Vescrutia: Legacy

The moons were high in the night sky casting their luminous flare upon the grassy land surrounding the Lonely Stone. Nighthares, a species of nocturnal rabbit thumping their little feet around the tree foraging for food. One's ear perked up as if altered to some disturbance. Soon after the space a few feet away from them began to twist and from this, a doorway opened. Out of it was spat a girl cradling an injured kitten in her arms. Ozma and her familiar Vas covered head to toe in wounds. Having narrowly escaped a turmoil encounter with an otherwordly beast of flames and terror. A fray where she was forced to witness the death of one of her once closest friends...her sister Viviane. She could still feel the malice of her fractured soul being tossed into oblivion, Ozma racked with guilt could scarcely contain her sorrow.

Though she managed to escape with her life, being forced to leave her companions to the mercy of that demon was a pain nearly too heavy for her to hold. She was forced, by Elara, the mysterious witch that appeared and helped her awaken her latent magic. But...the cost, was seemingly too heavy for the young witch to hold. "Oh Vas...hold on honey, please, don't give up." Her family was grimly injured in her wondrous display of ancient firey fury. Elara possessed Vas's body to save them from certain destruction. But Elara was an old and powerful being and the force of that possession left Vas close to death. They needed to return to the only place she knew she would be safe.

Here at the Lonely Stone, where her sister kin Vana worked. She struggled to stand, her naten pool practically empty. Still, she persisted, the life of her closest friend meaning more to her than the pain aching in her bones. She stood, the bunnies fled, and she inched ever closer to the door of the tavern. Just as she was about to knock she fell limp hitting her head on the door as she passed out. But before anyone could come to the door a portal manifested under her devouring her and the kitten entirely. Vana came to inspect what had happened, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. She chalked it up to a prank and returned to her duties.

The mystic energies that engulfed her drove her far beneath the surface, transporting her to a realm that had lied in secret from the rest of the world. The kingdom of Serpentera. A mural of wonderous architecture spires channeling naten to power the vast expanse. She had been taken to the Queen Castle, Zoltra, a towering crystal palace carved from stone, naten ran through it like the circuitry of machines that surrounded them. The trade surrounding this rare jewel kept them so well established. Flux was sound asleep, under the spell cast upon her earlier. Her wounds had already been treated her familar's form restored. She was surrounded by a group of women clad in robes made from exquisite material. Their skin shimmered like diamonds as if their very skin was crystal, nearly translucent for some, but they resembled various kinds of stone.

"So it is true...the seal has been broken."

Said one woman whose eye contained the quiet calm of a serene ocean, her hair as clear as fresh waters. The Water Song; Merlin

"The rise in the undead was the first sign..."

Said with eyes as stern as the earth, her skin as green and verdant as grass. The Verdant Branch; Larsa

"Isis is close to freedom. The stench of her undead brood fills the air once more.."

A form as if fashioned from clouds manifested, her voice a silky sonnet of fading whispers and echoing gales. The Drifting Cloud; Galatea

"What should we do? Extract the stone?"

The last of the congregated voices spoke. Her tone carried the wisdom of countless ages. Her every utterance life the rise of a new star in the sky. Clad in feathery robes of the purest white, her iris filled with an incandescent glow. The Witch of Radiance; Shion.

"That would do nothing but result in the discretion of the Kingdom, it's too late, it is a part of her now, always has been. It was...her father's doing."

"Well, something must be done! Her mere existence draws Isis's miasma ever further from her crypt onto our borders. If the 7 seals are broken...the Fe-"

"Do not speak it's name! If Isis has been stirred, then our duty as protectors of the coven...as well as the Ovalu..."

"If only Hera were here..."

A sharp gasp amongst the others. Behind the group of women who hovered over Flux would be a woman resting soundly on a throne crafted from a dark-tinted gemstone. Her features were the most notable mortal amongst those gathered, but her eyes hummed with a promise of power that dwarfed them all in stature, a marker of her standing among them. Her piercing amethyst gaze narrowed at the mention of Hera's name, and her discontent was easily felt. Yet she said nothing, merely let them squabble amongst themselves for answers. The Queen of Serpentera and the leader of all the underworld covens. Morgana Everfell.

"...."

"Your majesty...I"

"All of you...leave us..."

"My lady...with all due respect...this is not just your call alone to make, this requires the attention of the Council"

"You would speak to me of the council? The very one I created?"

"Of course not..."

"Then do as you are told, not as you wish."

"Yes, Lady Everfell"

They bowed before leaving. Shion cast a snide gaze at the queen before she left with the others of the council. Morgana rose from her throne, and the girl slept soundly, with but a flicker of her eyes did she undo the enchantment of sleep over her.

"Awaken...Ozma"

When Flux awoke, it was not the familiar, soaring arches or polished marble of the grand palace hall. Instead, her senses swam in the soft scent of sun-warmed earth and the gentle rustle of leaves. She lay on a realm blanketed in grass, an endless verdant expanse dotted with countless small, vibrant pink flowers that swayed like a living carpet in a breeze she couldn't quite feel. The light overhead was diffuse, warm, and without an obvious sun or source.

As full consciousness settled in, her eyes landed on the figure seated calmly beside her. It was Elara. Her form here in this strange domain seemed more defined, substantial, corporeal, like an ordinary woman, rather than the shimmering, time-stopping omnipotent being Flux had come to know (or thought she knew). Elara turned her head, her gaze meeting Flux's.

"Oh... you're awake," Elara said, a faint smile touching her lips. "Well... sort of."

Flux didn't hesitate. She surged to her feet, a primal alarm shooting through her. Vas! Where was Vas? Her gaze snapped back to Elara, sharp and accusatory. She hadn't forgotten how Elara had intervened, risking Vas's life and forcing their retreat. Every instinct screamed betrayal.

"Woah there, panther girl," Elara said, holding up a placating hand. "Vas is safe... you're both at the palace... in Zoltra."

The dagger-like glare Flux fixed on Elara lingered for only a heartbeat longer before the fierce concern warring with her anger won out. Her usually boundless heart crumbled at the thought of being home, even as a fresh wave of worry hit her. The queen. She couldn't imagine her mother was pleased after she'd run away.

"Why, Elara," Flux's voice was tight, a mix of frustration and disbelief. "I could have beaten him! We... we just left Masur and his wife there!"

Elara's gaze drifted down, fixing on the subtly wavering grass beneath them. "No, Flux... you couldn't..." Her tone was quiet, but firm.

Flux remembered the inferno unleashed within her, the raw power of her flames, the way her magic had scorched and burned away the vile corruption clinging to their foe, devouring his malice piece by searing piece. She had felt the flicker of victory; just a few more precious seconds, and she knew she could have annihilated him.

"But I!" she started, indignation blazing.

"Don't be so full of yourself!" Elara's voice snapped, sharper now.

Flux fell silent, momentarily stunned by the rebuke.

"What we were up against was just a shade," Elara continued, her tone softening slightly but losing none of its conviction. "A fraction of the Ember Lord's true strength. And even with the power you unlocked, we were barely able to fight him back. I understand your feelings towards him, for what he did to Viv, but the Ember Lord is not our problem, not truly. We merely assisted those truly plagued by him... the Water Dragons." Elara's eyes shifted towards the formless clouds above.

"But Masur..." Flux's voice was heavy with concern, the image of the Water Dragon and his mate facing the darkness alone filling her mind. "...he could already be..."

"You felt his power, Flux," Elara interrupted gently. "With his wife by his side, there is a narrowly stronger duo in that realm. He won't die so easily... I'm sorry Vas was hurt, but... it was Masur's wish... you know that." Elara's expression held a depth of painful memory. She recalled Masur's plea as Flux was becoming consumed by her own burgeoning power, her flame threatening to burn away the very fabric of the place. Flux's power was still too volatile, too unrefined. Had Elara allowed them to stay, Flux would have posed as much of a threat to Masur and his wife as the shade itself. Masur had recognized it in that desperate moment. Powerful as Flux was, she was a hindrance then. Masur made the impossible call, and Elara answered. Besides, Flux had awakened the Flame. She had struck back. For now, she would have to be content with that.

"I..." Flux tried to process it, the bite of frustration sharp on her tongue. It didn't make sense. It couldn't make sense.

"I... had to prioritize you, Flux," Elara's tone grew stern, leaving no room for argument. "You... are very important, and we need your power for what is to come. Besides, they destroyed the gateway. Worry not."

"We?" Flux's confusion gave way to a pointed, direct question, her voice sharper than her gaze had been moments before. "Elara... who are you, truly?"

Elara's demeanor shifted, a flicker of timidity crossing her features before she gathered the strength needed to answer the question her 'chosen' now demanded. "There was a time," she began, her voice distant, "when I could answer that question without hesitation, with a clear mind and heart... gods... how long has it been now?" Elara's gaze fixated on the passing, shapeless clouds above. Her eyes, though set in the face of a woman who appeared of mundane origin, held the harrowing, ancient truths of eons past.

"To answer that, I must tell you first the truth of your nature... and from where our power hails. And the truth... of who your father was."

Flux's eyes widened, her breath catching. The answers she had sought for so long, the questions no one, not even her mother, had ever dared to fully address. But how? How did Elara know her father?

"The... power within you...within us, does not originate from this world," Elara explained, her voice taking on a resonant quality. "It's not even from this plane."

As she spoke, Elara's eyes grew bright, suffused with a bold, almost blinding pink light. The realm around them, the endless grassy field, shimmered and dissolved, replaced by the breathtaking, cold expanse of a star system utterly different from the Milky Way. Below them, suspended in the blackness, was a planet buzzing with a sparkling, mystic presence, a world throbbing with inherent magic.

"Now, what seems like an eternity ago, there existed a realm known as Carna," Elara's voice echoed slightly in the vastness. "A place where the lines between the material and unseen realms were intertwined nigh seamlessly. A beautiful domain ruled by three powerful races and their respective leaders. The Aymara, Faeries with the power to manipulate their lifeforce to create a force they called Ura. The Olorun, though they were smaller in stature, held the incredible ability to manifest concepts into reality... and then, the Aiku, also known as Sphynx, mystic guardians of the Ovalu, their queen, a powerful Sorceress able to conjure flames so great even the soul could be seared away... Flux..."

It was then that Elara's form began to shift. The guise of the almond-skinned woman melted away, replaced by a plume of morphing light. The light grew larger, expanding upwards. Massive, feathered wings sprouted from the nascent form. Her body transformed, taking on the shape of a feline creature, grand and powerful, with fur that burned like a simmering flame, eyes that sparkled with nearly scintillating energy. A magnificent, pink Sphynx stood before Flux.

"We are Aiku. Like the Witches, Aiku are practitioners of Magic, only far more powerful, for magic is something intrinsic to our very being."

"I..." Flux stammered, attempting to find her voice, her mind reeling.

"But I don't understand," she managed to say, her voice trembling slightly. "I... I was born here. My mother is Drachiot... my father... I..."

Elara fell quiet, her immense form seeming to dim slightly, as if the act of remembering had become genuinely painful for her.

"Elara?" Flux called out to the majestic creature before her, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

"Long ago, when the planet was still young,"

Elara continued, her voice regaining strength but carrying a heavy weight of sorrow.

"There was a terrible evil that emerged on Carna, nearly bringing it to total ruin. To combat this great evil, the three Kingdoms united and, after heavy losses, managed to seal the creature away in a realm known as Lo'Kaleer or... The Nether... This was achieved by invoking a powerful magic, creating a world tree that kept the demon's presence at bay. This tree connected to the Mikado's, the Faery King of the Aymara, life force, but reinforced with three Keys, each crafted from great sacrifices of the Kingdoms..."

She kept going, the scene shifting around them. Though still in the vastness of space, phantom images of a perilous war flickered and swirled – titanic battles, cities falling, the vibrant world of Carna engulfed in shadow and flame.

"The Seed Of Creation, a ruby woven from the sinew and lifeforce of willing Aymara. Thousands gave their lives in ritual sacrifice to create it. The Spark of Imagination, a sapphire crafted from the most gifted minds of the Olorun. They sacrificed their very sanity, driving many of them to madness. Lastly, The Soul Flame, an ametrine stone grafted from the ever-burning immortal soul of Bennu, the first of our Kind. Body, Mind, and Soul. And with these treasures did they enjoy many eons of peace... until Grixas and the rise of the Hand of the Fel Sovereign."

The images of war intensified.

"A Grand Desire... a powerful Arch Demon waged a terrible crusade, one that resulted in the near extinction of the races... As a last effort to keep the seal from being broken, Alawei cast forbidden magic, one that would reincarnate the souls of the ruler's eldest children, the next inheritors of their kingdoms. Sending them across the planes, protected by Zolgarious, Alawei's guardian. Though the world tree perished, with the gems intact, the seal remained. But Carna was now the demon's foothold... as did other realms become its domain."

As she spoke the last words, the war-torn visions faded, replaced by a stark image in the cosmic blackness. Three points of light, ruby, sapphire, and ametrine, accompanied by a single, intense gilden flame, cut through the void. They traveled across countless light-years until they reached the familiar spiral shape of the Milky Way. Upon making their way towards the star system containing Vescrutia, the three gems diverged from the golden blaze, each shooting towards the planet below. They merged with the bodies of three beings from races that carried similar genetic echoes of the fallen Carna races.

Flux stood befuddled before this cosmic narrative, her hand buzzing with the resonant echoes of power and more questions than answers. She didn't know what else to say, what specific clarity to even ask for. A drawn-out silence stretched between them as she struggled to gather her thoughts, the immensity of the revelation crashing down on her.

Elara's magnificent Aiku form began to dissolve, the shimmering light condensing, shrinking, returning to the human-appearing guise she had worn when Flux first awoke. She stepped closer to Flux, placing a steady hand on her back, trying to offer what little console she could, knowing it was all a staggering amount to take in. The grassy realm, though unseen, seemed to settle back around them, the pink flowers silently witnessing the weight of ancient truth unveiled.

"You... mentioned my father," Flux began, her voice barely a whisper, thick with the weight of years of silence. "Please. No one will tell me anything about him."

Her mother's story was a familiar, threadbare comfort: a wanderer, injured near the Magical Sentires, cared for, loved, and then, simply, gone. But it was a story without substance, a silhouette where a person should be. Who was he? After the terrifying display of power she'd just witnessed, a power that felt linked in some inexplicable way to her own nascent abilities, she needed to know what he was.

Elara's breath hitched in her throat for but a second, a flicker of something complex – sorrow? guilt? – crossing her features before settling into resolve. She met Flux’s pleading gaze, acknowledging the depth of the century-old wound. After all, Elara thought, the trail yet ahead would require her to be unvarnished by doubts and guesses. The truth, however difficult, was a necessary foundation.

"That is... because Queen Everfell forbade anyone ever speaking of your father... nor his power. And... sacrifice."

Elara's soft, rose-gold gaze drifted lazily across the shifting, cloud-like forms that made up the Astral Realm, as if gathering her thoughts from the very substance around them. Flux said nothing, merely stood ready, every fibre of her being poised to drink in the explanation she had waited over a century to hear. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant, melodic hum of the realm itself.

"Witches are... immensely powerful,"

Elara finally began, her voice measured and deliberate.

"Beings capable of bringing Kingdoms to total ruin. Yet they have chosen only to protect their borders and each other, taking great care and caution to safeguard their livelihood, and keeping the Sway in check. Men... as you know, are seen as low-born, possessing very little magic power but are born with the genetic material needed for the women to procreate. This has instilled in them the delusion that men were inferior beings. Despite living below the Kingdom of a notoriously powerful male mage."

Flux listened intently, nodding. This was the standard lore, the foundation of their matriarchal society. Powerful women, essential but powerless men. It was a truth she had lived with her entire life.

"This I know," Flux inquired, pressing gently. "How does my father fit into this?"

"Jhal, your father, was anything but inferior," Elara stated, a hint of something akin to pride entering her voice. "A descendant of a very powerful being. A human man born with one of the 10 Elder magics... can you guess which one?"

Flux felt a jolt. Elder magics were legends, powers that could twist the very laws of reality, rarely seen, seldom held by men. But Elara had just spoken of her father and... "....Wandering...." Flux whispered, the name a sudden, intuitive certainty. It resonated with the strange, dimensional 'witnessing' she had just experienced.

"Yes," Elara confirmed, a genuine, warm smile gracing her lips. "He traveled across hundreds of galaxies in the pursuit of magic. Never truly searching for mastery, just... exposure to as much and many kinds of magical expression as he could find. Using his gifts to help many people along the way. Perhaps... you are like him in that way." Elara smiled as she saw Flux return her warmth, a tentative, hopeful smile spreading across her face.

"The Ovalu is a Nexus that connects many planes and worlds," Elara elaborated, her gaze becoming distant, focused on something unseen. "I mentioned the Aiku must safeguard this space, for it is a place of exceptional magical presence, nearly impossible for most mortal and even some divine beings to subsist there. Yet, it was the very space they first met."

"Who?" Flux asked, leaning forward, captivated by the unfolding story of this impossible man meeting her mother in an impossible place.

"Jhal and... my sister..." Elara said, her voice softening almost imperceptibly.

"Sister?" Flux rebutted, the single word packed with surprise and confusion. Elara's sister? That could only mean...

"There is still much for us to discuss," Elara interrupted gently, holding up a hand, the smile fading to a look of urgent concern. "But we... have run out of time for now. Everfell is soon to wake you. She will present you with a task. It could likely result in the loss of your life. Trust in the Soul Flame and fight valiantly, Ozma, and should you stand victorious, I promise I will unveil it all to you... Everything." Elara said candidly, her gaze now fixed firmly on Flux.

Ozma. The name felt both familiar and alien, she supposed she was still getting accustomed to people calling her anything but her nickname.

"Jhal... his name was Jhal," Flux repeated, testing the sound of it, letting it settle within her. A warmth began consecrating within her, a sense of belonging tied to a name, a power, a legacy she had only just begun to grasp. She heard Elara's words, her counsel, and her terrifying premise, but the emotions fumbling in her belly could not go hidden. Her father... this glorious gift and freedom she had as a Walker... it felt like coming home.

"Thank you... Elara," Flux said, her voice stronger now, infused with a budding resolve. "I will not fail, I'm going to hold you to that."

A subtle nod of affirmation was shared between them, a silent pact forged in the Astral realm, before the ethereal expanse around them began to dissipate, the colors fading, the light dimming. Faster and faster, the unreality dissolved, and Flux felt herself pulled, abruptly, back to the waking world.

Upon arriving, she was met not with the soft glow of the Astral Realm but the cool, imposing air of the throne room. Standing before her, bathed in light that seemed to bend around her, was Queen Everfell, in all her seemingly otherworldly glory. Her presence was a physical weight in the room.

"Welcome home, Ms Luvian." The Queen said, her voice cool and clear, her arms casually folded under her bosom, her expression unreadable. The promise of answers and the shadow of a dangerous task hung heavy in the air.

The heavy cloak of the spell lifted from Ozma like an icy grip releasing its hold. A soft groan escaped her lips as consciousness trickled back, leaving behind a profound exhaustion. Her body felt stiff, sluggish, as if waking from a slumber far longer than a single night. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light of the grand hall.

She was lying on the cold, hard stone floor before the dais. Towering above her, upon the ornate throne, sat Queen Everfell. The Queen’s gaze, sharp and unwavering, was fixed upon her.

"Y-Your grace..." Ozma managed, her voice a hushed, tired rasp. The feeling of the spell wavering had been disorienting, a crushing weight replaced by a lingering fragility.

Queen Everfell's eyes narrowed, her regal bearing radiating displeasure. "Stay yourself, Ozma," she said, her tone cool and measured, carrying the weight of centuries. "It seems you've gotten yourself into quite a bit of mischief... since you know, abandoned your family."

A flicker of something else crossed the Queen's face then – a brief, almost imperceptible softening. Gods, how this child looked like her sister... the same stubborn chin, the same wildness in her eyes.

"My Lady, I..." Ozma began, her voice gaining a little more presence, though the echoes of Elara's revelations still reverberated behind her eyes, a confusing mix of grief, anger, and dawning horror.

"Of all the meager excuses you could give, child," the Queen interrupted, her gaze hardening again, "please find the most succinct one."

Everfell said crossing her legs with an almost bored disposition. She seemed ready to hear the longest, most convoluted reasoning ever for why her niece had run away from home.

Ozma pushed herself up, settling back onto her heels, clutching one arm tightly with her hand, a nervous habit. She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders despite the weariness. "I... was angry."

A hint of surprise touched the Queen's lips. Ozma had always been a little fireball of rebellion, but she usually came armed with lengthy, impassioned arguments. "Hmm?" Everfell raised an eyebrow, intrigued. This compliance was unexpected. "Go on..." she bid, a rare invitation for elaboration.

Ozma found her voice strengthening as the words came. "While I understand the laws of our coven, and know they are there to keep us safe... to prevent fractures... after what was going on with Viv, I just couldn't abide by doing nothing. Just letting her go, not knowing what was happening to her... to our sisters." Her voice trembled slightly. "This on top of my mother's death, and no one's telling me a fucking thing..."

As her emotions swelled, so too did the latent energy within her. The pressure of everything she had kept bottled inside – the raw grief, the gnawing ignorance, the desperate fear for her friends – felt like a furnace igniting. Sparks of lavender embers, the colour of her burgeoning magic, began to flicker and dance in the air around her.

With a mere whisk of her finger, the Queen sent a silent, valiant gust of magical presence that swept through the hall, effortlessly snuffing out the nascent display. Her eyes held a point of caution, a cool command for Ozma to contain herself.

"Vivian's death is... regrettable," Queen Everfell said, her voice regaining its cool authority. "She was a promising witch, her connection to the Sway deeper than most... though in the end, her arrogance was her downfall."

"She was suffering, Lady Everfell," Ozma countered, her voice sharp with conviction. "I... felt the immolation of her grief... within the folds of her shattered form, remnants of the lamentation seeping from her fractured heart." She remembered the taste of Vivian’s corrupted magic, the malice laced with a profound, burning hurt and frustration.

"I am well aware," the Queen replied, her gaze piercing. "Or have you forgotten how far the reach of my gaze extends?"

"Not. At. All," Ozma said, the words laced with weary resignation. How could she forget? The Queen saw everything, knew everything, yet revealed nothing Ozma truly needed to know.

Seeing the building storm in Ozma's eyes, the Queen sighed faintly. "There is something on your chest... you needn't ask for it, you have permission to speak freely." Better to let the girl vent the pressure than risk a magical outburst.

Ozma took a steadying breath, clasping her hands before her chest. "Vivian and those that followed her were swallowed up by their own desires, their longing to experience more than just the corridors of Serpentera. To be so intricately connected to such a wondrous thing as magic, yet be denied the freedom to pursue it, to truly experience it... it is like clipping the wings off a bird and expecting it to never miss the kiss of the skies."

She poured out her feelings now, the frustration and fear for her generation plain on her face. Despite the intensity of her emotion, Everfell's cadence hardly changed.

"I see... so that's how they all feel then." The Queen's voice was that of a parent tired of a recurring, predictable misbehavior. "The Council would agree with you. They feel I keep them bound here instead of being able to trek off into the boundless unknown. I suppose it is simply the nature of a ruler... to be doubted, our actions misinterpreted by those we strive to protect."

"My Queen... we are all aware of the Well," Ozma pressed, pushing back against the dismissal. "The deeper one's connection to magic, the closer the pull to more self-serving, even destructive urges of the abyss. But is placating us here truly the answer?"

Everfell sighed again, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of ages. "To be the only one cursed with awareness... it is truly a bane. Then again... all of you are far too young to remember... what it was like."

"Your highness?" Ozma tilted her head, confused. The Queen seemed to be speaking more to herself now than to her audience.

"Then again... why would any of you..." Everfell's eyes closed as she took a deep, measured breath. Upon exhaling, her eyes flared a brilliant violet, the color of deep, ancient power, and she held out her hands towards Ozma. "Come... you wish for understanding? Very well, perhaps it is time to unburden myself of the weight of knowing."

Cautious, uncertain, Ozma hesitated for only a moment. This was why she had left. To find answers. Why no one spoke of her father, why her mother's death was shrouded in secrecy. The Queen now seemed to offer those answers, tangible in the palm of her outstretched hand.

Taking small, deliberate steps, Ozma moved forward and placed her hands in the Queen's.

She was instantly beset by a mirage of visions. Eons upon eons of knowledge washed over her in a torrent, a flood of history, magic, and truth that threatened to overwhelm her senses. Time seemed to cease as they arrived somewhere else entirely – an ethereal realm, shimmering with raw magic.

The Queen's voice descended upon Ozma, no longer merely sound waves hitting the ear, but a physical weight, a presence that vibrated in the very air around them, settling deep within Ozma's bones. "What do you truly know... of Witches?"

The space they occupied was formless, yet felt vast, like standing within the breath of creation itself. Images flickered at the periphery of Ozma's vision – snatches of impossible color, geometries that defied logic, the echo of forgotten screams and silent wonders. Ozma's mind, already reeling from the onslaught of revelations that had brought her to this moment, struggled to find purchase, to anchor itself against the tide of the Queen’s words.

"Magic given form?" The Queen's voice was laced with an ancient, knowing amusement. "A crude explanation, certainly. So I ask you, Ozma, seeker of truths you cannot yet comprehend: What comes first? The chicken or the egg?"

The mundane simplicity of the question was jarring against the backdrop of cosmic revelation. Ozma blinked, trying to focus, to filter out the humming energy of this place. "The egg, I guess?" she answered, the uncertainty palpable in her voice. It felt like a test she was already failing.

"I see," the Queen’s voice echoed, firm but not unkind, carrying the weight of eons. "A reasonable assumption, based on linear perception. But the answer, as it pertains to our kind, is that neither matters, for magic is both the before and the after. It is the potential and the result, the cause and the effect, all intertwined."

As she spoke, the formless space began to coalesce, weaving itself into a tapestry of light and energy. Images formed around them, depicting a realm that pulsed and breathed, a place of swirling, vibrant power that defied earthly description. "There is a realm known as Salem... The Heart Of The Ovalu."

The Ovalu. Ozma knew that name. It was whispered in hushed tones among those who delved too deep into forbidden lore. A nexus.

"As you know," the Queen continued, the images solidifying into breathtaking, impossible landscapes of pure force, " the Ovalu is a nexus that connects a myriad of realms. Within its center lies an ethereal domain, the lynch pin of many existences. A place of pure, unadulterated energy."

The images shifted, showing currents of iridescent light flowing, merging, separating, transforming. "There is a theory, one of many, that naten as we know it universally cannot be created nor destroyed. What shifts is the state it exists in, and the way it is accessed... such is the nature of all things. Life flows into Death, Chaos resolves into Order, physical forms dissipate into the spiritual, and the spiritual can be drawn forth into the physical. This is the fundamental principle of the energy known as Maho, what we have come to call magic. An intersection of various expressions pooled together, distilled possibility."

The Queen's voice softened slightly, a note of caution entering. "It is a living existence that knows not good nor evil in any human sense. It simply is. An amalgam capable of wondrous works of creation, of shaping reality with a thought, but also capable of catastrophic acts of destruction. It depends solely on the whim of the ones who shape it... Witches can draw from this well. We... we pull directly from it, weave it into ourselves, into the world around us. And thus, the more we lean into it, the more we become susceptible to the pull, the inclination towards desire, ambition, and ultimately, destruction. The Maho is neutral, Ozma, but the human heart is not."

Ozma tried to process it all. The source of magic wasn't some learned art or innate gift passed down through bloodlines alone. It was a place, a realm, a primordial energy itself, waiting to be tapped. "But I don't understand," she managed, her voice small against the Queen’s resonant power. "How did we even come to touch this realm? How did the first of us learn to draw from such a place?"

The air in the chamber vibrated, not with sound, but with meaning. Around Ozma, the swirling images intensified, a storm of color and concept that resolved, focusing its chaotic energy towards a single, blinding point within the vibrant core of what she now understood to be Salem itself. It was a point of stark contrast, a mundane intrusion in the heart of impossible, untamed existence.

"Eons ago," the Queen's voice began, no longer just sound, but a low thrum, a storytelling vibration that seemed to echo through the very fabric of time, weaving the narrative directly into Ozma's perception, " a being... wandered into Salem. A mortal. Just flesh and blood, stumbling into eternity. Mortal flesh was never meant to exist in such a place. The sheer influx of raw Maho, the impossible pressures of that realm's reality, were anathema to such a fragile form. Their physical form was torn asunder, molecular bonds snapping, atoms scattering like dust in a gale..."

Ozma flinched, a purely empathic reaction, imagining the agony, the utter annihilation of being dissolved by reality itself.

"...yet death did not take them," the Queen finished, a note of profound awe softening the ancient power in her tone. "Though their body was unmade, their will, their sheer, unyielding presence was unparalleled. Stronger than the destructive forces of Salem. Rather than extinguishing, that will anchored itself in the Maho, refused to yield. Instead, evolution occurred."

"!!!" The sound burst from Ozma, a voiceless gasp of astonishment and terror. Evolution? From annihilation?

"This being..." The Queen's voice held a reverence that transcended power, speaking of a force that reshaped the fundamental rules of existence. "...redefined itself. Using the raw Maho that had ripped it apart, it began to weave. To rebuild. Not as it was, but as something new, something born of the realm. It became an embodiment of Maho, reshaping its identity, its very essence, into a new physical form forged from pure magical energy and indomitable will. From this impossible crucible, the first being to consciously command Maho, came to be. Known only as the Savant of Salem."

A chill went down Ozma's spine. The Savant... this origin... it was horrifyingly, breathtakingly alien.

"But... how does that... how does that create us?" Ozma finally managed to ask, her voice small against the backdrop of the cosmic visuals that still pulsed around them. "Witches? You said the Savant was the first Drachiot. Not the first Witch."

The Queen's resonant presence shifted, a quality of ancient weariness entering it, though it was quickly veiled, a momentary crack in eternal composure. "The Savant's existence fundamentally altered the Ovalu's connection to Salem. Imagine a dam that has held back an infinite ocean for eons. The Savant was the first fissure, not just in the dam, but a transformation of the dam itself. Maho, once utterly inaccessible to structured existence, now had a bridge."

The images changed, showing ripples emanating from the pulsating heart of Salem, spreading outwards through the intricate web of the Ovalu's realms, touching distant stars and unseen dimensions.

"These ripples," the Queen continued, "were not just energy. They were echoes of that first, impossible will, that defiance of fate and form. Certain individuals, in certain realms, possessed a unique sensitivity, a resonance with that echo. A spark of that same unparalleled will, perhaps dormant for ages."

Ozma felt a shiver trace down her spine. A resonance... an echo... of the being forged in the heart of Maho? Was that what made her?

"These individuals," the Queen's voice described figures appearing within the swirling images, indistinct but radiating a familiar aura, faint copies of the power Ozma knew within herself, "felt a pull. Not the raw demand of oblivion the Savant faced, but an invitation. A whisper from the abyss. They found they could reach."

The images showed hands extending, not physically, but spiritually, mentally, reaching towards the pulsating heart of Salem. And from that heart, tendrils of light and shadow, of vibrant Maho, responded, connecting.

"They could draw from that well," the Queen concluded. "Not become the well, not fully embody it like the Savant, but pull from its boundless energy. Shape it. Give it form. They became the first Witches. Born not in Salem, but of its changed state, its newfound accessibility, brought about by the impossibility of the Savant."

Ozma stared at the images, at the figures reaching, at the luminous tendrils connecting them to the cosmic heart. It wasn't just about learning spells or rituals, then. It was about their very nature, their lineage tracing back to a defiance of cosmic law.

"So... we are... a result of the Savant?" Ozma whispered, the implications dawning on her. "An offshoot? A... side effect?"

"A complex legacy," the Queen corrected gently. "The Savant proved mortal form could interact with Maho and survive, albeit transformed. Their existence created the conditions for others to tap into it. But because Witches tap – we are subject to its chaotic pull. We wield both creation and destruction because we draw from a source that is both."

The images faded, leaving only the Queen's luminous presence and the lingering sense of the vastness of the Ovalu and the terrifying potential of the realm called Salem.

"What do you truly know now... of Witches?" The Queen's voice resonated again, the question now heavy with the weight of this origin story. It wasn't just about magic anymore. It was about lineage, about the source of power being inherently tied to the untamed abyss of Maho, and the constant battle within every Witch to master the influence of creation and destruction they drew upon.

"We are... reflections, not embodiments," Ozma murmured, the word feeling both inadequate and profoundly true. "Reflections of what should have been impossible."

The Queen's presence seemed to nod, a silent acknowledgment. The lesson wasn't over, but Ozma had taken her first true step beyond mere understanding of magic, into the terrifying, awe-inspiring truth of what it meant to be a Witch. They were not just wielders of power; they were a living consequence of the impossible, forever dancing on the edge of chaos, linked by an ancient, fundamental resonance to the Heart of the Ovalu – Salem.

The shimmering history, moments before vibrant within Salem's throne room, abruptly retracted, leaving behind a silence more profound than any sound. It was the silence of a truth too vast, too heavy, to be easily borne. Ozma stood rooted to the spot, the last echoes of the Savant's battle and the Drachiot's sealing work fading from her mind's eye, replaced by the stark, unadorned reality laid bare by Queen Everfell.

The ornate chamber, usually a symbol of power and stability, now felt fragile, its grandeur a thin veneer over an ancient, terrifying secret. The air, moments before, thick with the projection of history, now held the brittle tension of a wound barely healed. Ozma found her voice, a mere whisper against the monumental weight of Everfell's revelation.

"The rules," she repeated, the word tasting like ash on her tongue, mirroring the dust of forgotten ages. Her gaze met Everfell's, finding not the image of an unyielding monarch, but a being burdened by millennia of silent vigilance. "Not a kingdom... a cage." The words were a statement, a question, a crushing realization, all at once.

Everfell descended the final steps of the throne dais, her movements deliberate, every line of her face etched with an elegant sorrow that spoke volumes of the cost of her knowledge. Her regal presence did little to diminish the vulnerability she had just shared. "A necessary containment, child." Her voice was firm now, though underscored with weariness. "An intricate web of confinement woven from the very essence of Salem, designed to cloak us, to render this realm invisible to senses honed by millennia of hunger. The seals and wards are the threads, the rules their pattern."

Ozma's hand instinctively went to her side, resting over the faint warmth beneath her tunic where the mark of her Wandering magic resided. Jhal. Her father. One of the original coven. His gift, the power she had seen as her means of escape, her way to traverse boundaries, was a fundamental pillar of the very walls that held them captive. It wasn't just a power; it was a key, a part of the lock keeping something unimaginable at bay. And Devour? The other inheritance, shrouded in mystery – what role did that forbidden power play in this intricate prison?

"Ignorance is our first and strongest ward," Everfell continued, her voice softening but losing none of its unwavering conviction. "If the general populace understood why the borders are closed, why their magic is so restricted, the panic would be catastrophic. Uncontrolled fear is a beacon. A widespread, uncontrolled surge of Maho, born of terror or reckless abandon, would send ripples across existence, ripples the Maji-Gari would recognize instantly. It would be like ringing a bell in a silent, hungry void."

As if summoned by her words, a low, resonant tremor ran through the ancient stone floor, not violent, but deep and unsettling, like a monstrous bell struck far beneath the earth. It was followed by a sickening stretch in the very fabric of reality, a high-pitched frequency that resonated not through the ears, but deep within Ozma's bones, a sensation that screamed of fundamental wrongness.

Everfell’s head snapped up, her eyes, moments before full of ancient weariness, now sharp and intensely focused. "Another surge..." she murmured, her voice tight with alarm.

Ozma flinched, a cold dread gripping her heart. She felt it more acutely, more viscerally, than the Queen. It wasn't just a tremor or a frequency; it was a sudden, violent, uncontrolled explosion of raw Maho, somewhere within the realm. A flash so potent and undisciplined it had momentarily frayed the intricately woven edges of the seal nearest its location. And for a terrifying second, through that tiny, instantaneous weakness, Ozma felt a pull.

It wasn't a physical force, nothing she could resist with muscle or willpower. It was a conscious, ancient awareness brushing against their reality. A desire so profound, so utterly alien to any natural hunger, that it scraped against the very edges of her sanity. Images flickered in her mind – not the indistinct shapes of the past, but sharper, more defined shadows writhing just out of sight, senses suddenly twitching, vibrating with awareness of that momentary flare, like a pack of starved wolves catching the scent of blood on the wind.

"Someone... someone did something reckless," Ozma stammered, her voice trembling, the echo of that alien hunger still vibrating through her. "A flare... a tear..."

Everfell was already moving, her hand extended, not towards Ozma, but outwards, towards the unseen strain on reality. Power gathered around her, not the raw, chaotic force Ozma had felt echoing the surge, but something vast, knowing, connected. Omniscience. The Queen's own Elder Magic. She wasn't just conjuring power; she was accessing the very network of Salem's magical containment, the intricate, millennia-old workings of the seals themselves.

"Isis..." Everfell breathed, her voice tight with strain, the single name a chilling pronouncement. "One of the sealed Abyssals...is nearly free."

The stretching sensation intensified, becoming a nauseating distortion of space itself. The brief awareness Ozma had felt solidified into a crushing pressure against the veil between realms, like something vast and unseen was leaning its immense weight against a thin membrane, groaning to enter. The hunger was palpable now, a silent scream just on the other side of reality.

Everfell focused, a soft, golden light emanating from her outstretched hand, spreading outwards, not violently, but with immense, deliberate force. It was the core power of the Savant, the essence of Salem itself, being channelled not to attack, but to shore up a crumbling defence. Ozma watched, mesmerized and terrified, as the golden light seemed to flow like liquid gold into the tear, knitting the frayed edges, silencing the high-pitched frequency, pushing back the terrifying, distant pressure.

Slowly, agonizingly, the magical stress eased. The world settled back into its usual, if still confining, reality. The intense pressure receded, leaving behind only the lingering scent of ozone burnout and the phantom echo of alien presence. Everfell lowered her hand, breathing heavily, the weariness returning tenfold, settling onto her like a shroud.

"Contained," she murmured, more to herself than Ozma, her voice thick with exhaustion. "But it was close. Too close. A moment more, and the breach would have been irreparable."

Ozma stood frozen, the chilling truth no longer an abstract historical lesson. The history wasn't just a story; it was the tangible weight pressing down on their present. The rules weren't arbitrary restrictions; they were life support for an entire realm. Every spell cast, every journey taken outside the regulated paths, every moment of carelessness wasn't just a personal action; it was a potential hammer blow against the walls holding back an ancient, relentless enemy.

She looked at Everfell, the Queen, no longer just a wise ruler, but the weary commander of a besieged fortress built on silence, fragile truth, and the sacrifice of freedom. They weren't just witches living in a secluded realm. They were the unwitting, unwilling guardians of an eternal prison, their magic the very thing that both empowered them and drew the impossible hunters they were desperately trying to hide from.

The silence that fell between them was no longer merely respectful; it was the charged quiet of two beings who understood, with searing, chilling clarity, the true price of their existence and the constant, terrifying vigilance required to pay it. The air still hummed with the fading echo of the averted disaster.

Everfell straightened slightly, the weariness still present but overlaid now with resolve. Her eyes, though tired, held a focused intensity. "Ozma...I have a task for you."

This was it. The moment Elara spoke of earlier in her vision, the turning point she had glimpsed. The weight of destiny, or perhaps just desperate necessity, settled upon Ozma's young shoulders.

"As the inheritor of not one, but two Elder Magics," the Queen's voice was steady, carrying the full weight of her authority and the truth shared, " and the only one outside myself to know the truth of the seals and what lies beyond them, it is up to you to travel to the Speclure of the Eastern Star. It is there that the seal of Isis the Dread Whisper is located, the one that was nearly broken." Everfell paused, her expression darkening slightly. "Be warned. Isis is a powerful necromancer with the ability to extract life from anything she touches and reshape it into abominations. Her very voice is corruption, alluring, and her hunger profound even among the Abyssals. It will not be an easy journey, and the task of reinforcing her seal, if needed, and understanding how it was weakened, will be dangerous."

The Queen reclined back into her throne, the adrenaline of the magical exertion draining away, leaving her visibly tired. Ozma looked at her, at the lines of strain around her eyes, and a fierce, cold resolve ignited within her. This wasn't about rules or defiance anymore. It was about survival. Her lineage, her powers, the very things that had made her feel an 'oddball,' were now revealed as integral to the safety of her entire world. She was a part of the cage, yes, but that also meant she was one of its guardians. Though she struggled with acceptance, as of now, she was the only one who could keep their kingdom from fracturing...

She nodded, a silent vow forming in her heart. She would go. She would face the danger. For the fragile peace maintained by centuries of silence. For the terrifying truth she now carried. Knowing that on the other side of this ordeal, another face of truth awaited.