*Surrey, England - July 22nd, 1692*

     Abigael had to bury her own mother by herself. It was the most heart-wrenching thing she'd ever done. She chose a quiet field beneath an old oak tree, the very place where they used to gather wildflowers on lazy spring afternoons. Now, that memory lived in the soil, along with the woman who'd shaped her world.

She stood at the base of the tree, her gaze falling to the freshly turned earth. The ground looked too soft, too raw, like a wound that hadn't yet scabbed over. Tears streamed down her face, hot and unforgiving—like fire tracing paths across her skin.

Slowly, Abigael knelt in front of the grave, her fingers clutching a small bouquet of wildflowers she'd picked with care. Pinks of every hue bloomed in her hands, her mother's favourite. She placed them gently on the mound of earth and sat back on her heels, letting the grief take her.

"I love you, Mother," she whispered, her voice fragile, barely carried by the breeze. It was all she could manage. The rest of her emotions churned in silence—rage, sorrow, hatred. She wanted to scream, to burn the world down for what it had taken from her. But none of that would bring her mother back.

She was alone now. And that truth settled in her chest like stone, heavy and cold. The world felt unbearable without the one person who had always made it make sense.

Abigael stood over her mother's unmarked grave for hours, her silent tears soaking into the earth. The ache in her chest was unbearable—raw and consuming. Her mother would have known what to do, would've had a plan, a solution. Now, there was only silence.

Eventually, with the weight of grief pressing into every step, she made her way back to their small cottage nestled in the Surrey countryside. The walk felt endless, her eyes dull, her expression empty. The world around her moved on, but she remained frozen in her pain.

The cottage, modest and weather-worn, sat far from the nearest town, just as her mother wanted. Margaret had raised Abigael in isolation, teaching her about the supernatural world without fear, letting her practice magic freely and safely. It had been their sanctuary.

Abigael pushed open the wooden door with a soft creak. The inside was just one room, simple but filled with memories. Two cots stood on either side—hers and her mother's. She closed the door behind her, the sound echoing louder than it should have, then moved straight to the old trunk at the foot of her mother's bed. She knelt, pressing her palm above the latch and whispered a word. The lock didn't click—it shimmered. A protective enchantment. Only Margaret or Abigael could open it.

Inside were trinkets, tokens of a life well-lived: dried herbs, hand-written notes, little charms with no names. Abigael sifted through them with care but intent. She wasn't looking for keepsakes—she was searching for the Grimoire. Her mother had told her about it for as long as she could remember. Passed from mother to daughter for generations. A sacred book of immense power and history. At the bottom of the trunk, beneath yellowed papers and forgotten fabric, she found it.

Thick. Leather-bound. Heavy with age and energy. The edges of the pages were golden with time, the scent of herbs and ink still clinging to it. Abigael carried it to the rounded wooden table and set it down. Dust flew up in a small cloud, and she wiped it away with the sleeve of her coat.

Her fingers traced the cracked leather cover, feeling the pulse of old magic radiating from within. The Grimoire was powerful, coveted by many, especially the Grand Coven. With Margaret gone, the enchantments shielding them were gone too. Her mother had protected her for so long. Now she was alone. But not defenceless. They would come for the book. For its secrets. Abigael was counting on it.

Abigael's sharp hearing caught a faint sound outside her door, and a wicked smile curled on her lips. Showtime, she thought, knowing exactly who had come for the Grimoire. With a swift motion, black smoke spiralled up from the floor, enveloping her like a living shadow. In seconds, she vanished.

The door slammed open, and a hooded figure stepped inside. The cloak she wore marked her unmistakably—a member of the Grand High Coven. Slowly, she pulled back her hood to reveal an aged face—Pauline, a woman Abigael once considered family.

Pauline's eyes scanned the empty cottage with calculated caution, then fixed on the table where the Grimoire should be. Her lips curled with eager anticipation as she moved forward. But when her hands reached out, they passed right through the book, as if it were nothing more than mist. A chilling laugh echoed through the house, sharp and eerie. Pauline stiffened, ready for a fight. The laughter faded, and the illusion of the Grimoire dissolved into thin air.

"My mother is not even cold in her grave, and yet you come to steal what is mine?" Abigael's voice reverberated from everywhere and nowhere, making Pauline's skin crawl.

"Tis impossible, thy should be dead," Pauline whispered, her voice trembling with fear.

"Exactly what I thought," Abigael replied, her voice now clear and close behind her. Pauline spun around, coming face-to-face with Abigael standing near the fire pit. The fire blazed as if it had been burning for hours, casting flickering shadows over Abigael's fierce expression.

"And here I am," Abigael said, a hint of vanity in her tone. "Not a mark on me."

"How?" Pauline raised a brow, sceptical. Abigael said nothing, her heart burning with hatred too fierce for words. Then, with sudden force, she thrust her hand forward. Pauline was slammed against the front door, which slammed shut behind her. Her head struck the wood, and her limbs splayed, frozen by a powerful binding spell.

"You took everything from me," Abigael hissed, rage fueling the fire in her eyes.

"You're an abomination!" Pauline spat through clenched teeth, venom dripping from every word. But Abigael was beyond caring. She raised her hand, fingers curled like claws. Pauline's scream tore through the cottage, raw and piercing, echoing into the silent countryside. She was trapped, helpless—no one for miles could hear or aid her.

"You do not get to call me that!" Abigael shouted, stepping forward and lowering her hand. "My mother had no reason to die. She was kind, devoted, and protected me from a cruel world. But now—" Her voice faltered, the weight of loneliness sinking in. "Now, I will make you suffer. You will feel everything."

Her hand rose again, fingers curling tighter. Pauline's screams escalated into agonised howls, reverberating in Abigael's ears. A cruel smile played on her lips as she savoured the torment. But she wanted more than pain—she wanted to strip Pauline of everything.

Abruptly, Abigael lowered her hand, and the screams slowed to whimpers. Blood dripped from Pauline's nostrils, the flow slowing as she struggled to catch her breath. Pauline's wide eyes searched Abigael's, wary and uncertain.

"Killing you would be too merciful," Abigael said softly, turning to the table. The Grimoire shimmered into view in the dim light. She opened it, flipping through yellowed pages. "You don't deserve death," she murmured, eyes locking on a specific spell. "You deserve a fate worse than death." A devilish smile curved her lips. Pauline's gaze hardened with fear.

"What are you going to do?" she demanded, voice trembling.

Abigael studied the spell briefly, then closed the book and stepped toward Pauline. "I've heard the stories from my mother. You two were close once—thick as thieves in the Coven." She stood toe-to-toe with Pauline, eyes blazing. "You told her magic was your life, that you could not live without it." Abigael's hand shot out, and a nearby knife flew into her grasp. She caught it with a sharp snap. "I am going to take the one thing you truly care for and watch as you wonder the rest of your pathetic life,"

"Thy is not powerful enough to complete such a feat," Pauline spat, though her voice lacked conviction.

"Watch me." With cold precision, Abigael grabbed Pauline's left hand and dragged it free from the invisible bonds. Pauline offered no resistance—she couldn't. The knife sliced across Pauline's palm, blood oozing freely and dripping onto the floor.

"Phasmatos Tribum, exum sue, redem su pas quo," Abigael intoned, squeezing Pauline's bleeding hand as the spell took hold. She pulled away and stepped back, letting Pauline collapse to her knees. The woman's eyes widened in alarm, sensing something was wrong.

"You feel it, do you not?" Abigael taunted. "The emptiness. The magic just out of reach, forever beyond your grasp."

Pauline struggled to stand, clenched fist trembling. "I am more powerful than you think," she declared, and tried to cast a spell, waving her hand towards me. Nothing happened. She tried again, desperation creeping into her eyes.

"I guess you're not." Abigael's smile deepened. "This is your curse," she said softly. "To live without magic, hollow and weak. To die a mortal, forgotten. And no one but me can break it." Fear flooded Pauline's eyes. "Now go. Run back to a Coven that will never accept you."

Before Pauline could speak, Abigael raised her hand, and black smoke surged up, swallowing Pauline whole. Moments later, the smoke vanished—and Pauline was gone, far from England. A triumphant smile spread across Abigael's face. Pauline would return to the Coven and spread word of her defeat. That fear would keep them at bay.

She wanted to kill Pauline—for all they had done, for the pain they caused.

But that time... would come later.

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