Witches' Dominion
The Supreme Witch's fortress loomed like a black heart at the center of the Dominion, its spires clawing at the bleeding twilight. Runes carved deep into the stone throbbed with pale light, breathing ancient spells into the dusk.
Above, violet flames crackled along the highest towers, sending ripples of shadow across the forest below — a forest that seemed to listen.
The air in the fortress gardens was thick with magic, every breath tinged with the scent of crushed moonlilies and the iron tang of old spells.
Lady Morganya moved through the garden like something half-remembered from a dream.
The last gold light tangled in her brown hair, weaving it into a living flame. Her gown whispered against the stones, each step deliberate, yet soundless.
She barely glanced up from the documents in her hands, crimson eyes razor-sharp, dissecting runes and sigils that pulsed with hidden meaning.
Beside her, Velyra and Chinonso flanked her like twin shadows. Velyra's amber gaze flicked across the twisted paths, missing nothing. Her hair, braided tight with steel threads, gleamed whenever a violet flame guttered overhead.
Chinonso moved more softly, almost gliding, her white eyes blank and unreadable, a hand always close to the daggers tucked at her hips.
The garden stretched around them — a living, breathing thing. Moonlilies glowed like fallen stars.
Bloodroses wept crimson tears. Old trees arched over the paths, their bark split with ancient glyphs, their leaves murmuring to each other in voices too soft for mortal ears.
The world held its breath.
And then Morganya spoke — her voice slicing the heavy air like a dagger drawn across silk.
"Velyra," she said, without looking up. "The Dreadholm Dominion — how fares the trade?"
Velyra didn't miss a beat. Her voice was even, but sharp beneath the surface.
"Smoothly, my lady. Their ores, their herbs — our coffers swell. Our witches craft stronger potions. Sharper wards."
A pause. Just enough for the truth to slip through. "But the Dominion council... they hold back. Something."
Morganya's crimson eyes flicked up, just for a heartbeat. Then she turned a page, smooth as breath.
"And Yami?"
The air tightened between them. Velyra's jaw locked.
"No word. No messenger. Silence."
Morganya stilled, her finger tapping once — soft against the parchment, but heavy enough to break mountains.
"And you, Chinonso?" Her voice was silk over steel.
Chinonso shifted — barely — her hand brushing the hilt of a hidden dagger. "A whisper, my lady. A Dreadholm councilor. He said Yami has been stationed… in the Dwarven Kingdom."
Morganya stopped moving.
Velyra and Chinonso halted instantly, mirrors of her will.
Slowly, Morganya turned, her gaze falling on Chinonso with the weight of judgment.
"Stationed?" Her voice cut like a razor wrapped in velvet.
"Under Dominion orders?"
Chinonso didn't flinch. "Yes, my lady. They've set her among the dwarves. To meddle."
Morganya said nothing.
Only lifted a hand, trailing her fingertip through the air — drawing a sigil that shimmered and faded like a ghost.
Her mind raced beneath the stillness.
The Dwarven King.
The sudden sickness
.Yami — the perfect knife.
A soft sound escaped her lips — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.
"So."
She let the word fall between them, heavy as a stone into deep water.
"They pull at dwarven strings now."
Her lips curved — not a smile, but something far more dangerous.
"A sickness." She tasted the word, spat it from her mind.
"No." Her voice dropped low, velvet and iron.
"Not a sickness. A curse. And not one born by accident."
She straightened, the folds of her dark gown sighing against the stones. Her steps resumed, slow and sure.
"Ambitious," she murmured. "Risky."
Velyra moved closer, the edge in her voice impossible to hide.
"Is it cause for alarm, Lady Morganya?"
The Supreme Witch didn't answer immediately. Instead, she tilted her head, as if listening to music only she could hear.
A slow, dangerous smirk touched her mouth. "Not yet," she said.
"But watch them. Eyes sharp. Blades sharper."
She threw a glance sideways at her bodyguards — the barest flicker of crimson.
"The Dominion's leash grows thin. Soon enough... they'll strain to break it."
Chinonso's voice broke through, fierce and deadly:
"If they turn on you, my lady — just say the word. We'll cut the traitors from their roots."
Morganya smiled then — a real smile, cold and full of promise.
Velyra's gauntlet gleamed as her fists tightened. "We'll bring their heads to your feet."
Morganya chuckled — low and cold.
"Tempting," she murmured, almost wistful.
"But blood is a poor teacher. Knowledge cuts deeper."
She let her gaze linger on them — sharp, weighing. "Keep your blades keen... but your ears keener."
The fortress gates groaned open with a deep, resonant sound — as if the stones themselves resented the act.
Beyond, the town sprawled out, alive with restless magic: Moss glowed like emerald fire on the trees, lanterns floated like restless stars, and witches wove through the streets, cloaked in murmured spells.
A woman brushed past, her voice no louder than a prayer.
"Blessed be, Supreme Witch," she breathed, cloak trailing starlight.
Another, older, bowed low, trembling.
"Your wisdom lights our path," she said, voice cracking with reverence — or fear.
Morganya nodded once, distant.
Her mind was not here — it was elsewhere, deep in darker currents.
The dwarves... the Dominion... Yami.
Pieces, scattered across the board.
And someone dared to move without her consent.
Her lips tightened.
"If the Dominion sent Yami," she whispered under her breath, "They do not seek alliance. They seek leverage... or perhaps help, to protect a kingdom."
A cold wind coiled around her words, as if the very magic of the place recoiled.
"They dare," she muttered, "to play games — and not invite me to the table."
The thought was still unfurling when a sudden whisper broke overhead — a sound like tearing cloth.
Morganya looked up, sharply.
Paper.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Tumbling from the bruised sky like pale, falling leaves. They snagged in branches, stuck to rooftops, plastered the streets like a sudden, silent snowfall.
Witches shouted — a low, panicked roar.
"What sorcery is this?" a violet-eyed crone snapped, raising her staff, magic crackling at her fingertips.
"An attack?" hissed another, fists clenched and ready to strike.
"This is a violation of sacred ground!" snarled a third, sparks flying.
Velyra was already moving, gauntlet glowing with defensive runes.
"My lady — your orders?" Her voice cut through the noise.
Chinonso had her daggers bare, white eyes scanning the skies like a wolf scenting blood.
She snatched a drifting page from the air, eyes scanning it fast.
Her voice was low, but clear.
"My lady," she said carefully, "this... comes from the Dreadholm Dominion."
The words fell into the air like a stone into a still pond.
Morganya did not flinch. She simply held out her hand — and Chinonso placed the paper into her waiting fingers.
She studied it — once, twice — as the town thrashed and wailed around her.
Then, with devastating calm, she turned to her guards.
"Well?" she said, voice so soft it cut sharper than any blade.
Velyra swallowed — once — and read the words aloud, her voice tight with fury.
"It declares... the Reap."
Morganya lifted a hand.
Enough.
"No need," she said, almost kindly.
She let the page slip from her fingers. It drifted to the stones at her feet.
Morganya lifted her gaze to the heavens, watching the last of the paper fall like a mockery of snow.
A faint smile touched her lips — cold, knowing, without mercy.
"Subaru," she murmured, tasting the name like poison. "What a messy little gambit you've chosen."
She turned to her guards, her voice gaining strength — low and sure.
"This is no message of diplomacy," she said. "This is declaration — writ in the open sky. A warning not to us, but to the world."
Her crimson eyes gleamed.
"They want the Imperial Kingdom to tremble. To see what happens to kings who resist. To know the Dominion deals not in promises... but in punishments."
Her voice dropped lower still, a dangerous purr.
"They do not hide their hunger anymore."
Velyra stepped closer, her fists tight.
"And us, my lady? What of Dreadholm's insolence?"
Morganya smiled — the kind of smile that kingdoms had burned under.
"It doesn't concern us," she said simply.
"What they do. Or are doing."
She turned, her black gown a whisper of shadows across the stones.
"Won't make a difference for us."
The town had fallen utterly silent now, the witches staring at the raining papers, fear thick in the air.
Morganya let the silence stretch — let it wrap around her like a cloak — before she spoke again, voice low, binding the moment like a spell.
"Let the Dominion—"
She paused.
A faint, humorless smile flickered.
"No... Let the Dreadholm do what they believe is necessary for a change."
Her crimson eyes gleamed, cold and knowing.
"Troubling over something so small and trivial is a waste."