Borne

Chapter 10

In the months following the shadow war's conclusion, Amina redoubled her efforts preparing for the battles to come. By day she drilled her allies in new forms of combat magic and elemental summoning. By night she reinforced the veil's wards across the entire swampland, ensuring no dark entity could pass unseen.

Word of her coven's victory had spread far, and refugees from afar arrived daily seeking refuge. Broken witches and restless spirits alike pledged themselves to Amina's service, swelling her ranks. She worked tirelessly to heal wounds of body and soul, rebuilding her followers' strength for the trials ahead.

Yet not all who came did so in peace. On misty dawns, Amina's inner sight would detect ripples in the veil as fell entities probed for weaknesses. More than once she disrupted blood rituals meant to rip openings to the darkness beyond. Her foes grew ever more cunning, knowing their defeat had been but temporary.

It was on one such evening that portents of the gathering storm came to pass. Amina glided through the primordial wetlands on her nightly patrol when a keening broke the mist-shrouded silence. She materialized to find the source - a lone crone knelt amid the cypress roots, keening in agony.

Rushing to her side, Amina saw the witch's aura flickering like a dying candle flame. "What has happened, sister?" she asked gently, already calling healing magics. But the crone could only gasp one word before expiring - "Conclave."

Unease prickled Amina's inner sight. The crone had come from distant shores, which could only mean ill for her distant sisters. Wasting no time, she summoned Zalia to decipher the portent's meaning. The elder crone's expression darkened as she read energy traces left by the dead witch.

"A great working has been undertaken - the summoning of a fell entity beyond reckoning. All covens of the South have been called to participate or face destruction. We must send emissaries at once, lest our sisters be slaughtered or fall to corruption!"

Amina nodded grimly. "I will go myself. Choose a small group of our swiftest to accompany me. We leave at moonrise."

That very night under cover of mist, Amina's delegation glided south on ephemeral wings. For three nights and days they traveled as wisps upon the wind, crossing mountains and oceans unseen. Finally, on the cusp of the waning moon, they arrived.

What they found chilled Amina to her soul. Where once great forests stood, only blasted wastelands remained. Fallen towns smoldered on the horizon as fell entities hunted survivors. At the heart of the devastation rose a cyclopean ziggurat swarming with robed figures conducting their blasphemies.

A great working was indeed underway - to revive an ancient evil whose very name curdled the blood. Amina sensed its looming awakening would shatter the boundaries between realms forever. She had arrived too late to save this land, but not to disrupt their ritual...