V The First

Chapter 1.2

V

“The old ways never die; they only sleep beneath the roots, waiting for a song or a dream to wake them.”

Chapter: 1.2

The Old Ways of the Witch

1.2

In the thawing woods beyond Valtice, Sorina—a vestige of a fallen Watchtower—guides her restless young ward toward an unseen destiny.

Spring 1399

One day’s ride from Valtice, the road wound through a countryside still half-asleep from winter.

About Witches

About WitchesWM

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Witches

Witches first walked beside the earliest women of the earth—daughters of the moon, bound to its waxing pulse and waning breath. They do not command nature, for they are nature given voice: the whisper of water, the patience of stone, the pulse of sap beneath bark. From the soil they draw their strength; from the tide, their reflection.

Some chronicles claim they were the female branch of the Sorciè, whose male counterparts were the warlocks—two halves of an ancient species born of will and elemental force. Yet the centuries have worn away their kinship. Time, that silent alchemist, divided them, reshaping what was once whole.

Now, witches and warlocks stand as separate creations, reflections no longer bound by the same moon. One walks in rhythm with the earth’s heartbeat; the other seeks to master its silence.

Witches and warlocks—those quiet adepts who move along the trembling borders of the infra-world—have walked among humankind since the first fires were kindled in the dark. They seamlessly integrate into human society, their presence nearly imperceptible most of the time. They pass through the realms like murmured secrets, their presence felt more as a change in the air than as a figure in the crowd. And though most Children of the Night were punished without mercy for revealing themselves to humankind, the witches alone were spared that ancient retribution, as if some forgotten covenant shielded them from the full weight of the Sacred Canon.

Contrary to prevailing belief about witches, they've long served human elites as the discreet counselors of kings, the hidden hands guiding nobles, and the silent confidants of high clergy. Across the breadth of the known world, their wisdom shaped courts and sanctuaries alike. Yet, during medieval times, an age when Europe was ruled more by fear than by faith, the great houses turned upon them. They hunted their former allies with iron and scripture, drowning them in rivers that remembered their names and burning them upon pyres whose smoke darkened entire valleys. Thus did a lineage older than nations find itself pressed toward the brink of extinction.

Of all the night-born, witches crossed most freely into the human line. Their sons were forever mortal, bound to the earth; their daughters, though touched by the craft, carried blood diluted by the fathers who begot them. Each generation dimmed the old fire, thinning the once-mighty lineage into faint silhouettes of its former power. And yet, in rare and fateful unions—when a long-bred mortal son took to wife a woman of the true making—the ancient spark flared again, and a daughter was born whose strength recalled the shadowed glories of the first blood.

Among the Sorcière genus, the blood divides into many ancient branches—seers who read the hidden threads of fate, ceremonial witches who command rites older than scripture, material witches who bend the physical world to their will, green witches who speak the tongue of root and leaf, and elemental witches who stir the primal forces that once shaped the earth.

So writes Lord Darius von Croÿ, whose ink bears the gravity of one who has watched their kind since the first shadow fell upon the world.

1.2

1.2.1 The Road of Earth and Fire

Chapter 1.2WM

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Sorina & Ornela

Mentor & Aprentice

One day’s ride from Valtice, the spring thaw had awakened both root and river; mist coiled in pale ribbons along the wooded slopes, softening the hard edges of a forest still bare from winter’s hold.

Two cloaked riders appeared on the horizon as the sun bent low, spilling its dying gold across the land.

Atop a large chestnut mare rode Sorina—youthful in form, regal in bearing. No stranger would have guessed she had already witnessed a hundred winters before the age of Basarab.

Beside her, on a small grey pony, rode Ornela—ten years old and no older in spirit: bright-eyed, restless, and utterly miserable.

“I’m hungry. And I’m tired. I’m hungry and tired,” she declared.

Sorina said nothing.

The road wound through a countryside still shaking off winter’s grasp. Patches of snow clung to shadowed slopes; the meadows steamed faintly beneath a reluctant sun. The trees stood gaunt and leafless, their black branches etched like ink strokes against a pallid sky. The air smelled of thawed earth and wet decay—the scent of beginnings and endings.

Then Ornela’s voice changed—deepening into the gravelly rasp of an old man.

“I still don’t understand why you have to drag me to the ends of the world,”
she said—or rather, he said—
“for something, or someone, that might not even exist.”

Sorina turned. For an instant, the girl was gone. In her place sat an elderly man: leathery skin, a snow-white beard, eyes full of complaint.

She hid her smile, though pride flickered in her gaze.

“That was very good,” she said coolly. “You’re improving.”

The illusion dissolved; Ornela reappeared, scowling.

“I still don’t understand why.”

After a pause, Sorina spoke—her voice soft, her eyes bearing the calm gravity of centuries.

“You know, I’ve spent most of my life travelling—to distant lands, seeking girls like you.
Born with the blood. Marked by the old forces. Even I was one once.”

“I know.” Ornela rolled her eyes. “Like… two hundred years ago.”

Sorina’s lips curved faintly. There was always something cleansing about seeing the world through a child’s impatience.

“One hundred and eighty-seven, thank you very much.”

She paused, her tone turning almost nostalgic.

“When I was your age, the Northern Tower took me in. Among the sisterhood I learned to weave the invisible threads of nature. When I came of age, I was made an emissary. Whenever the Oracle dreamed, I was sent to find others—girls born under signs of power. Elemental witches.”

Ornela brightened, eager to play along.

“And then the other Towers sent their own emissaries too,” she said, eyes wide with delight. “And they’d all see who got to her first!”

“Not take her,” Sorina corrected gently. “To know her nature—her potential. If the old blood ran strong, we would return six years later to test her, and see which element claimed her, if any.”

Ornela huffed.

“You’ve told me. Many times.”

Sorina smiled—serene, unbothered.

Silence drifted between them, filled with the rhythm of hooves and the distant rush of water freed from ice.

Then, softly, the child said:

“Tell me about the Watchtowers again.”

Sorina’s gaze softened. This too she had told her before, countless times. But still, it never failed to stir something within her—a tender ache for a homeland now lost, and for the age before the fall.

She looked to the fading light, and began.

1.2.2

Northen Watchtower

Mater Terra

Home of the Earth Witches

Before the Fall

Sorina drew in a slow breath, her voice softened by memory and loss.

“Long ago—so long that even the eldest of our kind have forgotten—four Watchtowers were raised, each equidistant from the All-Mother’s grave.

Each housed a different elemental coven:

Earth in the North, my home—Terra Mater.

Air ruled the East.

Water, the West.

And in the South, the Sacred Flame burned eternal.

Together they formed the Circle of the Mother— the living compass of her will.”

Ornela listened in silence, her small face touched by the last gold of the sinking sun. Her eyes shone—wide, curious, unblinking—as though she could see the vanished temples rising anew in the light of Sorina’s words.

“And each Tower had its sisters,” Sorina continued softly. “They watched the seasons and guarded the balance of the world. When storms gathered, they whispered to the wind. When kingdoms fell, they whispered to the roots. Once, the earth listened.”

My home, Terra Mater… the Watchtower of the North. It was a place of wonder.

The very soil had been gathered from lands once walked by the Divines—grains of sacred earth and sand, mingled and consecrated in silence. The gardens and orchards were shaped with intention, their soil enriched through centuries of care. From that hallowed ground bloomed fruits and flowers unlike any seen elsewhere—perfumed, luminous, eternal in their beauty.

It was more than a temple to the Element of Earth; it was a living sanctuary. A heart that beat in rhythm with the Mother herself. And within its stone walls dwelled my sisters—keepers of the soil, weavers of growth and decay. We were bound by more than blood or craft.

We were bound by trust. By need. It was our togetherness that made us safe from the world… and strong, very strong.

Our Supreme watched over us always—wise, patient, unyielding—a root beneath all roots.

We believed that the balance we kept would be eternal.” Her voice faltered, soft as the fading wind.

“We were powerful. We were safe.” she whispered. “Until we were not.”

Then Came the Crows

Then the heavens erupted—a storm of wings and cries as a hundred crows and a single white raven wheeled above them, darkening the sky with an omen that made the very air tremble.

They Got out of the Road

Sorina knew better. It didn't take a fortune teller to understand the omen. They soon turned off the path and headed into the bushes to find a place to camp, a hard task given that everywhere was damp.