I'd like to thank Lastman416 for the read through and edits.
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Gwendoline exited her doorway, using magic to slam it hard behind her. Her coven sisters jumped from their seat at her sudden arrival. They all had sat in waiting for days in their ritual chamber. It was lit by candles arrayed on the outermost edges. They were expecting her back but weren't prepared for the mood she brought with her.
"Priestess how was the election..." a sister asked. Gwendoline suspended her in the air and threw her across the room in anger.
"Those French whores!" Gwendoline shouted as she stormed in a circle around the edge of the chamber. Any object within her grasp was hurled across the room. Her sisters ducked, blocked, or were struck by a barrage of bottles, books, chairs, and candlesticks.
French witches had dominated the position of High Priestess of the European Covens for two centuries. Every ten years the priestesses of Europe would meet and decide their next leader. The one witch who would be responsible for all major decisions that effected the witches of Europe. Admittance of a new Coven into the Confederation. When to go to war. When to resign from war. When to be involved with mundane conflicts. How to interact with the other six High Priestess across the globe.
This election process could take hours, days, or even weeks. The process truly started months or years before the election proper. One nominee could begin campaigning, bringing smaller covens to her cause to bolster her appeal. Not every coven was a voting member, but the voice of each coven could be heard. Of the twenty-seven voting covens, twelve of them were French. The French always arrived with a single voice, and a single nominee. A simple majority carried the vote, and the French already owned nearly half. Only two covens needed to be swayed.
The English had three voting covens, amongst them the Sisters of the Apocalypse, the coven which Gwendoline was the priestess of. The Prussians, Spanish, and Russians each had two. The Irish, Scottish, Papal, Portugues, each had one. The Near East Coven representing witches from Moldovia, Polish-Lithuania Commonwealth, and Transylvania also had one vote. The final vote was from the Coven of Ice, representing Sweden and Denmark.
Even though witches in general tried to be removed from mundane affairs, there was no clean separation. English witches hated the French. Irish and Scots hated the English, and each other. Why? Because the English hated the French on principle, even if they were witches. Even if no French witch had ever slighted them.
Gwendoline made her case. She was well versed and had mastered no fewer than five disciplines of magic: alchemy, barriers, doorways, elemental, and enchantments. She was more than adept in curses, hexes, illusions, memory blocking, memory diving, reconstruction, summoning, and potions. All of this she had accomplished by the age of five and twenty. She even did something exceedingly rare; she got the Prussians and the Russians to speak for her, with neither bringing forward a nominee of their own.
The French had their nominee. Françoise de Lansac. An esteemed courtier of many noble houses. To the French witches, they saw her a possible ear in the court of future kings. They'd know of wars before they started. They'd now when to evacuate their witches, or when to get involved. She had poise, grace, articulation, which would aid in international relationships. She was in her late thirties and had only mastered one discipline of magic: prophecy, a discipline some witches didn't even consider to be legitimate.
Gwendoline was a far better witch. Françoise was a better diplomat.
The Coven of Ice and the Near East submitted their own nominees, but their names would be lost to history.
If Gwendoline could only stop an immediate majority, it would automatically require a runoff after one day of further deliberation.
The French of course had their twelve, as always. The English and Prussian votes went to Gwendoline. The Coven of Ice and the Near East Coven voted for themselves. The Irish voted for the Near East, and the Scots the Ice. The Papal voted for Gwendoline, as did the Russians. The Portugues voted for the Near East. That just left the Spanish. They voted for the French after an hour of internal debate.
Gwendoline, though undeniably a powerful sorceress, could not accept that her ambition was a delusion of grandeur. She was strong, but strength alone did not make her a suitable leader. Her strength carried with it an arrogance rivaling her abilities. Why should she be denied her rightful place?
"Leave, now!" Gwendoline ordered her coven. Nervously, they all stood up, and looked upon each other. "Do not make me repeat myself."
"Priestess, we've discussed..." one witch began, timidly tiptoeing toward her. "...we...we have voted."
"Voted?" Gwendoline asked. "On what my dears?"
"On your removal," another said, less shaken, but still frightened of her. "You are in violation of the Codex. You cannot treat us like this."
"Like what?" Gwendoline inquired. "The Codex outlines, very clearly, the authority of a Priestess."
"It also outlines the standard of care. We are duty bound, but your authority also requires a responsibility for our wellbeing. You mock us. Strike us. Experiment on us. We all came to learn from you, but you don't teach us. You refuse to."
"Then leave," Gwendoline said harshly. "More sisters will come."
"We cannot allow that," the witch said. All her sisters' eyes began to glow, as they readied to strike down their priestess.
"Twenty against one?" Gwendoline asked and giggled a little. "You didn't bring enough witches."
Minutes later Gwendoline stepped over the bodies of her slain wards and slowly approached the last one. The gravely wounded witch tried to crawl backwards away from Gwendoline but was lifted from the ground and held upside down.
"Beg," Gwendoline ordered.
"I'm done cowering to you," the sister replied.
"Commendable," Gwendoline admitted. She threw her to the ground which opened beneath her, and sealed shut. She managed only half a scream before she was crushed to death, her blood shooting up like a popped blemish. "Fucking traitors."
Gwendoline heard clapping, and swiftly turned around. She tilted her head curiously at the man standing before her. He dressed like an English aristocrat in a lavender slashed doublet and a broadbrimmed hat. He had a thin mustache and a pointed beard on the tip of his chin. Gwendoline had to admit the man was extraordinarily handsome. Even witches who had forsaken men had these urges. Her attraction was rooted in something different. There was something different about this man. There had to be if he could suddenly appear in the chamber of a coven.
"Who are you?" Gwendoline asked, lowering her offensive posture into something more relaxed. She didn't fear him. If he meant her harm, he would have struck when her back was turned.
"Just an admirer," the man replied. That voice. Deep, cold, and ensnaring. It sent a shiver down even her frozen spine. "Gwendoline, daughter of
Genevieve
."
"How did you enter this chamber?" she asked. She said or felt nothing regarding how this man knew her name or her mother's.
"I have my ways," the man answered without answering.
"What magic can a man have?" Gwendoline asked. The room grew dark, but the candles were not blown out. The light flowed toward him and stretched thinly like starlight being pulled into a blackhole. It spiraled around him like water around a drain.
"Your kind has long feared your progenitor," the man said, walking along the outer edge of the chamber. The light followed him like a loyal slave.
"We do not fear Mother Lilith," Gwendoline said.
"She was merely the first to use your power. It was given to her by another," the man said. "The serpent in the garden."
"It has long been tradition we do not worship the Morningstar."
