Chapter 10
Forbidden Arts
Desperate to combat the rising evil, the witches consider delving into forbidden magic. The risks are immense, potentially corrupting their powers and damning their souls forever.
The air in the ancient grove, usually alive with the hum of unseen energies, felt thick and stagnant, heavy with the unspoken. Around the moss-covered altar, where the crimson moon cast an unholy glow, we four stood as statues carved from apprehension. The whispers of the prophecy, once a distant murmur, had escalated into a deafening roar, a tempest of dread that threatened to tear Oakhaven asunder. Each of us, a vessel of elemental power, now felt the chill of its encroaching tendrils seeping into our very bones.
Morgana, her face a mask of weary resolve, her silver hair catching the blood-red light like spun moonlight, finally broke the suffocating silence. “We have exhausted every avenue,” she stated, her voice a low, resonant echo that vibrated with the weight of her leadership. Her gaze swept over us, lingering on each of our faces, searching for a flicker of hope, a solution that eluded even her considerable wisdom. “The darkness deepens. The wards weaken. We are running out of time.”
Lyra, her youthful energy usually a vibrant spark, was subdued, her emerald eyes wide with a fear that mirrored my own. She shifted her weight, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. “But… forbidden magic, Morgana?” Her voice was barely a breath, laced with the same unease that coiled in my gut. “The old texts warn of its price. They say it corrupts, that it devours the soul.”
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