When I was young, I liked to sit in our garden; it seemed such a peaceful place,
far more tranquil than the house on the hill where my family had resided for generations.
The swing in the ash trees made me feel like a bird, flying high toward the sun.

 

I heard the stories early on - how magic flowed through our veins, a curse.
My grandmother swore she saw the Lightbringer once.
The attic was locked after my mother saw goblins there by a blood moon.
Our mirrors were always veiled; they said someone might look from the other side.

 

They kept me hidden until I had to go to school, where I caught my reflection in an unveiled mirror,
my eyes flickering crimson for a heartbeat. The ash trees outside whispered, their leaves trembling without wind.
I turned away, pretending it was a trick of the light, but the weight of their stories clung to me.
I learned that our stories, unlike others’, were not to be believed.

 

Once, I had a dream - older now. A dark figure stood in the corner, his silhouette shimmering,
a faint glow in his eyes, as if he carried the night sky within. He didn’t speak,
but his presence felt like a warning.
I reached out my hand, and it vanished instantly. When I told my mother, she froze.
“Don’t do that ever again. Just ignore it,” she said without further explanation but added,
“your great-aunt once did and was running away next day.”

 

That night, I woke to a low growl outside my window, soft as a shadow. The ash trees swayed, and I thought
I saw emerald eyes like mine glinting in the dark, gone before I could blink.
The curse, as they called it, was always lingering. Every woman in our bloodline broke.
Not one marriage held; all grew cold at heart, year by year, bearing only daughters and finding an early death.
They called it the crimson curse. An ancestor chose the wrong path, and all followed.
I stayed away from it all, no need to learn their craft, or so I thought.

 

College was a liberation; I shed everything and never mentioned who they, and we, were.
The dreams returned: the dark figure staring, and sometimes I saw its shadow on the wall at night, awake.
But it never approached, and neither did I.
My path was different, a normal life, I thought. My silver tongue brought a career;
I was convincing when I spoke, and the audience grew. Little did I know that was the oldest magic.
They hadn’t taught me that.

 

My mother called from time to time, reading the cards, speaking of danger and darkness.
Once, she sat me under the ash trees, her hands trembling as she traced a card’s crimson edge.
“Our blood carries power, but it’s a blade that cuts both ways,” she whispered.
I felt a shadow stir, as if something watched from the branches.

 

The day I married, she said, “I hope you break the curse, but I doubt it.”
My smile froze, a crimson shadow creeping in. One ash tree at home died that day.
Ten years later, the marriage was over. The crimson whisper started at that day, mocking me and my failures,
promises of a heart that will not feel again. I ignored it for a time, but there were moments I nearly gave in.

 

Finally, I let my mother show me her craft. I was talented but never practiced like she did.
One year later, she died; the ash trees lost their leaves that night. I was the last one now.
The dreams returned, but instead of the dark figure, I dreamed of gardens with ash trees and flying like a bird.

 

Then a familiar came; I knew we all had one. My mother’s was a blackbird, my grandmother’s a spider,
my great-grandmother’s a dire wolf. But mine was different: a black jaguar, his fur obsidian and soft,
his eyes emerald, shining like mine. Unseen by others, but always felt by me.

 

When I sat under the ash trees, their whispers in the wind were like ancient tongues
I couldn’t understand at the time.
The jaguar came and went; I often forgot he was there, hunting, sleeping, guarding other worlds.
The crimson curse tested my will, growing stronger each day. A broken heart, the pain of loss, solitude,
and loneliness lured me with promises of power and a hardened heart.

 

The dreams returned, and the dark figure stared at night, never reaching out but always watching silently.
On a night with a full moon and a solar eclipse, I bathed in our pond. The ash trees sang that night.
The moonlight showered me, almost reverent, and I opened a door that had been locked before.
No sound came when the key turned in my heart. Light filled me as the crimson curse hissed,
raging in the blood ghosts of my line. They all stood there, the Bloodwitches of my lineage,
teeth sharp like blades, eyes hollow, their hearts gone.

 

The dark figure appeared beneath the ash trees. “They dream of you - your trees,” his voice carried power.
The ash trees leaned toward him. “You need to choose, witch,” he commanded and then he was gone.
I knew he was right, and raw fear gripped me. I shivered and trembled like the ash trees around me.
The Bloodwitches circled, hungry, with a predatory gleam in their eyes. My gaze fixed on the moon,
my hand felt obsidian fur. The jaguar was back.

 

The witches were nearly upon me, their fingers reaching to grab me. But the obsidian beast devoured them all.
My heart thundered as their screams pierced the night, each one a shard of my lineage breaking.
I gripped the jaguar’s fur, my fingers trembling with fear and defiance.
I wasn’t just their heir - I was their end.

 

The moonlight burned brighter, and I felt the curse unravel, thread by crimson thread.
I heard their screams as one after another fell. The ash trees began to bloom in fall at midnight.
A raven cawed in the distance, its cry sharp as a warning from another world.
For a moment, I saw a threshold shimmer beyond the trees, a garden where stars sang of freedom.

 

The dark figure returned, leaning against the oldest tree. “You chose,” his voice resonant. “There is a price, witch.”
I closed my eyes, hands trembling, waiting to be judged. The jaguar’s green eyes now sparkled with crimson.
The figure tilted his head, weighing his next words. “Something needs to die,” a pause, “and rise anew.”

 

I stayed silent, knowing I’d be the last of the Bloodwitches, the one who broke the curse. A tear fell on obsidian fur.
The jaguar roared in the night, a ruler of the underworld with its night sun, the Devourer and Death-Walker alike.
The figure spoke, his voice like steel over silk: “You will stay alive as long as he keeps the dark at bay.”
His eyes rested on the black jaguar.

 

Then his voice softened: “Eternity is not for the faint of heart, witch,
but for those who accept their power, as you did tonight.” A pause. “We will meet again.”
The ash trees began to dream again after ages of a witch who wove words and moonlight
into spells as ancient as the Devourer himself, who held the dark at bay for her.

 

The dark figure stood in a void, looked, smiled, and murmured to himself,
“Bloodwitches never knew their full potential until they chose life.”
Light, bright and radiant, lit up the sky. A gate made of silver moonlight for a white witch.