Prophecy

Prologue: The Witching Hour

It was very quiet, Heron noticed. Not a single thing seemed to move. Even the air stood still, like it was taking a deep breath before something happened. The candle on the bedside table flickered, casting strange shadows of swords and dresses on the wall. She yawned, the words going in and out of focus.

"Heavens, I'm tired," she remarked to herself. It was time, anyway. The candle had reached the tenth notch. Wax was dripping onto the table and the book was no longer making sense. She was on the verge of falling asleep, and if she was caught up late again her father would punish her -- maybe take away her books!

The candle's flame wavered again, this time building dramatically in light before almost going out. This routine repeated itself multiple times before the flame steadied. Heron;s heart lept into her throat and chills raced up and down her small body. Tentatively, her fingers curled around the hilt of her dagger, which her father had given to her for this exact reason. Use it cautiously, he'd said, his cold eyes boring into her soul. One cut can mean certain death.

But witches deserve certain death, she thought. Now it's no wonder it was so quiet tonight.

Ever since the Righteous had started, the signs of witchcraft had been bored into her mind.

1: Pure silence

2: Flickering lights

3: Bone-chilling cold

4: Sulfurous smell

5: Absolute darkness

That last one was rare, at least. Everyone said it was the sign of a Borne Witch. Moravia had yet to see one.

She blew out the candle, wincing as her night vision kicked in. It was her Third Blessing, and she'd only had it for a week or so now. Heron took a deep breath to steel herself, gripping the hilt of her dagger tightly, and eased open the door, looking up and down the hall. Quiet voices echoed through the hall in meaningless context. Lunch tomorrow, gala Tuesday, the upcoming Demon Trials.

Voices down the hall intensified. Now they were arguing as one, solitary voice changed in a language Heron couldn't quite put her finger on. Light blazed from the crack of a doorframe, dulled by something blackish clouding her vision. From the room next to her, Morgan snored, his sheets rustling softly.

Should I wake home up? Heron thought, hand reaching for the knob. No. He'll only laugh, say that Aspenhallows fear nothing, and that I should go back to bed. Heron continued down the hall, drawing closer to the light. The black fog kept thickening until she was stumbling around the hallway. Somebody laughed ominously.

Then the light exploded. Blinded, Heron fell into an empty room and staggered around to find anything to gain her bearings. Screams could be heard, laughs, cries.

Heron wondered how she could be so foolish. Three of the five signs were present. She should have stayed in bed or ran straight to her parents, no matter how unforgiving they would be about her fear and worry. "Show no weakness," they'd say. Aspenhallows have no weaknesses.

Having regained her senses, Heron burst into the room next to her, only the find the remnants of a pentagram, her mother's wedding band, and a single opalescent feather.