It was a dark, wind-torn night in the quiet village of Thornvale, a place that slumbered under the bright gleam of a crooked moon.
Three witches cut through the sky like shadows — masked, silent, and fast, their broomsticks slicing through the silver clouds. They moved in formation, the lead witch raising her hand to signal north. The moonlight glinted off her mask as she whispered a single word that vanished into the wind: “Ambush.”
Below them, a grand castle loomed — cold stone, black towers, and the faint glow of candlelight behind shuttered windows. Their mission was clear: assassinate the queen and her only son, the young prince of Thornvale.
The leader, Talia, landed first, her boots barely making a sound on the castle rampart. “Azaria, distract the guards. Dysa—find the boy. Don’t be seen.”
The youngest witch, Dysa, swallowed hard and nodded. Her hands trembled against her wand, the weight of her mask pressing against her face. She slipped through the shadows, guided by whispers of wind and the faint scent of lavender that drifted from the castle gardens.
It didn’t take long to find the prince’s room — moonlight poured through the window like liquid silver. He was there, fast asleep, a soft glow touching his face. His dark hair framed soft features and peaceful lips, and for a moment Dysa forgot to breathe.
She hesitated. The tip of her wand hovered above his chest, and her reflection shimmered in the window beside him — pale skin, trembling eyes. “Why?” she whispered. “What reason do we have for killing this beautiful family? And making the humans fear us more..”
Outside, chaos erupted. A shout tore through the night, “WITCHES!” Arrows hissed through the dark. The two older witches fought back with bursts of light and flame, spells colliding with iron.
“Azaria, retreat! There’s too many!” Talia roared.
A beacon flared into the sky — bright enough to wake the sleeping prince. He blinked awake, dazed, catching a glimpse of Dysa’s pale hair as she leapt out the window, broom in hand, vanishing into the night.
“You got lucky this time!” Talia’s voice echoed as she and Azaria vanished in a swirl of smoke.
Later, the three witches regrouped in the woods. Their faces were half-lit by the dying beacon’s glow.
“Well, Dysa?” Talia asked sharply. “Did you do it?”
“I… I couldn’t.”
Talia scoffed, her eyes burning through the mask. “Then why do we even bring you?”
“Enough,” Azaria cut in. “She’s eleven, Talia. Too young for this.”
“Too young?” Talia spat. “We were younger when we took our first job — and we succeeded.”
Azaria’s tone softened. “She’s not like us.”
“Not yet,” Talia muttered, tightening her grip on the broom.
Dysa stayed silent, the guilt pressing heavier than her broom. “Aunt Talia…” she began quietly, “isn’t there another way to make money? Without killing anyone?”
Talia sighed, almost laughing. “Not for witches. Not in this world. You’ll learn that soon enough.”
“But what if we stopped being witches? Pretended to be normal?”
“Normal?” Talia turned sharply, her voice cutting. “Those normal humans are brainless sheep. We were born with power — to deny it would be to destroy our bloodline. Next time you can’t stomach a job, keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“Got it…” Dysa murmured.