where Lucian’s fangs had grazed her. The ache was not like any wound she had suffered before. It pulsed—alive, threading itself beneath her flesh like molten ink. She stumbled into the threshold of her mother’s cottage, clutching her shoulder, the heavy wooden door slamming shut behind her as though it wanted to keep the night at bay.
Candles guttered in their holders, throwing nervous shadows across the walls. Her breath came ragged. She pulled down the collar of her dress and stared.
The mark was not just blood. It had shifted, reshaped itself into a sigil. Black veins spidered out from a central point where Lucian’s teeth had pierced her, curling into delicate runes that no mortal language could decipher. It throbbed as though in rhythm with her heart.
A voice slid across her mind. My little flame.
Seraphine gasped and grabbed the edge of the table for support. “Get out of my head.”
But the voice only chuckled, low and intimate. You carry me now. No circle of witches can banish me. No candle’s flame will burn me away.
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to scream, to claw the mark from her skin, but before she could, the door banged open again.
Three witches entered, cloaks damp from the mist of the forest. Her mother was among them—tall, iron-eyed, her greying hair braided back like a crown of thorns. With her came Aunt Isolde, sharp as broken glass, and Miriam, the youngest, carrying the scent of herbs and fear.
All three froze when they saw Seraphine’s shoulder.
“Gods preserve us,” whispered Miriam, crossing herself with trembling fingers.
Her mother did not speak at first. She strode across the room, seized Seraphine’s chin, and yanked her head aside to study the mark. Her touch was steady, but her eyes burned with horror.
“He has claimed you,” she said flatly.
“No,” Seraphine hissed. “I didn’t let him—”
“It does not matter what you allowed. You are bound.”
Seraphine shoved her away, anger surging hot through her veins. The candles around them flared, their flames stretching tall as if caught in a sudden storm wind. Shadows danced across the walls.
Isolde spat on the ground. “We must destroy her before she destroys us. She is neither witch nor vampire—she is both. And now she is his.”
The words sliced through the air like a blade. Seraphine’s chest tightened. They had whispered about her all her life—half-blood, cursed, mistake—but now the whispers sharpened into open threat.
“You would kill your own blood?” Seraphine’s voice trembled, part fury, part desperation.
“You are no blood of mine,” Isolde snapped. “Not anymore.”
Her mother raised a hand. “Enough. The bond may still be severed.”
It cannot, Lucian’s voice purred inside her skull. But let them try. It will amuse me.
Seraphine winced, clutching her head. “Stop! Stop talking to me!”
The witches exchanged wary glances. Her mother’s jaw tightened. “We take her to the circle. Now.”
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The forest was a cathedral of twisted branches and shivering leaves as they dragged her to the old stone circle. Moss clung to the weathered rocks, and the moon broke through the mist like a pale, watching eye.
Torches were lit. The coven gathered. Not all were kin, but all bore the same wary looks as they studied Seraphine with suspicion and fear.
Her mother pushed her into the centre of the circle, where a pentagram had been chalked in bone-white lines across the earth.
“Stay still,” she ordered.
Seraphine wanted to obey, but the mark throbbed and seared like hot iron pressed into her flesh. Her breath hitched. She could feel Lucian’s amusement swirling around her, even though he was not there.
The witches began to chant, voices weaving together in low, rolling cadences. The pentagram glowed faintly, lines sparking with pale blue fire.
But as the light grew, so did the pain. Seraphine doubled over with a scream, clutching her shoulder. The runes of the mark pulsed brighter, fighting against the witches’ power.
They would tear you apart, Lucian whispered. Why do you cling to them when they hate you?
“Shut up!” she cried, though her words echoed only in the circle.
The witches faltered. Her mother’s face twisted with anguish. “Stay strong, Seraphine. We can save you.”
But the word save only ignited her fury. She did not need saving. She did not want to be pitied, feared, or treated as a mistake. She wanted power—her own, not borrowed.
The ground quaked.
The blue fire shattered into violent red, sparks leaping into the air like molten shards. The pentagram broke apart, its lines splitting, the soil tearing open with raw energy. Witches screamed, stumbling back, clutching at one another as the protective circle collapsed.
Seraphine stood in the centre, hair whipping around her face as if caught in a storm. The mark glowed with wild, pulsing light. She could feel her power roaring awake, mingled blood—witch and vampire—answering a call older than the stones around her.
The coven scattered in panic. Miriam fell to her knees, weeping. Isolde shouted curses. Her mother simply stood, trembling, tears running down her cheeks as she whispered, “What have you done?”
Seraphine’s chest heaved. She wanted to answer—but another voice answered for her.
She has become mine.
The words rolled like thunder, not in her head this time, but across the forest itself. A cold wind howled through the circle, extinguishing the torches.
Lucian.
He was not seen, but his presence pressed against every tree, every shadow, every heartbeat.
The witches fled. Only her mother lingered, torn between love and terror, until even she vanished into the trees.
Seraphine stood alone. The mark burned hotter than ever.
And then—she felt the pull.
Her feet moved without thought, carrying her from the ruins of the circle, deeper into the forest. The branches parted like supplicants. The mist thickened, curling around her ankles, drawing her on.
Her breath came ragged, her mind a storm. She should turn back. She should fight. But every step she took brought a surge of ecstasy, like her blood was singing in harmony with the night.
The pull ended at ruins—an old chapel, long abandoned, its stones crumbling and its roof open to the cold sky.
Moonlight poured through the gaps, silver and cold. And in the centre of the ruins stood Lucian.
Tall. Immaculate. Shadow draped around him like a cloak. His eyes gleamed crimson, fixed on her with the hunger of predator and lover entwined.
“You came,” he murmured. His voice was velvet and steel, the kind that could slip into a soul and never leave.
“I—” She faltered. “You made me.”
He smiled faintly. “Perhaps. But you did not resist. You wanted to come.”
The mark seared, and she gasped, knees weakening. He was right—some terrible part of her had wanted this, even as the rest of her screamed to run.
Lucian stepped closer, his presence filling the ruined chapel like smoke. “You are mine now, Seraphine. Witch-fire and vampire blood, bound in one body. You are what the coven fears, what the world has waited for. And I will teach you what you are truly capable of.”
Her lips parted, a protest on her tongue. But no words came.
Instead, she stepped toward him.
One step. Then another.
Until the ruins swallowed them both, and the night held its breath.
- Writer
