The forest clearing was drenched in dew and woven with enchantment—an ancient training circle made of charred stones and etched sigils that pulsed softly beneath Levi's bare feet. The witches of the Hidden Grove surrounded her, a silent circle of ageless faces cloaked in shadow and moonlight. None questioned her arrival. They had seen it before, in flames and stars.
Eloria had returned. Or so they believed.
Elder Myrienne, the high priestess of the coven, moved like flowing smoke. Her voice, aged like the roots of the trees, whispered incantations in a tongue long buried by time. She gestured for Levi to mimic her—hands curved into a sigil that shimmered with molten light.
"Again," Myrienne said. "Speak not the spell—be the spell."
Levi's fingers trembled, but the moment her breath aligned with the pulse of the earth, fire bloomed between her palms—not the wild, untamed blaze she once summoned by accident, but something cleaner, older, sacred. Gold laced with violet hues curled in her hands like petals.
Rue watched from the edge of the circle, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. This was a Levi he'd never seen—confident, connected, radiant in power.
The grimoire hovered in the air beside her like a loyal sentinel. Each time Levi cast a spell, the pages turned of their own will, revealing forgotten incantations inked in Eloria's own hand. Runes rearranged themselves to suit her style of magic. The book did not teach—it remembered.
As Levi finished the final motion of a shielding charm, a glyph flared across her back—spiraling vines etched in light. The air shifted. Trees leaned inward. Magic bowed in her presence.
Myrienne stepped forward, awe in her voice.
"You do not just carry Eloria's blood, child. You carry her will."
And somewhere beyond the Grove, a ripple in time shivered. The past was changing… and time would not sit still.
Beneath a sky veiled in ash-gray clouds, Rue slipped away from the coven's enclave and wandered toward the remains of a dried riverbed. Time felt thinner here, like a brittle glass stretched too tight. The birds were silent. Even the wind moved with caution.
He wasn't looking for anything—at least not consciously. But the pull had started hours ago, a tremor behind his ribcage, guiding him into the earth's forgotten places. As he descended the moss-covered slope, his boots crunching bone-dry leaves, he caught sight of something carved into the exposed bedrock.
A temple—buried, broken, but breathing.
Its arched entrance was scorched black, framed by skeletal trees and overgrown with thornroot. Above it, an ancient sigil glowed faintly in the dying light: Eloria's mark, spiraling like a galaxy around a crimson crescent moon. But beneath it, etched deeper, were older words—far older than even demon tongue:
"Not all witches burn. Some awaken."
Rue stepped closer, fingertips brushing the surface—and the air fractured.
A sudden gust of freezing wind hit him, and with it, a voice. A presence. Ancient. Unseen.
"You were not meant to bleed into this age."
He turned sharply. No one stood behind him, but the voice continued, disembodied yet all around him.
"Your presence stains the seams. The witch must awaken alone, or time will fracture."
Rue's fists clenched. "I won't leave her."
"Then you risk unmaking her."
The sigil above the doorway flared briefly—then dimmed to nothing. The path into the temple vanished, swallowed by stone and silence.
Rue backed away, breath uneven. A jagged pulse beat behind his eyes. Time was warning him. The balance was shifting. And if he remained, Levi might not just rewrite the past—
She might be lost to it.
Back in the present day, the wind outside Prairie's dorm window howled with unnatural rhythm—more like breath than breeze. Her desk was cluttered with research notes, old Council files, a half-drunk cup of tea gone cold. But her eyes were fixed on one thing:
A letter.
The envelope was sealed with wax—deep crimson, stamped with the same spiraling sigil she'd seen branded into Levi's wrist weeks ago. Prairie had found it that morning, tucked between the pages of Eloria's journal. No one else had seen it appear.
Hands trembling, she broke the seal.
The paper inside was smooth, ageless. Ink bloomed across it in curling strokes, but the writing was not Levi's typical script—it was sharper, older. She read aloud, slowly:
"Prairie,If you're reading this, we've crossed. The spell worked.The past remembers me… and it remembers you.There's more to your blood than you know.You are the compass now. Guard the gate. Protect the page."
The last line was just a symbol. A crescent moon, bisected by flame.
Before Prairie could breathe, the letter pulsed with warmth.
The ink lifted from the page like smoke, spiraling upward in glowing threads. Symbols etched themselves into the air—fire runes, binding wards, something like a map.
Her eyes widened as the dorm around her dimmed, shadows growing longer than they should. The light from the letter pooled into her hands, and her fingertips sparked gold.
Then a voice—not Levi's, but layered, distant—echoed from the parchment:
"The clock is broken. Time is listening."
The glow faded, and Prairie collapsed into her chair, gasping. Her hands still shimmered faintly. Whatever Levi had done… the past was bleeding forward.
And it had just chosen Prairie as its messenger.