Borrowed Magic
1075 Words
The hut stood at the edge of the marsh where pack lands ended and old wilderness began.
No wolves lived here.
No patrols crossed the crooked wooden bridge stretched over black water and sinking reeds.
The place had always felt wrong.
That was precisely why Seraphine came here.
She dismounted slowly, tying her horse to the dead branch near the entrance. The animal shifted nervously beneath her hand, ears flattening toward the cabin as if it could sense what lived inside.
Even beasts felt it.
Magic lingered here.
Old magic.
The kind wolves preferred not to name.
Seraphine pushed the door open without knocking.
The air inside smelled of herbs, smoke, and something metallic beneath it. Bundles of dried roots hung from the rafters. Glass jars lined the walls, filled with powders, oils, and things that had once lived.
The witch was already waiting.
She sat beside the low stone hearth, her long gray hair falling over one shoulder as she sorted brittle leaves into separate bowls with deliberate care.
“You took your time returning,” the woman said without looking up.
Seraphine stepped inside and shut the door behind her.
“The situation changed.”
“It did.”
The witch finally lifted her eyes.
They were pale and cloudy, but nothing about her gaze felt blind.
“I felt it.”
Seraphine’s jaw tightened.
“You felt the land rising.”
“I felt something older than land,” the witch replied quietly.
Her gaze sharpened.
“The blood returned.”
Seraphine crossed the room slowly.
“That changes nothing.”
The witch tilted her head.
“The forest disagrees.”
Silence stretched between them.
Seraphine slipped a hand into the pocket of her cloak and withdrew a small silver pendant. The chain caught the dim firelight as it swayed gently from her fingers.
A carved crescent moon rested at its center.
The witch’s expression darkened the moment she saw it.
“You brought it.”
Seraphine placed the pendant carefully on the wooden table between them.
“My father said the magic would hold.”
The witch studied the pendant without touching it.
“This object carries strong memory.”
“Lucien’s mother was strangely attached to it.”
“I know.”
The witch finally reached forward and placed two fingers over the crescent moon.
The pendant pulsed faintly.
Then the light flickered.
Seraphine noticed at once.
“What was that?”
The witch’s voice lowered.
“The spell is weakening.”
Seraphine’s eyes hardened.
“That’s impossible.”
“Nothing tied to stolen power is permanent.”
Seraphine crossed her arms.
“The ritual was anchored properly.”
“Yes.”
The witch lifted her gaze.
“But the power feeding it came from Nythera land.”
The word hung in the air like a warning.
Seraphine’s fingers curled against her sleeves.
“That land belonged to Valcor.”
The witch shook her head slowly.
“It never did.”
Her fingers remained resting lightly on the pendant.
“When your father brought you here years ago, he understood something important.”
Seraphine said nothing.
“He knew magic rooted in that land would be strong,” the witch continued, “because the land itself was ancient.”
“And?”
“And he believed the rightful bloodline was gone.”
Seraphine’s voice sharpened.
“It is gone.”
The witch looked toward the northern window. Beyond the glass, the marsh reeds bent under silver light.
“No,” she said softly.
“It returned.”
Seraphine felt irritation rise in her chest.
“That cannot change anything.”
The witch’s fingers pressed harder against the pendant.
The silver crescent flickered again.
Its glow dimmed.
Slowly.
Like an ember losing air.
“Your spell was never love magic,” the witch said.
“It was influence.”
Seraphine’s expression did not change.
“That was the intention.”
“The pendant carried Lucien’s memory of his mother.”
The witch tapped the silver crescent once.
“A beloved Luna.”
“Respected.”
“Trusted.”
The firelight danced across Seraphine’s face.
“That warmth was redirected.”
“Yes.”
The witch looked at her again.
“When Lucien stood near you, his instincts recognized the memory tied to this object.”
Seraphine remained silent.
“Comfort,” the witch continued.
“Familiarity.”
“Trust.”
“Enough to guide his choices.”
Seraphine’s lips curved faintly.
“And it worked.”
“Yes.”
The witch lifted her fingers from the pendant.
“But the magic drawing strength from Nythera land is dissolving.”
Seraphine stepped forward.
“Explain.”
The witch studied her for a long moment.
“The land has reclaimed itself.”
“The bloodline has returned.”
“Magic tied to stolen ground cannot survive that.”
Seraphine stared at the pendant.
Its silver crescent dimmed again.
“How long?” she asked.
The witch leaned back in her chair.
“That depends on how quickly the land heals.”
Seraphine’s voice lowered.
“And when the spell breaks?”
The witch did not answer immediately.
Instead, she turned her face toward the north again.
Toward the forests where Nythera had risen.
“When the magic fades,” she said at last, “Lucien’s wolf will remember what was never truly yours.”
Silence filled the small cabin.
Seraphine picked up the pendant slowly. Her fingers tightened around the chain until the metal bit into her palm.
The warmth she had relied on for years was slipping away.
And with it—
Lucien’s loyalty.
She turned toward the door.
“I need him bound before that happens.”
The witch watched her carefully.
“You are planning to force the bond.”
Seraphine’s expression hardened.
“I am securing my future.”
The witch’s voice followed her as she reached the door.
“Your father built a careful plan.”
Seraphine paused.
“But plans break when the world changes.”
She did not look back.
“Then I will move faster than the world.”
She stepped outside into the cold night air.
The moon hung high above the marsh.
Bright.
Silver.
Watching.
And somewhere far beyond the dark tree line—
Nythera was waking.
Seraphine mounted her horse.
The wedding would have to happen soon.
Before the magic disappeared completely.
Before Lucien remembered who had never truly belonged to him.
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