1692, Salem— the dark night stretched over the village like a suffocating cloak, broken only by the glow of torches and the distant flicker of the burning pyre. The air was thick with smoke and fear, the stench of betrayal hanging heavily over the crowd. A woman, her dark eyes wild with defiance, was dragged through the fire-lit streets, her wrists bound tightly with rough ropes. Her name was Eloria, and the whispers of Salem's villagers painted her as a wicked sorceress, a child of the devil.
The once proud witch, now crumpled and bruised, was being paraded to her death. Her long, black hair fluttered in the wind, her bare feet scraping across the cobblestone street, blood staining the stones as she struggled to walk. Her heart, a fierce drum in her chest, pulsed in rhythm with the shadows creeping closer around her. The moon, full and bright, watched from above as if it, too, felt the weight of the injustice.
With every step, the crowd's voices grew louder— curses and chants, condemning her to a fiery end. But Eloria did not waver. As she neared the stake, she lifted her head to the sky, her face bathed in the ethereal glow of the moon.
"They do not know what they have set in motion," Eloria whispered through clenched teeth. Her voice barely rose above the wind, but those close enough to hear could feel the gravity in her words. She spoke not of her own fate but of something far greater.
"The witch born in crimson shall awaken the broken hour," she murmured, her words like a spell cast into the night, destined to echo down the centuries. Her lips formed a grim smile as her hands, bound tightly behind her, lifted toward the heavens.
Her gaze never left the moon as she was thrown to the ground. The fire crackled, a hungry beast waiting to consume her. But Eloria's mind was not on the flames that were about to consume her. No, her thoughts were on the child she had seen in her visions, a girl who would one day rise with the blood of the past in her veins.
The witch's prophecy, born in blood and flame, was now set in motion. As the torch was lit, Eloria's eyes locked onto the moon above, a final act of defiance. The heat began to rise, the flames licking at her skin, but in that moment, her spirit transcended.
Her last breath was a soft, chilling whisper: "Remember me." And then, she was gone, swallowed by the fire.
But her words—her prophecy—lingered in the night, carried by the wind, destined to reach the ears of those who would come after her.
As Eloria's body succumbed to the flames, the world around her seemed to tremble. Her life—her essence—was fading, consumed by the pyre, yet beneath the crackle of fire and the chants of the mob, a shadowed figure stood hidden in the corners of the village. This figure was not part of the spectacle, nor was it a member of the crowd. The ritual was not meant to be seen by mortal eyes.
In the quiet of the forest just beyond the village, where the trees stood tall and their branches whispered secrets, a hidden circle of ancient witches had gathered. Their faces were obscured by dark hoods, their hands raised in silent incantation. They were not here to mourn Eloria's death—they had been waiting for this very moment, the culmination of a century-old pact, a dark secret passed down from generation to generation.
As the flames consumed the last of Eloria's physical form, a cold wind swept through the clearing, carrying with it a strange, almost imperceptible vibration. It was then that the ritual began, a blood-soaked act that would seal the future and bind the past.
At the center of the circle lay an ancient grimoire, its pages yellowed with age, bound in the hide of a long-forgotten creature. The grimoire, an artifact of immense power, had been waiting for this moment, waiting for the sacrifice to ignite its dormant magic. As the fire flared, a distant, arcane energy sparked to life within the pages of the book.
The witches, chanting in a forgotten tongue, reached toward the air, their voices rising as one. A faint red glow began to emanate from the pages of the grimoire, casting an eerie light on the faces of those gathered. Slowly, deliberately, one of the witches—an elder, her hands trembling with the weight of centuries—raised a vial filled with Eloria's blood.
It had been collected earlier, in secret, just before Eloria's capture. The blood—still warm from her body—was poured onto the first page of the grimoire, its crimson liquid dripping like liquid fire onto the ancient parchment.
The moment the blood made contact with the page, a tremor ran through the forest. The ground quaked as if the earth itself was reacting to the awakening of the book. The witches stopped chanting as the grimoire began to pulse with a strange, dark energy. The seal was complete—the book was now bound to the prophecy, to the witch born in crimson, who would one day awaken the broken hour.
And just as the last of Eloria's life force left her body, the grimoire vanished into time, slipping out of sight as if swallowed by the very fabric of reality. The witches stared at the empty space where it had once lain, and one by one, they turned and disappeared into the shadows, vanishing into the night, leaving only the whispers of their magic behind.
The darkened sky above Levi Rose seemed endless, the moon full and heavy, its light casting an eerie glow over the landscape. Levi tossed and turned in her bed, her breath shallow, her heart pounding as if trying to escape the confines of her chest. The sheets tangled around her legs, a suffocating reminder of the nightmare she couldn't shake.
In the dream, she was standing on the edge of a village—Salem, though she didn't recognize it in her slumber. The air was thick, heavy with smoke and the unmistakable scent of burning wood. A crowd had gathered around something, their voices rising in a furious crescendo, but Levi's eyes were fixed on the center of the scene. There, she saw her—a woman, bloodied and bruised, dragged through the streets as the flames danced eagerly behind her.
It was Eloria.
Levi didn't know how she knew the name, but the woman's face was burned into her memory. As the crowd jeered, Eloria's eyes locked with hers, piercing through the veil of the dream like a warning.
"The witch born in crimson shall awaken the broken hour."
The words came in a whisper, but they were clear as day. Levi's stomach twisted in confusion and dread as Eloria's lips formed the prophecy again and again, each time louder, until it echoed like a death knell in her mind. The dream shifted, and Levi found herself kneeling beside Eloria, her hand reaching out, but it was as if an invisible force held her back.
Then the nightmare intensified.
The moon, full and glowing, suddenly turned crimson, casting a blood-red hue over the landscape. Levi looked down at her palm and saw it—a sigil, burning brightly, searing into her skin like it was a part of her, like it had always been there. The mark glowed with an ominous energy, a reminder of something ancient, something powerful that had chosen her—whether she wanted it or not.
The flames surrounding Eloria grew higher, roaring like a beast, and then… silence. Everything stopped.
The sigil burned hotter on her skin, and with a sharp gasp, Levi awoke. Her body jerked upright in bed, drenched in sweat, her breath ragged and unsteady. The remnants of the dream clung to her mind, haunting her thoughts like the last vestiges of a dark spell. Her eyes darted to her hand, where there was nothing. No mark. No sigil. Just the pale skin of her palm.
Yet, the feeling lingered—the memory of the burning symbol, of Eloria's prophecy. Levi's heart pounded, her mind racing. What was it? What did it mean? And why her?
Her room was quiet now, too quiet. The night seemed still, but something had shifted, something she couldn't explain. It was as if the dream had been a warning, a beckoning from some distant, forgotten past.
The sigil, the moon, Eloria's death—they were all tied together, and they were somehow tied to her. Levi didn't know how or why, but deep down, she could feel it—something was coming, and she was at the center of it.
But what was she supposed to do?
Levi lay back down, staring at the ceiling as the moonlight filtered through her window. It wasn't just a nightmare. It was a call. And somehow, she knew she couldn't ignore it.