Emon
The second night came fast. Too fast.
Bibi Kamwe said the ingredients she was to use needed to “rest” under the old moon’s gaze for a full day before the final steps. So I waited, sleeping lightly, dreamless, my ears filled with the echo of old words and the beat of a pulsing rune stone on the table beside me.
By the time she summoned me again, the hut felt even darker than before. Shadows had teeth. The candlelight felt colder.
“You are ready,” she said, voice like gravel soaked in honey. “The elements are bound. The intention is fed. Now we shape the curse.”
She used that word without flinching, curse, and yet I didn’t blink. Maybe it was the sleepless nights. Or maybe it was because some part of me knew this was never going to be clean magic. No spell that untangled a bond as
