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I saw one once when I was young. It was the most terrifying moment of my life. They come to small villages to pluck us out, like chefs picking the fattest capon. Nobody of importance pays any mind to the little villages, and so they come. Less noise. Less trouble.

That year the coven chose my village to select their next sacrifice. The witching hour calls for the blood of a family to be spilt once every thirteen seasons. The neighbors said that the crones had already come and gone, that the unfortunate Davenports had already been pruned from the village.

So, once again it was safe to go outside, wander the wilderness and play in the fields. Of course that was what I was looking forward to, bright-eyed and full of youth. I wasn't suppose to be out after dusk, but a young girl like me could hardly be blamed. I had been locked in that dreadful house for so long.

The golden hues of the sun were gone and an ethereal blue coated the woods. Being out at such an hour felt somewhat surreal. I knew mother would be upset, but I had a small wicker basket and it was almost full of the most beautiful stones that I could find. Our region had a good bounty of minerals, and my collection never ceased to grow.

That was when I saw her in a narrow opening through the thicket. A slender frame draped in black—like obsidian. Her back faced me and the hood of her cloak was pulled over her head. Around her hood was a wreath made of foliage and thorns with two large wooden sticks protruding on either side like antlers. The blue of the evening danced on her outline.

I was close enough to see her details. She held herbs and twigs with fingers stained dusty black, as if she were working with charcoal that day. She had silver rings that glinted in contrast. She stood as still as a statue, like an animal listening for danger.

I wasn't entirely sure whom or what I was seeing at first, but I knew at least to hide behind a tree while observing. The more I watched, the more sour my stomach became.

Then finally she moved. She turned toward where I was, her movement fluid like an old creek. The skin on her face was pale and hung like worn tapestries. Her eyes were bright and absent of all color. For a moment, I felt her gaze hang upon me like a hot iron and I thought my heart had stopped in its place.

Her porcelain eyes tore into me a while longer before she raised her stained finger in my direction, and it was then that I felt the blood rush back through my limbs as I dropped the wicker basket. The beat of my heart returned like a kick in the chest, rushing heat through my veins. I used the heat to propel me, to turn and run as fast as I could go, I didn't look back. I sprinted all the way home, no longer fearsome of my mother's impending punishment.

I'm glad I didn't have grandmother's stone then. I wonder if I would've tried to use it, or if I still would have ran. In the years to come, she was the only soul I mentioned my experience to—the only person, I'm afraid, who would believe the truth of it. My grandmother was very old and not so easily swayed by the teachings of the new priests. They said we must lock ourselves away during the witching hour and pray for redemption. How the Devil would be able to drag away the family with the weakest of faith. They taught us of our helplessness.

My grandmother gave me a flat stone. It had a sigil carved into it. She said that it was fashioned by our ancient kin. It was able to ward off evil magic, but it could only be used once and only by a single child who was born under a full moon. My grandmother told me that that child was me, as it was her once before, and if our time ever came, I would be responsible for our redemption—not the new god. She bestowed this responsibility on to me as her time finally came to an end here on earth.

The years came and went, and yet another witching hour had arrived. I had blossomed into a true woman since that time, grown a bit smarter and wiser, too. I believed in my courage, but every witching hour I hoped that I wouldn't have to use the stone.

My parents and I were locked in our home, as tradition would have it, huddled and praying by the hearth. They did not know of the magic stone I carried on a long cord around my neck, for they would surely make me throw it out. Magic was witch craft to them, after all, and witch craft was for the Devil—so I hid the stone under my smock. The new god certainly would not allow things such as sigils in a house of good faith.

My village had a silence that night that only death could bring—even the beasts succumbed to the spell.​ Our hands were numb with how tight one clung to another in prayer. It probably wasn't long, but it felt like a lifetime before our ears perked. A whisper of wind caught on the leaves that were littered around the outside of our home. A shiver rippled over me and I halted my breath.

Please, no. I don't even know how to wield the stone.

The hearth suddenly blazed like a beacon, casting a flash of green before going out entirely. We were left with only the dark, but it was more than just dark, it was an unnatural black shadow that engulfed my family and I. I heard my mother's sobs before going under completely. My hands let loose and the sigil stone felt like ice against my chest.

***

The ground was gritty and cold against my knees. I felt twigs snap under me as I shifted my weight. The silence was thick except for the occasional crackle of a fire. The autumn air was cool upon my clammy skin, making it pique with icy bumps. My hands were bound to each other and lay in my lap. I raised my head, straining to open my eyes and take in the world around me. No moon was out that night, leaving the sky a black abyss through the giant oaks of the woods. An emerald glow flickered around the area from the green flames that were close by in front of me.

My breath caught in my throat when I saw them. Six hooded figures standing around the flames. The same as the old crone from back then, except they all donned skull masks now. One pointed a black stained finger over my head and whispered, "behold."

I craned my neck to look behind myself, too terrified to move my body, my heart hammered against my rib cage. My stomach sank at what I saw. My parents were tied each upon two large pyres. My father's face was red, tears streamed down as he whispered the Lord's Prayer, while my mother looked dull and defeated. She remained silent. My fear turned to hatred as I faced the crones once more.

"Don't hurt them!" my voice tore through my ragged throat.

The crone on the far right glided towards me, her steps incomprehensible, her voice muffled, "Young one, you and your kin have a great honor in this witching hour tonight. Your souls will pay a debt to the Devil himself and mother earth shall remain at peace until the next sacrifice."

I spat at her feet, "Is that the spiel you give before all of your murders?" my voice was jagged.

She paused for a moment, the light flickered off of her dark cloak, before she leaned down to my level. She drew forth her hand and upon her finger was a large silver ring that protruded into a clawed tip. I steadied my breathing as she traced the claw down my chin and neck.

"It's for the best that you understand what the fate of your souls will be," she was much too close, the warmth of our breath danced against one another. I sucked in the cold air as her claw bit into my skin. She carved an X on my chest. Agony seared through me. Hot tears welled in my eyes, but I refused to let her see my pain.

The crone glided back to her counterparts as she dribbled some of my blood into the fire along with a shrewd mix of herbs and fur. The flames blazed brighter as she did so. The coven began to chant, but the tongue was foreign to me.

Blood ran down my chest, catching on the cord that the sigil stone hung to, clinging and finding its way to the magic rock. I cursed the crones. I hoped that everything they held dear would be destroyed, torn to shreds and discarded like what they have done to countless lives. I hoped that they would see their mother's eyes plucked and their babes blood drained clean out of them. I wished for their suffering. Does such an evil understand what true suffering is? Or is suffering what makes such an evil?

With my bound hands I ripped the cord from my neck, the stone slick with my blood. I pushed the flat surface's backside hard into the murky dirt as I furiously traced the sigil with one loose bloodstained finger. The mark pierced my eyes with a beaming light. It was blue like the morning sky.

"She's a Wraven!" One of the crones shrieked, but it was too late. Like an animal on instinct, I cupped the stone against the earth, my eyes seared through the coven. The fire shot sparks from green to blue as they huddled together. All of the black that surrounded us became smaller and smaller, sucking and shrinking the crones. Their cries became faint as they disintegrated into the night.

At last, a natural light took over the sky. It was the full moon. My shoulders slumped and my limbs shook like the legs of a newborn fawn. Once I knew the crones were gone for sure, I opened my hands. Nothing but white ash remained where the stone once was. I didn't know what a Wraven was, but I had saved my family, and I was somehow able to call forth the power of the moon. I rested my forehead on the moist earth, saying a silent prayer and giving thanks to my departed grandmother. I hope she smiled upon me then.