The One

The witch's tale

Izar Quartermaine was born in a matrilineal family. As a matter of fact, his entire ancestry was matrilineal. As far as they knew, they were the only ones in Refica to follow this path. From a very young age, the boy had been constantly reminded of why: to avoid being traced.

He had a younger sister five years his junior named Sadie. She was a frail girl, always getting sick and hence having to stay indoors most of the time. Ever since her birth, Izar would sometimes hear muffled arguments from his parents' room, behind closed doors. Their voices were hushed, and he could not make out what they were saying—but only at first.

"Here, warm water."

Once, Izar brought a mug of warm water to Sadie's room. She was sitting in bed, reading. At around five in the evening, this was a routine. As he entered, she closed her book and put it aside to retrieve the mug from him.

"Thanks, Izar." She took a sip slowly, then handed him the mug again. He placed it gently on her bedside table.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better every day. Are we doing it today too?"

"If it helps, we should."

Sadie nodded. She turned so that she was sitting with her back to him. Izar placed a hand on her back. A soft blue glow appeared at his touch, and she closed her eyes. Soft blue was the purest color of healing.

As the siblings were doing that, Sadie's door opened again. This time, it was the father who entered.

"What are you doing?" the man questioned.

At his voice, Izar dropped his arms. "I was trying to h—"

"Don't use your sister as an object of your experiment. Let her rest. Izar, get out and go back to your studies."

"But...but I just got here," the boy protested.

"Father...I'd like to spend some time with Izar if I can. I'm feeling well today." Naturally, Sadie joined her brother in protest.

"Enough." Yet, the father would hear none of it.

Under Izar's treatment, Sadie indeed became healthier with time. Their mother seemed pleased and worried at the same time—though what exactly she was worried about, she did not tell. Soon, Sadie became able to head outdoors on short trips with her brother. He took her to places that were not as crowded: museums, libraries, gardens. He showed her the world as he knew it, and every time she smiled in glee, his gaze softened a little.

Then, one day, Sadie suddenly collapsed in her room. She never woke again.

"It's your fault!" accused their father, indifferent to the tears swimming in the young boy's eyes as he stared helplessly at his sister's body. "You should never have used that magic on her. Who do you think you are? I knew you couldn't have wielded that healing magic right."

"Let the child be," pleaded their mother, who simultaneously placed her hands gently on her son's shoulders. "We are all grieving."

Was it really his magic? Izar doubted it. He doubted it very strongly. If he wasn't sure he had perfected the healing spells, he would never have used it on Sadie. To test it out, when he came upon a wounded bird one day, he tried to heal it.

He discovered that he could no longer summon any healing magic—let alone err in it. In the end, at age eleven, he could only watch the squirrel die.

To numb his pain, Izar dived further into his studies. He knew that the main reason he could not use external protective magic anymore was the trauma his sister's death caused, but there was nothing he could do to get past it—he did not, in fact, want to. Instead, he studied day and night, until he easily surpassed his own parents in witchcraft within two years. It was then that his mother brought him into her animorbis for the first and last time.

"This...this is your animorbis?" he asked, despite knowing full well that it was.

"Indeed," she answered.

They were sitting on swings hanging mid-air on nothing. Above them was a sky heavily obscured by storm clouds, below them was a restless, unfathomably dark ocean. Out of pure instinct, Izar held on tightly to the swing he was on. There was nowhere to go.

"Why is it like this?" he asked, not knowing where to look to make himself feel more secure.

"I have nothing left. Izar, you are still young, but you must listen to what I am about to tell you."

The boy shifted his gaze. Yes, looking at his mother would perhaps be the best choice here. "I'm listening."

It was then that she told him everything. Once upon a time, Nasr and Odessa had a fierce battle. What everyone knew was that Odessa won and killed Nasr; what everyone did not know was that they had a third sibling: the youngest brother, named Cameron. Cameron was left out of the whole tale of the Palmenteres because he intentionally never excelled in witchcraft. To the end of his days, he remained a witch, and even as Nasr and Odessa were fighting amongst each other, the third brother simply fled from the chaos that they caused. Hence, even after she claimed victory, Odessa left him be. Cameron eventually had a family of his own somewhere in a remote area of Refica. He and his wife decided that their child would have her last name, just in case Odessa would be looking out for any Palmentere. This became a practice throughout all generations that followed.

"Wait, then that means..."

"We, too, are descended from Cameron Palmentere," his mother confirmed. "In all preceding generations—as is the case with most families in Refica anyway—there has only been one child in each family. Your father was especially worried about Sadie's existence because it resembles the family in Odessa's tale. Even if many generations have passed, there is no doubt that she is always on the lookout."

"So, Sadie..."

"He made her sick to make it look like she would never contribute to witchcraft. When you cured her, he became paranoid. Izar," his mother added hastily, placing her hand on his, "When you can, leave this household. If your father would kill his own child, I'm afraid nothing good awaits you as a Quartermaine."

And so, he left.

He left, and stayed away until a few years later, when he had already become a transferal witch. On the anniversary of Sadie's death, Izar returned to his old home with the intention to only see from a distance what his parents were doing.

What awaited him was a white silhouette standing over the ashes of what used to be his house, and the bodies of his parents.

Seeing no reason to keep his distance, he stepped forward. Dark green mist spread from beneath his feet like wildfire, but as soon as it reached the silhouette, it vanished.

"You are no match for me, Izar Quartermaine," said the female figure, "And you never will be."

"I see," he said simply.

She turned around. She had an exquisite face, but the expression on it was cold beyond measure. "Did you ever rely on the love of a family?" she asked with a thin smile. "It does not exist. You must have learned from your own family history."

"It exists somewhere. Just not in you."

"You left your parents without a word. You and I are also related by blood, yet you would not have hesitated to kill me if you could," she stated. And she was right on both accounts.

"...It exists somewhere," Izar repeated, in a lower volume now.

"Then find it. Prove me wrong. I see that you are rising in power—perhaps someday you will be a worthy opponent. For that reason alone, you may live for now. Oh, and..." She strode closer. He began to back off, but she caught him by the collar. "...you have quite the handsome face. Allow me to leave a mark so that you do not forget our bet. And remember...should you find a loving family, I will get there first, before you can prove anything."

With that said, without her even moving, he felt a sharp pain on his face. He shut his eyes, and when he opened them again, she was gone.

The woman never did introduce herself, but everything about everything she did and said made her identity excruciatingly clear: Odessa Palmentere.