Prologue – Autumn 1904

Every day, she made the pilgrimage—three miles from the grocer’s shop to the coastline, where the path climbed to the highest point of the cliff. The place the locals called Blackmere Point.

They say no birds fly over Blackmere Point. That the sea below swallows sound. And that if you stand too close to the edge, you’ll hear your name whispered on the wind—not by the living, but by those who leapt before you. The villagers call it cursed. But the old women who keep to the woods call it something else: a threshold.

As a child, Mabel Shirley had walked this path daily as part of her training, her mentor Aunty Fliss always at her side. Along the way, that wise old healer would share the lore of the coven—the ways of the Cunning Folk. She reminded Mabel that, one day, she would make the journey alone, no matter the weather or season. And that one day, the visits would end, when there was nothing left to teach.

Each time they neared the headland, a ghostly woman would appear—always the same. Draped in a flowing white cape, she stood gazing out to sea. Regal. Still. Silent. She never spoke, never turned—only kept her watch over the waves. When Mabel once asked who she was, Aunty Fliss had answered simply: “She is the Unspoken Witness. One day, when you are ready, she will speak.”

──✿──

Now, twelve years on, Mabel was seventeen. Her training nearly complete. The moon tattoo on her wrist—the mark of her coven—sat at the half moon: a sign she was aligned with neither shadow, nor the seduction of white light. That morning, unsettled by what lay ahead, she set out once more along the familiar path to Blackmere Point.

The wind, a cold and insistent hand, plucked at her clothes, tugging at the stray hairs escaping her shawl. Below the cliff, the sea had begun to churn, as if it too sensed what loomed on the horizon. Far off, a bruised sky pressed against the edge of the world, casting the water in dull pewter light. Hundreds of feet below, the waves crashed into the shoreline with a sound that seemed to reach inside her and pull.

She approached the Unspoken Witness, breath hitched—thin and ragged in her throat.

Every nerve in her body screamed. Not from pain, but from a primal, overwhelming protest against the unnatural act she was about to commit. Her heart, a trapped bird, battered her ribs. A metallic tang of adrenaline coated her tongue. Her vision, usually sharp, had narrowed. The landscape dissolved to blur. All that remained was the violent expanse below—and the voice within her. Calm. Impatient. Calling her to let go. To join them. To become one.

Despite the biting wind, her palms were slick with sweat. She clenched her fists, feeling the weight of her soaked clothing. Her stomach twisted—a cold, coiled knot of dread and something dangerously close to anticipation. The magic thrummed beneath her feet, a subtle vibration—perhaps rising from the Witness herself. Every instinct screamed no: the primal drive to live, the terror of the unknown, the madness of stepping willingly into nothingness.

And yet, she bowed. No words. Just resolve.

“Are you ready?” the woman asked. Her voice held caution. She knew what the choice meant.

Mabel met her gaze. Years of training flared to life within her. She gave no reply.

She turned—and stepped over the edge.

It wasn’t a leap. It was a surrender. A letting go of everything.

A gasp tore from her lungs as the ground vanished beneath her. It was raw, ripped from the gut—a sound of shock, terror, and wild defiance.

For a suspended moment, there was only nothingness. A stomach-lurching freefall. Utter weightlessness.

Air screamed past her ears. Her body—an arrow released—plummeted toward the glittering sea. The wind tore at her face, whipped tears from her eyes, scattered them into the blur. Sky and ground spun in a dizzying kaleidoscope.

Then—The Moment.

Not a jolt, but a smooth, impossible pull from within. As if something ancient had reached through her and drawn out every last doubt.

The fall slowed. The veil lifted.

The world of her sisters unfurled—barriers breaking, truths laid bare. She saw it all: the betrayal, the desire, the misuse of trust that had kept her caged. And then—release.

The scream that had been trapped inside her erupted. Not in fear, but in exultation. A cry of power, of rebirth, of magic finally unbound. She soared—alive, limitless. Free.

She landed without landing.

One moment, the wind was screaming. The next, it was gone—as if the world had taken a breath and held it.

Then warmth. The soft scent of sage. Floorboards beneath her knees.

Rattlebag Cottage.

The hearth glowed low, pulsing amber as if it had been waiting for her. Mabel knelt at the centre of the room, barefoot. The hem of her skirt still damp, but no longer torn by wind. Her pulse thrummed, not in panic, but with the strange calm of something newly awakened.

Aunt Fliss stood by the window, arms folded, her expression unreadable. No smirk. No dry aside. Just a silence that held weight.

In the far corner, the Witness.

No longer spectral. She was present now—solid, composed. The white cloak shimmered with silver threads, moonlight woven into form. Her face serene. And in her eyes—recognition.

A moment passed. No one spoke.

Then Mabel said, quietly, “I didn’t fall.”

Aunt Fliss crossed the room, like she always did—steady, no fuss, nothing wasted. “No,” she said. “You were answered.”

The Witness bowed her head.

“You crossed the threshold,” Fliss said. “The one no teacher can take you across. You gave yourself over—completely. That’s the only way the old power comes. No performance. No pride. Just truth.”

Mabel looked down. Her hands pulsed with light—fine threads of power weaving through her fingers. She could feel everything. The heartbeat of the earth beneath the floorboards. The stars pressing down through the roof. Her magic, no longer sleeping, but alive—coiled and calm, waiting.

Aunt Fliss placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Now comes the harder part,’ she said. ‘Choosing what to do with it.”

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