Disclaimer: All witches in this story are 18 years of age and older, for that is the age of admission to the Academe. This story contains elements of mild fantasy, embarrassment, and some reluctance. Do pardon the slow burn.
On a hill overlooking the forests and grounds of the Academe for the Arcane Arts grew an ancient black willow, in whose shade sat Elise Montaigne. The young initiate came there often, and from that vantage she could see clearly the weathered stone walls of the Academe, perched high upon a rocky bluff, where within loomed the dark keep with its spires and crenellations. Far below the castle, a dark river wound its way through green forested banks down to a glistening lake, whose waters coursed further on and down to the hamlet below where the novices took lodging.
From here Elise could carefully observe the footpath and each passerby in detail, mostly earthbound novices as they trekked to class each morning and evening. She lounged serenely, but her blue eyes were as sharp and assessing as those of a hawk. She had a noble air, lips the color of peach teased into a slight self-assured smile, a long graceful neck, her cheeks dappled with freckles, and her skin sun-kissed from hours spent in broomflight. She was prideful, without doubt, but there was also a dark undercurrent to her, a deadliness below the surface. The blood in her veins could be traced back to the old magics, from the time of the stone mavens and woodland sorcery, and she was a worthy heir to her antecedents and had become unparalleled among the initiates at the Academe.
On the path below, the passing girls gave her nervous sidelong glances and quickened their pace. For though not outright cruel, there was a coolness to the blonde beauty that chilled them. Elise was not to be trifled with, she did not suffer contenders, and no girl that crossed her forgot those facts. But she was not interested in them today. She sat patiently as the late summer sun began to set and the shadows stretched long and dark over the countryside. Her attention was elsewhere, attuned to some faint sensation. Of something to come. A chill was creeping into the world as the sun departed, but Elise did not mind.
At the edge of the Academe grounds stood a pair of ancient sentinel stones, roughhewn boulders carved with faded runes to ward off intruders from the shadowy lands of man. And beyond them, the forest stretched interminably into the horizon. As Elise waited watchfully, two figures emerged from the woods and passed between the stones. Elise sat upright, cupping her chin in her hands.
She recognized the Beldame, the tall sinewy priestess in the resplendent red robes, solemn and poised. But beside her walked a smaller figure, bundled in a black rough-spun cloak, its hood obscuring their features. They drew nearer, walking down the winding path, and the Beldame turned her head slightly towards where Elise sat, her wise, deep set eyes examining her. The stranger turned too, lowering the hood, and Elise could see clearly see the girl gazing fiercely back at her. The stranger's dark eyes shone brightly in a face that was pale and luminous like the new moon, framed by hair black as midnight. There was a youthfulness to her features, a graceful curve to her jaw and chin, but her expression was sharp and brooding. Her neat brows were knit in focus and her eyes, ringed by dark lashes, were deep and unending. She stared at Elise, through her, assessing what she saw and more. A long moment passed, and then the stranger turned her attention back to the path and the Academe ahead.
Elise watched them as they walked away, and smiled to herself.
So that was the premonition. A new novice.
New arrivals were common enough, but there was something about this girl that made her...wary. Even at a glance Elise could tell she was unlike the haughty daughters of noble spellbinders or those flatterers from the aspiring class of hexweavers. No, there was determination in her, a fire, perhaps even a danger. A competitor at the very least. The thought brought a smile to Elise's lips, and with that she stood and made her way back to the Academy.
***
During her first few weeks at the Academe, Moira said little and learned much in doing so. In the mornings she trooped from the hamlet to her lessons along with the other novices, while above the treetops the initiates soared gaily past, flaunting their broom privileges. She saw the way in which those girls of the urban wicche looked at her. There was amusement in their glances as they eyed the pretty pale-skinned beauty, with her bobbed hair and blunt bangs, her dark countenance, her antiquated robes and tunic. Her poverty.
Moira did feel out of place here, in this place of sunlight and grandeur. She had been raised in the distant north, in the misty moors and desolate mires where few found reason to tread. She was accustomed to the perpetual gray twilight, the twisted limbs of oak trees that obscured the sky. It was a place that teemed of old magics, of wandering spirits, mournful wisps, curse and hex. She found the Academe to be...decadent by comparison, and decadence bred passivity and weakness. She harbored no ill will towards the other girls but she thought them soft, and took solace in the knowledge that their vanity made them all the weaker, and she could not be shamed by those weaker than her. What mattered most was to be certain, to be capable, and to be in control. Moira was all these things.
But despite her misgivings, each day was fresh to her when the trees along the path parted, and she could see the Academe rise majestically on its rocky outcrop. The path rose steeply, and she would pass through the ivy coated gatehouse, through the courtyard and into the grand hall with its high vaulted ceilings and magical braziers that flared and danced with heatless blue flame. Then the unseen chimes would toll, resounding through the cavernous corridor, and the novices and initiates would hurry to and from their lessons in the adjoining classrooms. Sunlight streamed through enormous enchanted windows, each colored pane depicting a scene, a legend, a history. Glass sorceresses conjured ruin on crystalline soldiers, witches battled aloft on broomstick, life, death and magic played out in each image, alive shifting and morphing, casting dazzling light on the seamless black stone floor.
It was unlike anything she had ever seen, and each time she had to fight hard to contain her wonder, to keep herself grounded and not get carried away by her awe. The chance to prove herself at the Academe, to earn her hat and broom, was a great honor and not one so easily granted to a fen-witch. There had been a time when the old names and covens of the fenlands had held great esteem in the arcane world. In centuries past they had been witches of unrivaled power, held wondrous domains, fought against and were feared by the kingdoms of men. But as generations passed their dominion had waned, petty squabbles and the rise of the urban wicche hastening their decline. Now they were relegated to the mists and swamps, little more than augers and midwives for the peasantry.
But magic is magic and strength is strength, no matter where it is derived from. And the Beldame, the priestess chief among all others, had heard of the promising girl from the fens, and gave her coven a chance. Moira would not blow it.
Moira poured herself into her studies, and passed silent judgment on the aptitude of her peers, taking care not to reveal the extent of her knowledge. If there was one thing she embraced it was the principals at the Academe. The mavens were exacting and just, and did not fuss over or indulge their pupils. A witch was judged solely on her abilities, and she alone was expected to settle her conflicts with others, regardless of whether they ended in contest, conquest, triumph, or defeat. Individual strength joined together made a coven strong. A coven of weak witches was weak by extension. It was a philosophy that took many of the new novices by surprise, and they learned either to adapt or depart.
The weeks passed without event, until at last the end of the moon's cycle brought about the first of the Conjuration trials and the novice witches were summoned for examination. Moira took a seat with her peers, the dim auditorium filled not only with novices, but also scrutinizing mavens, curious initiates, and the Beldame herself. Before them all, on a lone dais, flickered a solitary candle, the faint light making the room seem even darker and expansive.
One by one each novice was called before the flame to demonstrate her aptitude in conjuration. It was a test of genuine spellcrafting, distinguishing those with innate ability from those who could only perform by rote incantation. Moira was not impressed as she watched one girl after another conjure their specters from the flame; burning sparrows, blazing and coiling serpents, fiery lidless eyes.
Gimmicks,
she thought disdainfully.
Parlor magic.
Time passed imperceptibly in the dark room, but at last Moira's name was called from the rolls, and she too approached the candle flame.
She looked deeply into the feeble fire, the light waxing and waning, illuminating her stern features, the rest of the room gone, lost in blackness. The darkness that surrounded her was comforting and familiar, and in that moment there was no Academe, no verdant forest, no dazzling summer sun. Only darkness, memories of the gloam and moonless nights in the fens. Home. And lost in those thoughts and memories, Moira unconsciously began her invocation.
Her wand danced, and the flame snapped to attention at her command. It grew larger and brighter like a torch, surging and flashing, and in the shifting flames strange shapes materialized. Lumbering fel-beasts, tortured faces, clutching and grasping hands, burning treetops and cities on fire, things lost to human memory, things that were and never were, nightmares from unknown abysses, legends and myths of the fens. The fire had become an inferno now, illuminating the faces of the onlookers, who gaped in both amazement and terror.
She swept her arms up, the blaze bending to her will...and then slowly she brought them down, the flame retreating as she did so, retreating and diminishing, smaller and fainter until it was nothing more than a simple candleflame, which she then extinguished. Light returned to the room, murmurers and hushed voices sweeping through the assembly. The light and noise brought Moira back from afar, and she cursed under her breath for having forgotten herself and revealing too much. But the chimes rang, giving her the opportunity to escape the attention of the other students.
Moira exited into the great hall and found the Beldame already waiting.
"That was magic of your coven?" she inquired.
"Yes, priestess."
"Impressive. You were taught well it would seem." She looked at Moira for a long moment, evaluating her with glinting eyes. "I personally instruct the initiates in the Malevolent Magics. If you think yourself capable, I would have you join us tomorrow afternoon. If you display aptitude I will permit you to join the upper ranks."
"It would be a great honor, priestess." said Moira, bowing humbly.
The Beldame studied her, and gave a faint smile. "Very good. Tomorrow, at the standing stones. " She turned to leave, and like the morning mist burning off at sunrise, she fade-walked into nothingness.
For the first time in a long time, Moira smiled, unable to contain her excitement. But the feeling was soon dampened when she heard a proud voice call out behind her.
"You are Moira, is that right?"
