She touched the mirror. “We remember,” she whispered.
“High Witch Blackwood,” the lead diplomat, a man named Graves, began. He attempted a smile. It failed. “We’ve come to negotiate terms for weather stabilization.” Dominant Witches
Seraphina glided to her throne—a throne carved from the petrified heart of a redwood she herself had raised from a seed a century ago. She sat, crossed one leg over the other, and let the silence expand until it hurt. She touched the mirror
She swept into the Grand Conclave, her velvet gown trailing like a pool of midnight. The delegation—three men in expensive, ill-fitting suits—stood huddled by the hearth, as if the fire’s warmth could protect them from her. She touched the mirror. “We remember