The Salem Witch and the Sorceress of New Orleans

The Trials Wait For Those Who Seek The Prize

SONG: Nightbird by Stevie Nicks

*

"The land of Odgir," Agatha breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. The gravity of their situation pressed down on her, a weight that threatened to crush her under the enormity of what lay ahead.

"What do we do now?" Rio asked, her brow furrowed as she examined the altar. "Do we just... start reading?"

"I think we need to understand what's at stake here," Agatha replied, her eyes scanning the scattered texts. "The Eye of Odgir. Is- is this some sort of test?"

Agatha picked up an old tome, its cover cracked and peeling. As she flipped through the pages, a chilling breeze swept through them, causing the candles flickering along the altar to flicker wildly. "I think we have to confront what we've buried. But-" she paused, sighing. "I can't help but feel like it's not just the past we'll face; it's what we're about to become."

"The Eye is still shattered," a voice resonated suddenly. Rio stepped close to Agatha, their backs pressing against the alter, their hands instinctively reaching out to hold onto one another. "To restore the Eye, you must confront your darkness within. The trial will test your resolve, your fears, and your bond."

Agatha felt a shiver run down her spine. "A trial?" she said, a hint of dread lacing her voice. "What if we can't do it?"

"Agatha..." Rio began, her voice trembling. "We have to trust each other."

As if sensing their trepidation, the alter released a blinding light, engulfing them both.

*

As the light from the altar dimmed, Agatha was wrenched her from the alter and thrusted into chaos. The air was thick with smoke, a choking haze that clawed at her throat and stung her eyes. She stumbled into a nightmarish clearing, her heart racing as she recognised the horrific scene unfolding around her.

"No! No!" she gasped, panic rising in her chest. Agatha was in Salem—in the 1600s— surrounded by a throng of townsfolk, their faces twisted in fury. "Witch!" they howled, their voices shrill and accusatory, a cacophony of hatred that sent chills down her spine.

Hands grabbed at her, rough and unyielding, dragging her toward a wooden stake in the centre of the clearing. The smell of burning wood and ash wafted through the air, thick and suffocating. Agatha struggled against their grip, her heart pounding as she fought against the rope that bound her wrists. "You can't do this!" she screamed, desperation flooding her voice. "Please! Don't!"

But her pleas fell on deaf ears, drowned out by the wild chants of the mob. "Burn her!" they shouted, eyes gleaming with malice. As they dragged her closer to the pyre, she felt an overwhelming wave of dread wash over her. This was her greatest fear—the fear of being completely and utterly powerless.

"Please! I'm good!" she cried, reaching instinctively for her power to try and save herself, but as her fingers curled, she felt nothing. A gaping void. Panic seized her heart as she realised she couldn't access any magic at all.

Agatha was thrust against the stake, the rough wood biting into her back as she was bound tightly. Flames flickered hungrily at her feet, crackling with malevolence. "No!" she screamed, fighting against her restraints. " You can't kill me! Please!"

The flames began to creep up the stake, licking at her ankles with searing heat. Agatha could feel the singeing fire, the heat radiating toward her skin. The mob closed in, their faces twisted with glee as the fire roared, embers swirling in the air like malevolent spirits.