Magick Moments

mysticalwiles.blogspot.com

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"The Black Candle"

The Black Candle burned low, its flame flickering violet and blue like a bruise on the air. It sat upon a pedestal of bone in the heart of the Hollow Chapel, untouched by time or wind, guarded only by silence and the whispers of the dead.

And now, it had chosen her.

They found her in the Ashen Wood, barefoot, bloodless, and barely breathing. No name, no past—just eyes the color of smoke and a silence that chilled even the crows. The Sisters of the Hollow took her in, out of duty more than mercy. After all, tradition demanded they care for the one marked by the Candle.

She was given the name Elira, though she did not ask for it.

The other witches avoided her. Animals stared too long. Shadows bent strangely when she passed. And then came the dreams—fragments of fire, screaming voices, the tearing of wings. In the dream’s center stood the Black Candle, always lit, always watching.

One evening, as the moon drowned itself in cloud, Elira wandered into the crypts beneath the chapel. Her feet moved of their own will, leading her to a sealed door crusted in salt and ash. At her touch, it fell open like rotten paper. Inside was the first grimoire—"The Book of Hollowing."

It whispered when she opened it, and something whispered back through her lips.

She devoured its secrets night by night. The language came easily. Too easily. Runes glowed at her fingertips. Spirits began to circle her like moths around a grave-lantern. They called her Mother of Crows. She asked them why. They only wept and laughed and whispered of feathers, of fire, of betrayal soaked in blood.

Elira began to change.

The Sisters murmured behind her back. One disappeared. Another was found drowned in ink. No one accused her, but all eyes watched her now.

The Candle's flame grew taller with each secret she unearthed.

In the deepest chamber of the chapel, Elira found a mural, long hidden beneath layers of charm and dirt. She scrubbed it clean with bare hands until her fingers bled. The image showed a woman—black-winged, flame-eyed, holding the Black Candle high as cities crumbled below her. Around her swirled crows. Beneath her feet, corpses bloomed like flowers.

And the woman… wore Elira’s face.

She staggered back. No. It couldn’t be.

But the Candle flickered in agreement.

And then she remembered.

A thousand years ago, before memory and death, she was the first to bear the Candle. She created the pact. She fed the flame—on war, on lies, on the hearts of kings. When she grew too powerful, the coven bound her soul, shattered her mind, and scattered her across time. But the Candle had waited, patient and hungry.

Now, she was whole again.

Elira stood in the Hollow Chapel as the Candle’s flame surged, no longer blue, but black as the void between stars. The walls moaned. The earth trembled.

“I remember who I am,” she said aloud, her voice layered with a thousand echoes. “And I remember what you did to me.”

Crows burst from the rafters, screaming.

The Black Candle feasted.

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EKLSR