As I stormed into my bedroom, the door slammed shut behind me with a force that sent vibrations rippling through the walls, causing the picture frames hanging precariously to sway but miraculously remain intact. Ignoring the greeting from my Grams, I made a beeline for the refuge of my room, the turmoil inside me evident in my hurried footsteps.

With a mixture of anger and shame swirling within me, I flung my Grimoire onto the bed with all the force I could muster. It bounced off the mattress, its pages ruffling in protest at the rough treatment. Simultaneously, a silent scream escaped my lips, the pent-up frustration and magic within me bursting forth uncontrollably.

A surge of invisible energy pulsed through the room, and the unmistakable sound of glass cracking filled the air. My heart sank as I turned to see the window on the far wall marred by a web of fractures, evidence of my momentary loss of control. Frustration and regret washed over me, knowing that my magic had acted out in a way I hadn't intended.

The sudden knock reverberated through the room, causing me to whirl around to face the white wooden door.

"Can I come in?" My Grandma's voice floated through the barrier. Without waiting for a response, I turned away and strode over to the broken window, my gaze fixed on the fractured glass.

"Yeah," I replied, my voice carrying a mixture of frustration and resignation. I knew she would enter regardless of my answer. As the door creaked open, I braced myself for her presence.

"What's the matter, honey?" Her voice, soft and smooth like velvet, washed over me. Just hearing her concern seemed to ease the anger bubbling within me.

"I'm useful, aren't I?" I forced the words out, struggling to keep my emotions in check. I could sense her gaze boring into my back, likely noticing the broken window, yet she chose not to address it.

"Of course you are," she replied, her voice firm as if it were nonsensical to think otherwise. "You have your own unique ways of being useful," she continued, her tone reassuring.

"Then why do I feel utterly powerless?" I replied, my voice softening almost to a mumble.

"You are anything but powerless, sweetie," Grams reassured, her words bringing a slight chuckle from me. "You're hurt, aren't you?" My Grams spoke softly after a brief silence between us. She always had a knack for sensing when I was feeling down or injured.

Summoning all my courage, I turned around to face her, and our eyes met. Her gaze widened as she noticed the handprint around my throat, no doubt now red and angry.

"Who did this?" She spoke, her tone carrying a dangerous edge, an anger I was familiar with but rarely witnessed.

I exhaled, attempting to suppress my tears. "It's a rogue vampire named Victoria," I explained. "She's mostly targeting Bella, but I think she may have set her sights on me as well," I admitted, revealing the truth. "She said things about witches that I can't shake," I continued, observing as my Grams' expression softened, knowing exactly what I was referring to. Tears welled in my eyes as I struggled to voice the question that haunted me. "Are... Are we the last two witches?" I managed to choke out, the weight of the possibility heavy on my chest.

"We need to talk," she said, her tone grave and unyielding. Her sudden seriousness sent a chill down my arms, leaving me with a tinge of fear.

.................

I was sitting at the rounded wooden table, in the kitchen, Grams moved gracefully around the stove, her hands expertly measuring and adding ingredients to a bubbling teapot. I watched as she carefully dropped crushed lavender flowers into the mixture, the scent permeating the air around us, creating a soothing atmosphere despite the weight of our conversation that was to come.

I observed silently, not wanting to disrupt her meticulous process. With practised precision, she stirred the contents of the pot, tapping the wooden spoon against the side to dislodge any clinging mixture. Next, she reached for a glass cup, selecting one that was only half the size of a typical pint glass. As she poured the steaming liquid from the teapot into the cup, a light brown hue swirled gracefully, emitting wisps of steam that curled upward, carrying with them the comforting aroma of brewed tea. Despite my apprehension, the concoction appeared more inviting than repulsive, resembling a familiar beverage rather than a strange potion.

"Drink this, it will help," she murmured gently, placing the glass in front of me as she settled into the chair beside me. With hesitant fingers, I reached out and grasped the glass, feeling the warmth emanating from the liquid within. Bringing it to my lips, I inhaled the sweet scent of lavender mingled with other herbal notes. As the warm liquid trickled down my throat, I felt its soothing warmth spreading through my body, easing the ache in my bones and soothing the rawness of my throat with each swallow.

Setting the glass back on the table, I felt the tea's effects beginning to take hold. However, my attention remained fixed on my Grams, whose expression remained grave.

"Long before you or me," she began gently, her gaze unwavering. "Witches were common in every part of the world. There wasn't one branch of magic; there was traditional, voodoo, black magic, necromancy. It was all practised. Some practices were frowned upon. But when they grew in size and power, the Volturi were threatened."

"You know about the Volturi?" I was astonished that she knew.

"I know a lot of things," she replied, but I remained quiet as she continued. "They planned to get rid of all the witches, so they wouldn't threaten their power. Over centuries, witchkind dwindled. The fear from men did not help," I knew exactly what she was referring to: women being accused of witchcraft and the famous Salem witch trials. "Witches wanted to fight, wanted to end this hunt. So, they all banded together, witches from all across the world came to join... All the knowledge that was passed through generations seemed useless against them," I could picture the fight, their screams, and the flames that went along with it. "In the end, witchkind lost, only a handful survived and fled. Though the hunting never stopped," my Grams' gaze drifted, but in those brief moments before she turned away, I saw tears glistening in her eyes.

After a tense silence, she turned back to me, her composure regained. "Many stopped practising, hoping to live normal lives. And over the ages, our history, knowledge, and power were forgotten and spun into fairy tales and myths. Descendants are unaware of their true heritage and don't really have access to magic. I'm not certain if any remains," her voice took on a sombre note, mirroring her feelings.

"How do I have magic? How do you?" I inquired, raising the cup to my lips once more and taking another sip. Its soothing potion seeped into my muscles and bones, bringing relaxation.

"Our ancestors were among the few who refused to surrender hope," Grams declared, her gaze piercing mine. "They taught their knowledge to their daughters, who, in turn, passed it on to their own daughters, and so on. I taught your mother all the necessary arts and entrusted her with the Grimoire. When you came into this world, she couldn't wait to pass on the knowledge to you," Grams explained warmly, tears now clear as day in her eyesight but she was refusing to let them drop. "The family Grimoire is passed down to the daughter on her eighteenth birthday, a rite of passage. The one you possess was crafted by your mother, serving as a beginner's guide for you to inherit the full knowledge when the time arrived," Grams explained gently. My breath caught in my throat, surprised by the revelation of another Grimoire. Yet, the one I possessed already contained a wealth of powerful spells.

"Can I look at it?" I inquired cautiously, my gaze softening as I silently pleaded with her.

"I'm sorry, darling," she began, extending her hand towards me and gently brushing its surface. "You'll have to wait until your birthday. It's a rule," she explained, her tone genuinely apologetic, as if she wished she could show it to me now. "To answer your question, yes... as far as I know, we are the last two practising witches," she was deeply saddened by the fact that she also wished for more witches to be around, to flourish, and not to have been slaughtered by the Volturi.

"Grams," I stuttered, rendered utterly speechless, my face betraying my shock. Words failed me completely; I couldn't even muster a coherent sentence.

"I know, it's a lot," she replied, soothingly tracing circles with her thumb on the back of my hand, attempting to alleviate my unease with the revelation. "I had planned to tell you on your birthday when you received the grimoire," she added, her gaze briefly scanning my features. "But I couldn't continue lying to you," her hand, showing signs of age with slight wrinkles, ceased its circular motion and gently caressed my cheek.

"I... I'm at a loss," I eventually managed to articulate, as her hand withdrew from my cheek and returned to rest atop mine. "I'm angry, sad, frustrated, hateful. I can't make sense of it," I confessed, overwhelmed by the surge of conflicting emotions swirling within me.

"You're not alone, honey," Grams reassured me, and in that moment, I felt her solidarity, understanding that she likely experienced similar emotions when she received the news. And my mother, too, probably went through the same ordeal. "Finish your tea," she instructed gently, giving my hand a brief pat before rising from her seat. "You'll feel better in a day or two," she continued, offering a reassuring smile, leaving me grateful for her wisdom, both present and yet to be received.

"I love you, Grams," I expressed, my voice carrying a tender warmth, my gaze softening as she returned a gentle smile.

"I love you too," she replied softly, before turning towards the kitchen counters with one final smile, ready to tidy up. She began placing the jars of spices and herbs back into the cabinets. She possessed an innate sense of organization, always keeping everything in order.

Seated at the table, I held the glass in my hand, feeling its cooling touch as the tea reached a lukewarm temperature. Occasionally, I brought the glass to my lips, savouring each sip of tea as it flowed down my throat, warming my stomach. Yet, amidst this moment of peace, a torrent of troubling thoughts flooded my mind. Images of the bloody confrontation between witches and vampires on a battlefield surfaced, the witches ultimately succumbing to defeat by the likes of the Volturi. It was a conflict born of selfishness, a desire for control and dominance, with the vampires seeking to assert themselves as the apex predators of our world.

The mere thought of the merciless slaughter of witches ignited a simmering rage beneath the surface of my skin. Suddenly, I became acutely aware of the warmth radiating from the glass I held, the heat seeping through the air like tendrils of fury. Lowering my gaze, I beheld the tea within, its surface disrupted by silent but intense bubbling as if subjected to an invisible flame. Wisps of steam spiralled upwards, dissipating into the surrounding air as I instinctively withdrew my hand.

In the span of a heartbeat, the bubbling ceased, leaving me momentarily stunned. Clasping my hands together, I closed my eyes, drawing in a slow, steadying breath through my nose and exhaling slowly through pursed lips. With each breath, I focused on regaining control over my emotions and the magic pulsating within me. Months of training and discipline could not be allowed to slip away in a moment of unchecked anger...

*******************