When he was born, it was just us - him and me. A silver-haired child, unseen by others, a rare light.
He carries my bloodline, yet he’s the first son in generations on the maternal line,
as I was the firstborn daughter on the paternal. His words weave spells, gentle like water,
not fierce with fire like mine, a heart that longs for depths, yet belongs nowhere. I know this so well.

 

His voice, a quiet current, holds a power he does not yet name. Quiet as moonlight, warm as dawn,
he is my heart’s warmest flame.
I would burn cities, conquer the stars, to keep him safe.
And he would soothe the ashes after.

 

They call us witches, is it true? He, a warlock, not yet fully taught. In dreams, our line’s witches whisper to him.
“Beware,” I warn, “some walk in blood and shadow.” Their spells, woven from a crimson tide, seek to bind the world to their will.

 

We are different, I know now, born of light, not the crimson tide of old. The white ones, they name us, cast out, despised by them.
Once kin, now divided, they scorn us for the light we cradle.
I weave stories, he crafts melodies, both rooted in deep truth.
Truth brings solitude, a weight he feels deeply, while I’ve learned to hold it close.

 

He was conceived on New Year’s Eve, no chance occurrence.
The Threshold Night, some call it, between endings and beginnings. A bridge to other realms.
The Thirteenth Night, others say, outside time, when past and future blur.
And he is both and more, on the verge to understand.

 

That night I knew. The air stilled, frost veiled the glass, and silence stretched too long.
I felt him spark within me, luminous, not of chance but chosen. A flame seeded in darkness.
Though he does not yet know. His light, a beacon woven from the stars’ own thread.
I knew, seeing his silver hair.

 

Now, in his darkening locks, a shimmer stirs, his awakening begins.
Forged by loss and longing, a quiet sadness clings to him since birth. Yet his smile dims the sun.
I look to the stars and feel a storm rising. The crimson line lurks, tempting him to their side.
Some lures he’s tasted, seeking to ease his heart’s ache.

 

The dreams came.
He closed his eyes, and shadows gathered. Three women stood before him, crimson-clad,
their mouths curved like blades. Witches of our blood, but not of our path.
Their eyes gleamed with hunger, their voices a tide that drowns.

 

“Child of white,” they whisper, “your heart is heavy. You carry loss not yours alone.
Let us take it. With us, you will never be alone.”
Their voices wrapped around him, honey-sweet, knife-sharp. His voice faltered, his melody bent toward theirs.
His chest ached with the promise of ease, of belonging. His breath caught, his fingers trembled,
yet a spark of defiance flickered, holding fast to a light he did not yet grasp.

 

“Your song could command fire and blood. The world would bow.”
He leaned close, almost theirs. And I felt it, the thread between us straining, cutting me with its pull.
My voice carried into the night: “Guide him. Do not let them take him.”

 

Another presence came then, quiet, steady, patient. A warmth brushed his heart,
ancient as stone, unyielding as starlight.
The crimson ones hissed, their song breaking. Smoke on wind, they vanished.
He woke with hands over his mouth, his shoulders trembling.
Not with fear, but with the weight of what he had almost given away.
His voice stirred, a soft hum of starlight and sorrow, grounding him in the truth we share.

 

In visions, I see him, one version shines, afraid of his own light. I smile, stubborn like me.
Another shows him as a mage, ancient, walking this path before.
My guide, as I am his. Choosen to walk as mother and son together on the edge long before.
Bound by light and dark, we stand to change what none dared before.

 

I see myself, a single silver strand in my hair. I smile, and the night smiles back, glowing silver tonight.
And the stars whisper, waiting for his storm to break free when he will step in the light of the night.