Bone Deep Resentment, a Side of Necromantic Nostalgia, and the Twenty-Four Hour Countdown to Coven Catfights (Spoiler: No Hair Pulling... Probably).
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Author Note: Get ready to dive deep into Melinda's past, where teenage angst meets ancient magic and family gatherings are less about awkward small talk and more about unspoken power struggles. It's a witch-eat-witch world, and our Bone Queen is just trying to survive it (and maybe find a decent hairbrush).
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Twenty-four hours earlier, a quiet sense of dread had already begun to settle in Melinda's chest, coiling there like a serpent in the shadows. It wasn't loud or dramatic—just a creeping, gnawing unease that tightened around her ribs the closer the hour came. She had felt it before. Many times. It was the same cold tension that always arrived before a coven meeting, unwelcome and persistent, like the damp chill that clung to the ancient stone corridors of their hidden sanctuary. That place, heavy with history and resentment, held no warmth for her—only judgment.
The thought of seeing the others again made her teeth clench unconsciously. It stirred a bitter knot deep in her gut, a resentment that had hardened over the years like scar tissue—unseen but always aching. No matter how composed she appeared, or how powerful her spells grew, that ache never faded. It lingered long after the last chant was spoken, long after the candle flames sputtered out, and the others disappeared into smoke and shadows.
Among witches, hierarchy was everything—a cruel, archaic structure woven into their bloodlines, their rituals, and even their speech. And within that cold, calculated system, Melinda remained what they would never say to her face but always whispered behind her back: an outsider. Worse, a half-caste. The word was always laced with venom, even when spoken with polite smiles. It was a label that stuck to her skin like tar, reminding her that no matter how strong she became, she would never truly belong.
Her magic, strange and beautiful, only isolated her further. She was not born under a full moon or blessed by sacred relics like the rest. Her powers came from the dead—from the blood that no longer flowed and the bones that whispered secrets in the silence. The spectral realm had chosen her as its conduit, gifting her with dominion over the liminal, the decayed, and the forgotten. It was a terrifying magic, even among witches. It reeked of endings and unnatural rebirths, of power not granted but taken.
They called her the Bone Queen.
To outsiders, the title might have sounded regal, powerful—something to be revered. But within the coven, it felt more like a curse than a crown. It was never spoken with admiration. Only fear. Only warning. To them, it wasn't her strength they respected—it was the unpredictable danger she carried, the fear that she might snap one day and tear their world apart from the inside.
She wore their fear like armor. But even armor can feel heavy after too many battles.
This path—this wielding of shadows, of whispers from beyond the veil—had never truly been hers to choose. It had wrapped itself around her slowly, silently, like ivy climbing up the walls of her soul. What others might call a gift, Melinda could only think of as a burden. A cruel twist of fate. A cosmic joke laced with irony and malice. In the grand theater of the universe, where destinies are written in stars and salt, hers had been penned in bone and blood.
She had not asked for power. Not this kind. It had come anyway, flooding her veins with chill and silence, making her fingers tingle with energy that reeked of crypts and broken promises. And while it made her strong—perhaps even one of the strongest among them—it also made her untouchable. Unwelcome. Unclean. They feared her, even if they never said it aloud. They could barely meet her eyes. Their glances, quick and sharp, flicked over her like she was a storm in human skin. Her presence shifted the air, made it thick with discomfort. Even among those who had danced with fire and bent wind to their will, she was the anomaly.
Most days, especially on the eve of these cursed coven gatherings, a bone-deep weariness would settle into her body like a second skin. She would stand before the mirror, brush in hand, red hair cascading like flame across her shoulders, and ask herself—why am I still doing this? What was she still hoping to find in that suffocating chamber of half-smiles and backhanded compliments? Acceptance? Belonging? Did she still crave it after all these years? Or was it simply the stubborn ache of the girl she used to be, still lingering somewhere deep inside?
Her mind always drifted back to that softer time. Before the whispers. Before the dreams soaked in blood and bones. Back when life was colored in warm sepia and laughter didn't echo like screams. Back when she was just Melinda.
Westbridge Camp—her childhood town—rose in her memory like a dream she could never quite hold onto. Small, quiet, charming in the way forgotten places often are. The streets were cracked, the buildings weathered by time, but it had been safe. Familiar. It had smelled like fresh bread from the bakery on Main Street and old wood from the library where she'd spent her Saturdays flipping through dusty fairytales.
Her father had been the heart of that town in her eyes—always in motion, always smiling, delivering letters with a patience that spoke of old-school kindness. Rain or shine, he walked his route with his bag slung over one shoulder and a whistle in his breath. Her mother, ever elegant and sharp-minded, typed stories into life at the local newspaper office, her nails always painted a soft mauve, her coffee cup always warm. Melinda had been their whole world—and they had been hers.
An only child, her days were filled with simplicity and wonder. She rode her bike down the gravel road, chased fireflies in the summer, and whispered her secrets to Tommy, the old orange cat with wise eyes and a comforting purr. He'd curl up on her lap as she spoke of magic, dreams, and schoolyard worries, his tail flicking in contentment.
That world had felt eternal. Until it wasn't.
The shift hadn't come all at once. It crept into her life like a shadow stretching across the floor at dusk—slow, silent, and uninvited. It was subtle at first, a strange dream here, an odd sensation there. Nothing overtly alarming, nothing that couldn't be rationalized away with a tired shrug or a dismissive thought. But by the time Melinda turned thirteen, the change had rooted itself deep within her. A birthday that should have marked the beginning of teenage independence—the sweet taste of rebellion and self-discovery—turned instead into the gateway of something far more sinister.
Her nights were no longer her own. Sleep, once peaceful and forgettable, became a minefield of nightmares—vivid, suffocating, and disturbingly detailed. She would jolt awake, drenched in cold sweat, the images still clinging to her mind like cobwebs. Burning fields. Silent screams. A dark figure with bone-white hands reaching for her from beneath a river. And always, the feeling of being watched—closely, intimately—as if the thing haunting her knew her better than she knew herself.
But the horror didn't stay locked in her dreams.
Soon, she began to see things during the day—blinks of movement in the corners of her eyes, flashes of figures that vanished the moment she turned her head. Once, she stood frozen in her bedroom doorway, staring at the open closet where a man loomed in the shadows. He was impossibly tall, his spine bent in unnatural ways, and he whispered in guttural Elvish, the words cutting through the silence like knives. Melinda didn't speak Elvish. No one in her family did. And yet, somehow, she understood him. Not the words, but the meaning behind them. Warnings. Promises. Doom.
The incidents began to spiral, growing darker and harder to deny.
She would wake up lying in cold, damp grass with no memory of how she got there. Her clothes would be wet with morning dew or smeared with soil. Once, she woke inside an actual cemetery—alone, barefoot, and surrounded by headstones. The silence was heavy. Only the wind moved, rustling the trees like something unseen pacing just beyond her vision. She stopped telling her parents about the episodes after they started locking her door at night.
Then there were the birds. Small ones, mostly—robins, sparrows, a mourning dove once. Their bodies would appear on her windowsill at dawn, lifeless and limp, their wings splayed out like broken ornaments. No visible wounds. Just stillness. Her mother started blaming the neighbor's cat. Melinda knew better.
Something was drawing her to these places—graveyards, hospitals, abandoned homes—anywhere death had left its mark. It was like a quiet hum in her bones, a magnetic pull she couldn't explain, only obey. At first, it made her feel sick. Wrong. But over time, that sickness gave way to curiosity. Then to comfort. Death had stopped feeling frightening. It had started feeling familiar.
When they came—those women cloaked in black and silver, their eyes sharp and ancient—she wasn't surprised. Not really. Deep down, she had been waiting for someone to explain what she was becoming. They didn't offer comfort, only truth. And confirmation.
She was different.
Touched by something old and powerful.
Marked by death itself. And her life, whether she wanted it or not, would never be ordinary again.
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The coven.
The very word conjured a tangled mix of emotions—images that felt both fantastical and suffocating, like a dream turning slowly into a nightmare. It wasn't the charming, magical gathering depicted in fairy tales or children's cartoons. There were no bubbling cauldrons or spells flung with playful intent. No sisterly warmth. No laughter beneath a harvest moon. Instead, it was a place of unspoken tensions, where power came with a price and every smile was laced with scrutiny.
Behind every nod of approval was a flicker of apprehension. Behind every lesson, a warning. The coven was a court disguised as a sanctuary, and Melinda had long since learned that in courts, judgment came quietly, dressed in tradition and ritual, cloaked in the illusion of benevolence.
She remembered the day they came for her. She had only been fifteen. The sky was overcast that morning, casting a muted grey light over her small neighborhood. Her mother had just put on a pot of tea, and the comforting smell of ginger and cloves filled the house. It had been so normal—so beautifully ordinary. Until the knock came.
They appeared at the front door like characters from an outdated storybook, their clothes oddly theatrical. Long flowing robes in colors far too bright for mourning the loss of a childhood. And the hats—those ridiculous, pointed hats—made it impossible to take them seriously. Until they spoke.
"She is gifted," one of them said, her tone resolute, her eyes unwavering.
The words fell like thunder in that small living room. Her parents had exchanged a look, caught between pride and fear. Melinda hadn't even spoken. She had simply sat there, her tea growing cold in her hands, while strangers discussed her future like it belonged to them.
They hadn't asked. They informed.
They said they would help her. Teach her to control the strange, volatile power that had begun to stir inside her like a sleeping giant. They spoke of heritage, of destiny, of responsibility. Words heavy with meaning, but light on compassion. And she had gone with them—half curious, half afraid, but wholly aware that something in her life had permanently shifted.
In their world, she had excelled.
Not out of desire, but necessity. Her connection to the dead, to the thin, fraying veil between life and afterlife, set her apart. The spirits responded to her not with reluctance but recognition. The spectral realm welcomed her like one of its own.
Her progress was swift. Unnervingly so. She learned the rituals before her peers could even memorize the sigils. She mastered the art of channeling ancestral voices, of reading the messages hidden in bones and ashes. She passed every test not by sheer effort, but because it felt like the magic had always been a part of her—like it had been waiting for her to catch up.
And so, she graduated early. Top of her class. Decorated, celebrated, praised.
But beneath the gold-rimmed certificates and crystal plaques, something darker pulsed. The academy, for all its prestige and power, had never felt like home. It was beautiful, yes—all carved wood, floating lanterns, and ancient spells etched into marble corridors. But beauty could be a mask. And the longer she stayed, the more it began to feel like a cage.
She wasn't one of them. Not truly. They could teach her the motions, but they couldn't erase the fear in their eyes when her hands brushed a spirit too closely, or when her voice called the dead with too much ease.
She was a dark star, burning too bright.
And they were afraid of what she might become.
By the time Melinda turned nineteen, she had become something whispered about in both awe and fear.
She could summon an army of the dead—souls long buried, bones long turned to dust—rising at her command as if their rest had only been an intermission. They stood in silent formation, faceless yet loyal, tethered to her by an unspoken bond forged through blood, sorrow, and the ancient rites of her lineage. Their presence wasn't loud, but their silence was heavy, like the pressure of a storm before it breaks.
And then there was the Mundus Fictus—her greatest feat, and perhaps her most dangerous gift. A fabricated reality, woven strand by strand from her imagination, her memories, her desires. Within it, time bent to her will. She could rewrite pain, soften harsh truths, and sculpt the world as she wanted it to be—not as it was. It was a god-like power, rare and envied. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.
But for all the power that surged through her veins like fire laced with ice, Melinda couldn't escape one gnawing, hollow truth: she was alone.
Utterly, profoundly alone.
No amount of summoned dead could fill the ache. No fantasy realm could ease the sting of isolation. Her magic had made her formidable—yes, even legendary in some corners—but it had also carved a canyon between her and the world she once knew. Between her and warmth. Between her and belonging.
The loneliness was marrow-deep. It settled in her bones like a cold that no blanket could warm. It was in the pauses of conversation, in the lingering glances people gave when they thought she wasn't looking. It was in how others moved slightly away from her in crowded rooms, as if her aura carried a chill they couldn't quite name.
There was no malice, not overtly. Just distance. Just fear wearing the mask of politeness.
And in the stillness of night, when the voices of the dead faded and the walls of her conjured world dissolved, Melinda was left with only herself and that aching emptiness.
Still, something inside her refused to break.
As the years passed, a different force began to take root in her—quiet at first, like a whisper in the back of her mind. But it grew. It was not desperation, not anymore. It was defiance. A firm, unwavering seed of self-possession.
She stopped craving their approval.
She stopped bending to their comfort.
She began to embrace the darkness—not as a curse, but as her birthright. Her clothes changed first, slowly shifting from earthy tones and ceremonial whites to deep blacks, forest greens, and bruised purples—colors that bled power, that warned and declared. Her jewelry turned from gold to obsidian and onyx. She wore her presence like armor, each piece a quiet rebellion, a statement: I am not afraid of what I am.
She stopped hiding her power in polite silence. Now, she wielded it openly. Gracefully. Powerfully. Her every movement became deliberate, like a woman who had nothing to prove but everything to protect.
And when they looked at her with unease, she didn't flinch.
She met their stares with calm, her chin lifted high, the weight of her solitude no longer something that made her smaller—but something that made her unshakable.
And then they came.
The hunters.
Not mythical beasts or vengeful spirits, but humans—flesh and bone, mortal in every sense. Yet what they lacked in power, they made up for in conviction. Men and women with hard eyes and trembling hands, driven not by greed or vengeance, but by terror disguised as righteousness. They came armed with silver blades, soaked in anointing oil, and crucifixes etched with forgotten prayers. Their weapons bore the blessings of ancient faiths, sharpened not just by steel but by generations of stories about witches who consorted with death.
They came not as assassins, but as saviors. In their minds, they were cleansing the world of an abomination.
And Melinda? She knew exactly what they saw when they looked at her.
A monster. A stain on the natural order. A dark force that had no place walking among the living.
She had not sought violence. In truth, she had longed for solitude—perhaps even peace. But the world had rarely given her the luxury of choice. And so, when the hunters arrived, she did what survival demanded. She fought.
With no hesitation.
With no mercy.
The battle was not glorious. It was quick, cold, and terrifying in its clarity. Her necromantic magic surged like a storm breaking over brittle cliffs. The silver in their blades corroded before it could touch her skin. Their prayers, loud at first, dissolved into panicked whispers, and then into silence. She tore through their formation with the efficiency of someone who had lived too long in fear to allow another moment of it.
In the end, they all fell.
Some had begged.
Some had cursed her as they died.
None survived.
When it was over, she stood in the center of the carnage, breath heavy, heart numb. Blood soaked the ground—some hers, most not. The weight of what she had done settled around her like a fog. She didn't weep. She didn't scream. She simply turned away as her familiars emerged from the shadows.
Grotesque beasts, stitched together by bone and darkness, more spirit than flesh. They circled the corpses in a quiet, reverent ritual, feeding not out of hunger but loyalty—creatures bound to her soul, to the essence of death she carried like a second skin. They consumed the remains, not for pleasure but for power, for preservation. Melinda didn't watch. She had seen enough.
She would never forget that night.
But she refused to let it break her.
The coven's judgment came swiftly.
There was no trial, no room for context or grief. They called her a danger—to herself, to the world, to them. And though they did not fully cast her out, they stripped her of honor, of standing. Her punishment was exile without exile. She was to remain within reach, close enough for them to monitor, to control, but never close enough to belong.
She became a living warning.
A pariah with a seat at their table only so they could watch her hands and fear her eyes.
Every gathering was a performance. Every word she spoke was measured, every breath examined. They didn't need to say it out loud. Their silence was loud enough. To them, she was a ticking bomb—one misstep from destruction. The stares were the worst. Cold, accusing, wary. They whispered when they thought she couldn't hear. Some didn't even bother to hide it.
She was there.
But she wasn't with them.
And every time she walked away from one of those meetings, she carried the same ache in her chest—a quiet, pulsing reminder that no matter how much power she wielded, no matter how many times she survived, they would never let her forget that she was alone.
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Until Maggie.
A name that now echoed like a gentle bell in the hollow cathedral of Melinda's life. She had appeared unexpectedly, like a shaft of golden sunlight piercing through thick, oppressive clouds. At first, Melinda hadn't known what to make of her—this girl who seemed to glow not only with magic, but with life itself. Maggie radiated warmth in a way that felt almost tangible, like stepping into the embrace of a long-forgotten summer morning.
She wielded light magic, that was clear. The pure, radiant kind that could cleanse wounds, dispel illusions, and banish shadows. Everything about her, from her honey-blonde curls to the sparkle in her amber eyes, stood in stark, almost painful contrast to the darkness Melinda carried. It wasn't just the magic—it was her presence, her energy, her laughter. Maggie felt like everything Melinda had been taught to stay away from, everything she believed would never accept her.
But Maggie didn't flinch.
Not when Melinda's eyes darkened with magic. Not when whispers followed them like ghosts through the corridors of the coven's halls. She looked at Melinda with an openness that was neither pity nor fear, but something gentler—curiosity. Understanding. A desire to know her, not for what she could do, but for who she was beneath the cold exterior and the veils of necromancy.
It had startled Melinda at first. Confused her. Why would someone so bright want to be near someone who had spent years surrounded by death? Why extend kindness to someone the world had deemed dangerous?
But Maggie never pushed.
She simply offered. Quiet moments. Soft smiles. A seat beside her during lectures. A comment here and there that showed she had been watching, listening. That she cared.
And slowly, Melinda found herself drawn in.
Maggie became a small comfort in an otherwise unforgiving place. A fragile thread of connection in a world that had spent years convincing Melinda that she didn't belong. Even now, just the thought of her name warmed a place in Melinda's chest that she had long since buried under grief and anger.
Maggie.
She was chaos wrapped in sunlight. Loud, stubborn, charmingly clumsy. She had a laugh that could shatter tension like glass and an uncanny ability to say exactly the wrong thing at the worst possible time—but somehow, it always worked in her favor. Her presence was disruptive in the best way. Where others tiptoed, she danced. Where others whispered, she spoke. And where others judged, she offered grace.
The elders of the coven, of course, didn't understand her. They barely tolerated her. Her disregard for their formalities, her relentless cheer, her terrible habit of arriving late to council sessions with half-eaten pastries still in hand—all of it grated on their tightly wound sensibilities. Their disapproval was obvious, worn like stiff robes around their judgmental shoulders.
Today was no different.
Melinda had arrived early, as always, settling into a shadowed corner of the grand meeting chamber. The atmosphere was as stiff and cold as ever, the kind that settled into your bones and made the air feel heavier than it should. Eyes followed her, but none met hers.
Predictably, Maggie was late.
Melinda didn't check the door this time. She didn't turn or lift her head like she once might have. She simply sat still, composed, her expression unreadable. But a small, nearly imperceptible sigh slipped past her lips—a ghost of breath that betrayed more than she would ever admit. It was not disappointment exactly, but something softer. A quiet ache disguised as indifference.
Earlier that morning, with meticulous care and what she would only dare call hope in the privacy of her own thoughts, Melinda had placed a subtle marker beside her seat. Just a handful of autumn-hued leaves, arranged with deliberate randomness—nothing anyone would notice unless they were looking for it. It was the only gesture she could allow herself. A small rebellion against the unspoken rules of her exile. A signal. A wish.
That Maggie would come.
No one else ever did. The space beside Melinda was a boundary line drawn in silence. No rule stated it aloud, but the message was clear. She was different. Dangerous. Alone. The empty seat next to her always remained untouched, as if proximity alone could stain or curse the others. That emptiness had become a kind of companion—quiet, loyal, and cruel.
Then came the stir.
A flicker of motion at the entrance. A subtle change in the air, like the first breeze before dawn breaks. And then, unmistakably—Maggie.
She entered with her usual mix of boldness and awkward charm, attempting stealth but betraying herself with every soft thud of her boots and the rustle of fabric as she half-slid, half-tripped into the great hall. Her presence was like color bleeding into an old black-and-white painting, and no matter how hard she tried to blend in, she never quite could.
Today she wore a simple white gown, its texture light and breathable, the hem falling just above her knees—carefree, casual, entirely inappropriate by the coven's standards. Around her waist, a modest brown corset hugged her torso, functional rather than decorative, accentuating her slim frame and lending a rustic, almost storybook touch to her outfit.
Her hair, which normally tumbled around her shoulders in wild curls like a halo of sunlit mischief, had been gathered into a neat ponytail. The effect was striking. It exposed the gentle angles of her face, the soft jawline, and the high cheekbones dusted with pink from the walk. Her gray eyes—clear, quick, and alive—scanned the room with the hesitation of someone walking into a place where they were barely tolerated, yet still determined to shine.
Melinda's gaze remained fixed forward, but every fiber of her being was aware.
Aware of the moment Maggie saw the empty seat. Aware of the tiny, uncertain pause in her steps. Aware of the unspoken challenge that crossed the room like static—the eyes that shifted, the lips that pressed into thin lines, the posture that stiffened around them both.
Still, Maggie walked.
Straight to the seat Melinda had saved.
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Maggie's entrance, as always, was an awkward ballet of long limbs and well-meaning chaos.
Her tall, willowy frame—often praised in passing for its elegance during garden walks or casual gatherings—offered her no advantage in moments like this. In the grand, echoing stillness of the coven's hall, her every step rang out like a clumsy drumbeat. The polished stone beneath her boots seemed to magnify each sound, and her movements, though restrained in intention, carried all the finesse of a startled deer.
She tried, as she always did, to tiptoe, to fold herself smaller, to slip between rows of robed figures unnoticed. But her natural clumsiness betrayed her—an accidental brush against an old wooden bench, the soft swish of her skirt catching against a loose splinter, the quick apology whispered to no one in particular. Her presence, impossible to ignore, rippled through the hall like a drop in still water.
Unsurprisingly, her attempted stealth collapsed under the weight of a familiar chorus: the sharp, reedy voices of the elder witches, rising like wind against the calm. Their faces—lined with the slow erosion of age, magic, and authority—were drawn into well-worn expressions of disapproval. Their eyes narrowed, their lips thinned, and their heads tilted in synchronized disappointment. Late again, they seemed to say without speaking. Still unserious. Still unfit for the gravity of this gathering.
But Maggie, unshaken, smiled.
It was not a smile of arrogance or defiance, but something softer—genuine and apologetic, with a trace of sheepish charm that made it nearly impossible to scold her without feeling, somehow, in the wrong. The edges of that smile reached her eyes, and the light within her—ever present, ever maddening to the gloom—sliced through some of the tension. A few elders muttered, but the fire in their indignation had already begun to wane.
Melinda, from her seat in the shadows, watched in silence. She knew this scene too well—the dance of disapproval and disarming cheer that Maggie performed each time. But it never failed to stir something in her. Something that made her chest tighten and her breath feel just a bit too shallow.
The meeting began shortly after, though the air remained heavy, brittle with apprehension.
There was no ceremony, no opening rites. Just a hush that spread like fog before the first voice broke it. The topic was as grim as the mood: the hunters. Not the villagers from folktales, afraid of shadows and easily fooled by flickering illusions. No, these were something else entirely. Organized. Armed. Trained.
And most dangerously—unafraid.
Their attacks had grown more coordinated, their targets no longer random. They came with purpose now, and with a disturbing knowledge of magical vulnerabilities. Some suspected they had spies. Others feared a more dreadful truth—that the boundaries between their world and the human one were beginning to blur, that their ancient secrecy was no longer enough.
Voices rose and fell, each one tinted with fear and the edge of desperation. The name of the International Witches and Wizards Law surfaced repeatedly—spoken like a fragile charm they hoped could still hold. It had once been a safeguard, a distant agreement that kept mortal governments at bay, promising non-intervention and mutual secrecy.
But now, even that felt like paper armor.
There was talk—vague, nervous talk—of amendment. Of harnessing collective magical force to reinforce it. To rewrite the terms. But the details were unclear, intentionally so. Words like release of energy and focus streams of power drifted around the room like smoke—thick, unclear, unsettling. No one dared voice the real question aloud: what kind of power would be needed, and who would be asked to give it?
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Notes: The Westbridge Historical Society would like to remind visitors that while the town's history is rich and varied, any accounts of spectral visitations, sudden avian demise, or teenage necromancy are purely fictional and should not be taken as historical fact. Please enjoy our annual pie-baking contest.