The Voice of the Council

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PART I: THE SPARK

Chapter One: Whispers in the Grove

Beneath the silver canopy of the elder trees, the grove pulsed with an old magic, forgotten by many and feared by more. Crickets chirped as if casting protective wards. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, illuminating a hidden circle of seven young witches gathered in secret.

Rowan knelt in the center, fingers in the damp earth, listening. She didn’t speak until the soil stilled.

“The land is confused,” she whispered. “It doesn’t understand what we’ve done.”

Lira scoffed, arms crossed. “What they have done, you mean. This ban—they call it balance, but it’s control.”

“They fear what they don’t understand,” murmured Maren, tracing protective runes in the dirt.

The Council’s edict had shaken the very roots of their world: No woman shall take a mortal man as partner. Love of such kind disturbs the natural order. That was their claim. The punishment was exile—cut from the sacred cycle, denied the moon’s blessing.

Rowan’s gaze lifted. “We have to speak. Push back.”

“They won’t listen,” said Thistle, the youngest, her lavender eyes wide.

“Then we make them,” Rowan replied. “The world is already punishing them. The balance is off—and we’re the only ones who feel it.”

The wind stirred. Leaves spun in a slow spiral. It was the land itself, listening.

And the land remembered rebellion.


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Chapter Two: Rowan’s Oath

Rowan walked alone that night, deep into the valley where magic weakened and the mundane world began. There, in the field of night-blooming jasmine, stood him—Ash. A mortal man with kind hands and the soul of a poet.

He looked up as she approached. “The stars told me you’d come.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “They lie sometimes.”

He took her hand, rough and warm. “What’s wrong?”

She looked beyond him, at the village lights flickering below the ridge. “They’ve outlawed us. I’m not supposed to love you.”

Ash said nothing. He simply held her hand tighter.

Rowan reached into her satchel, pulling free a vial of moonmilk, sacred and rare. “This is an oath,” she whispered. “I drink it now, and no spell—not even the High Council’s—can unmake what I’ve chosen.”

Ash’s eyes widened. “That’s dangerous.”

“So is pretending nature doesn’t love balance through contrast.” She raised the vial to her lips.

The moment she drank, the stars brightened.

Far away in the grove, the elder trees shivered.


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Chapter Three: The Balance Fractures

It started small. Birds migrating the wrong direction. Blossoms falling too early. A fox giving birth under a half-moon, weeks before its time.

Maren watched as her healing herbs withered. “They’re not responding,” she muttered, crushing dried yarrow in her hands. “It’s like the land is… distracted.”

Elsewhere, the waters of Lake Selen turned brackish. Fish floated belly-up. The moon reflected green instead of silver.

The witches of the circle convened again, this time under starlight warped by flickering shadows.

“It’s the Council,” Rowan said. “Their decree is binding magic to law instead of letting it flow.”

“It’s not just about love,” said Thistle. “It’s about fear. Of men, of change, of losing power.”

Rowan stood, cloak billowing behind her. “Nature demands harmony, not hierarchy. The Council’s spell is damming the river, and the river is breaking.”

A distant tremor shook the earth.

And deep below the roots of the world, something ancient stirred—something that remembered when witches chose their own paths.


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Chapter Four: The Council Summons

The white stone tower of the High Council rose like a spear into the heavens. Rowan, Maren, Thistle, and Lira climbed the marble steps in silence, the glyph of summons burned into their palms.

Inside, the Council’s circle awaited—nine elders, eyes shadowed by time and power. They spoke in unison, a chilling harmony.

“You stand accused of breaking the Covenant.”

Rowan stepped forward. “I followed the truth of nature. I broke nothing—only your illusion of control.”

Murmurs rippled. One elder, Morae, narrowed her eyes. “Your actions brought imbalance. The tides are failing. Crops are rotting.”

“And did you think forbidding love would bring harmony?” Rowan snapped. “The natural world thrives on tension. Fire needs air. Trees need decay. A woman may need a man—and magic still sings in her blood.”

Lira raised her hand. “We don’t seek war. We seek course correction.”

Thistle’s voice was small, but firm: “We want to speak with the Earth—not dictate to her.”

The Council sat in silence.

Then Morae stood. “If it is Earth you wish to hear, then let her judge you.”

The floor split open in a ring of light.

And the witches fell into the trial of nature.


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EKLSR 


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