ANATOMY OF A GIRL

november 18th, 1808

Location:
Cara'cius, Svet'dmai

Caius met Rebekka outside Ashenya, beneath the branching oak trees, before following her a ways down the path and settling on a stone bench.

She was wearing a dull grey dress, and yet Caius still found himself fascinated by her. It was in the way she held herself and the way she spoke. She did not fear him, nor did she patronize him.

From the bench, they had a view of the taller buildings peaking up behind the trees intermittently. The glare of the sun against the glass was blinding, ensuring Caius kept his eyes below the horizon, on the thick trees.

"A long time ago," Rebekka began. "The Witches were at war. It started when the Witches of the shadow — necromancers, poisoners, ritualists — kidnapped a few Half-Witches and kept them imprisoned. They used them as slaves, and often syphoned their magic. As months passed, more and more Half-Witches were disappearing, taken right off the streets. It is one of the reasons we're so hesitant to live here in Cara'cius, to this day.

"To end the tyranny, the Light Witches collected to produce a spell that would protect the Half-Witches, while working against the Witches that threatened them. The spell changed the nature of a name, making it something to be cherished and withheld. It meant that if someone learnt of their name, something was pulled from them, leaving them weakened. In the weakened state, they could be killed. This gave the imprisoned Half-Witches the power they needed to escape, and never be held in such a way again."

Caius knew that to kill a Witch was no easy task, and it must have taken a great power to create such a spell. He'd assumed all Witches wanted the same thing until he'd arrived in Cara'cius. Now, he knew it was far more complicated than that. Every Witch, every coven, has a different motive.

She continued, noting Caius's intermittent nods of understanding. "Of course, the spell has long been undone. But for many Witches, it is hard to shake the habit."

"And why would you keep your name from me at first? If you are not a Witch?" he asked finally.

Rebekka seemed offended by the question, though Caius saw no insult in it. "How do you know I am not a Witch?"

While it was true that, physically, Witches and Half-Witches had little differences, Caius was entirely certain the girl was no full Witch. He felt it in his bones.

He shrugged in reply.

"Fine," she relented. "I am merely a Half-Witch, but I was raised by a Witch, and have taken up the habit of keeping my name to myself."

"It is not the worst habit to keep," he told her. It was better, safer, to keep one's self closed off. A simple thing such as a name meant far more than anyone knew.

She smiled at him, revealing a portion of her white teeth, which seemed to glow brighter against her dark skin. "I suppose it could be far worse."

*

Calantha found it easy enough to become the girl Elska wanted. She sat politely, spoke softly, and was forever smiling. It was exhausting, but not impossible.

The first lesson had been a slow introduction to the dark arts — techniques, enchantment pronunciation, rules, limitations. She'd been taught what blood magic was, what it could do (which was a lot), and how to summon it from within herself. The energy flowed in the veins of every Witch, and therefore every Half-Witch. It was infused into their bones and muscles.

The second had taken a more practical approach: summoning the energy and directing it toward plants, with alternating enchantments and curses. In the first lesson, a single leaf withered under her gaze. It was slow, difficult work, but within a few days, she was able to wither, and then heal, the entire plant.

Elska was a patient woman, and if Calantha was capable of guilt, she would feel terrible for her growing web of lies and deceit.

Calantha sat on one of the rickety stools in Elska's cavern, under the Witch's watchful eye, tugging on the energy within her as if it were elastic. She placed her palm on her chest, moving it away slowly, visualizing the threads of energy moving between her chest and her fingertips.

"You will see how much stronger you become once the magic fully awakens," she said, rubbing Calantha's shoulder before moving away to a table at the edge of the room. As she moved, her cloak seemed to clink against the floor. She was draped in a fine layer of golden chain link, made possibly by her magic alone.

The Witch tinkered around, melting metal and stone alike, producing items that Calantha couldn't fathom. All for the strength of the coven, she would say. She wouldn't say it aloud, but Calantha knew the coven was preparing for the day that the Dusk coven decided on war. It seemed that tension had been building for decades, fragile peace held by a single thread. It began with a difference in beliefs and morals — that blood magic use should be regulated, and used only for the good of the realm. It was a sentiment that she opposed, but one that could never truly come to fruition. There were far too many covens, all with conflicting beliefs and views, and they would never arrive at any sort of agreement. Calantha was smart enough to know that. Blood magic would remain an anarchic energy.

It was thrilling to think that the very energy she held in her hand was limitless. She could not yet control it, but she could just imagine the possibilities.

Calantha continued the action until her limbs felt stiff. There was a weight on her chest that deepened with each breath, but she did not stop for a moment, for this magic had a ways to go before it could satisfy her thirsts.