“They’re here, High Witch,” a novice whispered, her voice trembling not from cold, but from the sheer gravity of the woman before her.
Seraphina flicked her wrist. The man’s mouth fused shut. Not with stitches or glue—with a simple, absolute cessation of function. His eyes bulged. His companions stepped back. Dominant Witches
The rain over Salem’s End had a memory. It remembered the fires, the stones, the whispered names. Tonight, it fell in sheets, drumming a frantic rhythm against the stained glass of the Ivory Tower—the last covenstead in the Northeast. “They’re here, High Witch,” a novice whispered, her
