The Tale of Betrice Thorne Part 1
Listen close, my friends, as I regale you with the haunting legend of young Beatrice Thorne, she who wields the chilling inheritance of sorcery...
It began on the night of Beatrice's fourteenth birthday. She had spent the day restless, filled with a sense of foreboding that danger lurked on the horizon. As dusk fell, Beatrice closed herself in her chamber and lit the 14 candles circled around her cake. She took a deep breath and blew them out in one gust.
As wisps of smoke curled into the air, an icy breeze swept through the room, snuffing the last flickering flames. Beatrice shivered, her breath catching in her throat as seven shadows stirred in the gathering dark.
They glided forth in a ghostly procession - her witch mothers, grandmothers and greats beyond, each specter more ominous than the last. Their hollow eyes and sunken faces peered from behind ragged veils as they encircled the girl. One by one they murmured ancient incantations, their voices building into a drone that seemed to echo inside Beatrice's mind.
"Our daughter of the craft, hear us on this sacred night. Continue our spells and rituals, child, lest you face our wrath..." cautioned a spirit clad in rotting Victorian lace. She unfurled her pallid palm, revealing a glowing violet rune that sent ethereal light swirling through the room.
Around the circle, the other specters followed suit, performing the same obscure gesture as more mystical runes illuminated the chamber. The air grew thick with thrumming power that raised the hair on Beatrice's arms and nape.
These were no kindly guides, but the restless shades of the women who came before her. The sacred covenant of their ancient line stretched across generations, shaping the destiny of each daughter who showed the gift.
Beatrice trembled, overwhelmed by their arcane energy pulsing in harmony with her own untapped abilities simmering beneath her skin. She could feel them threatening to break free. But was she ready to walk the witch's path alone?
"The craft demands a price," rasped another spirit, her sunken eyes boring into the girl's soul. "Are you prepared to pay it, as we did before you?" The specters hummed with sinister anticipation, beckoning Beatrice to embrace her inheritance and join their haunted legacy.
Beatrice opened her mouth to respond, to protest this fate they ordained for her on this night. But no words came, only a strangled whisper lost under the drone of their spellcasting. The fervor reached a fever pitch as the witches pressed closer, urging the girl to release the power within.
Just before the energy overwhelmed her senses, the spirits receded, dissolving one by one back into wreaths of smoke. Their whispered chants faded until only a charged stillness remained. Beatrice stared wildly around her darkened room, now empty but heavy with magical residue.
She knew then that this was only the beginning. Now, whenever the moon goes dark, Beatrice still glimpses those watchful spirits in shadow and flame. They haunt the girl, waiting to see if she will finally honor their legacy and complete the covenant. Will she make the ancient coven whole once more? Only time will tell...
