The Moonstone and the Witch's Oath
The forest of Mistwood hummed with magic—ancient, alive, the kind that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I gripped the leather satchel at my side, my boots crunching over fallen oak leaves as I followed the glowing trail of fireflies. They led me to a clearing, where a stone altar stood, overgrown with ivy, and above it, the moon hung full, casting silver light over everything.
I’m Elara, and I’m the last of my coven. When the witch hunters came, they burned our cottages, our books, our elders. The only thing I saved was this—my grandmother’s journal, its pages filled with recipes for potions, incantations for protection, and a map. A map to the Moonstone, a relic of Hecate, the goddess of magic. It’s said to grant its wielder the power to heal the rift between humans and supernaturals. But to get it, I had to pass three trials.
The first trial, the journal said, was the Trial of Truth. I stepped forward, placing my hand on the altar. The stone grew cold, so cold my fingers numbed, and a voice echoed in my head—sharp, clear, like shards of ice.
“Why do you seek the Moonstone?” it asked.
“To avenge my coven,” I said, without thinking. The words tasted bitter. I’d spent months dreaming of making the hunters pay, of burning their villages the way they’d burned ours.
The altar rumbled, and the ivy withered. “Liar,” the voice said. “Truth is not in anger. It is in your heart.”
I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. The anger faded, replaced by something softer—grief, yes, but also hope. “I want to protect others,” I whispered. “I want to stop the fighting. I want magic to be something to celebrate, not fear.”
The altar glowed, warm now, like sunlight on skin. The ivy sprouted new leaves, and a key appeared in my hand—bronze, etched with stars. “The first trial is passed,” the voice said. “Now go to the Cave of Shadows.”
The cave was dark, so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. I lit a torch, the flame flickering, casting long shadows on the walls. The second trial, the journal said, was the Trial of Courage. But courage, it warned, was not the absence of fear—it was acting in spite of it.
I walked deeper into the cave, my torch held high. The air grew thick with the smell of damp stone and something else—rot, like dead animals. Then I heard it: a low, growling sound, coming from the darkness ahead.
I froze. The journal had mentioned the guardian of the cave—a chimera, with the head of a lion, the body of a goat, and the tail of a serpent. I’d read stories about them, about how they breathed fire, how their claws could tear through steel.
The chimera stepped into the light, its lion’s eyes glowing yellow, its serpent tail hissing. I raised my torch, my hands trembling. “I mean no harm,” I said. “I’m just passing through. I need the Moonstone.”
The chimera roared, a sound that shook the cave. It lunged, and I jumped out of the way, the torch clattering to the ground. The flame went out, and I was plunged into darkness. I fumbled for my wand—maple, carved with runes—and whispered an incantation. “Lumen,” I said. Light erupted from the wand, bright enough to blind.
The chimera reared back, hissing. I didn’t run. Instead, I stepped forward, slowly, my wand still glowing. “I know you’re scared,” I said. “The hunters come here too. They hurt you, don’t they?”
The chimera’s growl softened. It lowered its head, and I saw the scars—deep gashes on its lion’s neck, burns on its goat’s body. I reached out, my hand shaking, and touched its fur. It was soft, like velvet.
“I won’t hurt you,” I said. “I promise.”
The chimera nuzzled my hand, and the cave rumbled. A door opened in the wall, revealing a staircase leading up. “The second trial is passed,” a voice said—softer now, warmer. “Now go to the Lake of Reflection.”
The lake was crystal clear, its surface smooth as glass. The third trial, the journal said, was the Trial of Sacrifice. I knelt beside the water, looking down at my reflection. It rippled, and suddenly, I saw her—my grandmother, her silver hair in a braid, her eyes kind.
“Elara,” she said. “To get the Moonstone, you must sacrifice what you love most. What will you give up?”
I thought of my wand—my last connection to my coven. Of my journal, the only thing that held the memories of my grandmother. Of my anger, the one thing that had kept me going for so long. But none of those were what I loved most.
I looked at my reflection, and I saw it—the part of me that still wanted to be a normal girl, that wanted to live in a village, to plant flowers, to laugh without fear. The part of me that hated being a witch, that hated the responsibility, the danger.
“I sacrifice my desire for a normal life,” I said. “I accept that I am a witch, and that magic is my duty. I will use it to protect others, even if it means never having the life I dreamed of.”
The lake glowed, and the Moonstone rose from its depths—pale, translucent, glowing with silver light. I reached out, taking it in my hand. It was warm, like holding a piece of the moon.
My grandmother’s reflection smiled. “You have passed all three trials,” she said. “The Moonstone is yours. But remember—power is not in the relic. It is in you. It is in your kindness, your courage, your willingness to choose love over hate.”
The reflection faded, and I stood, the Moonstone in my hand. I walked out of the cave, back into the forest. The sun was rising, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange. I looked down at the Moonstone, and I knew what I had to do.
I went to the nearest village—the same village where the hunters had come from. The villagers saw me, and they screamed, grabbing pitchforks and torches. But I didn’t run. I held up the Moonstone, and it glowed brighter, casting light over the village.
The light touched a little girl, who was hiding behind her mother. The girl smiled, reaching out. “It’s pretty,” she said.
Her mother froze, then slowly lowered her pitchfork. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m here to help,” I said. “I’m here to stop the fighting. The hunters hurt your village too, didn’t they? They took your food, your money, your loved ones. They told you witches were evil, but we’re not. We’re just people, like you.”
The villagers hesitated, then one by one, they put down their weapons. An old man stepped forward—his face lined with wrinkles, his hands gnarled. “My wife was a witch,” he said. “The hunters burned her. I’ve been scared to speak up, scared they’d come for me next.”
“I won’t let that happen,” I said. “With the Moonstone, we can protect this village. We can protect all villages. We can make magic and humans live in peace.”
The old man nodded, and the villagers cheered. I held up the Moonstone, and it sent a beam of light into the sky—bright, pure, a signal to all supernaturals, all witches, all humans. A signal that the fighting was over.
That night, we built a fire in the village square. The villagers brought bread and wine, and I told them stories of my coven—of my grandmother, of the potions we made to heal the sick, of the spells we cast to make the crops grow. They listened, their faces softening, their fear fading.
As the moon rose, I looked up at the sky, holding the Moonstone. I thought of my grandmother, of my coven, of all the people who had died for being different. I knew the road ahead would be hard, that there would still be hunters, still be fear. But I also knew that I wasn’t alone anymore.
The Moonstone glowed in my hand, and I smiled. Because magic wasn’t just about spells and potions. It was about hope. It was about courage. It was about choosing love over hate, even when it was hard.
And that, I realized, was the greatest magic of all.