Clarissa's Threat

And somewhere behind her, barely visible in the firelight, Clarissa smiled.

It was not a nice smile.

Then she spoke.

"Is that a challenge, you scrawny bitch?"

Clarissa's voice was clear. Loud. Every syllable landed like a stone dropped into still water. She did not shout. She did not need to.

Her eyes stayed locked on the old witch.

She took a step forward. Slow. Measured. Her boots crunched on the old leaves and broken stone.

Another step.

Her eyes began to change.

The blue-green faded. Replaced by something else—something glowing from deep behind her pupils. Red. Low at first, then brighter. Then blazing. The color of embers. The color of blood in moonlight.

Another step.

Her orange hair lifted from her shoulders.

Not by wind. Not by magic she was unknowingly casting. It rose on its own, strand by strand, as if the air around her had become charged—as if lightning was gathering in the space between her skin and the world.

"Want to find out," she said, her voice dropping lower, "why the High Priestess tolerates my behavior?"

She spread her fingers wide. Her hands were empty. She didn't need weapons.

"Want to know what I do in her name to rebels and agitators?"

Her eyes were fully red now. Burning. The firelight caught them and seemed to bow.

She took another step.

The bone-masked witch did not move. But her hand trembled. Just slightly.

The seconds watched. The crowd watched. The High Priestess watched—face unreadable, arms loose at her sides, making no move to stop what was unfolding.

Clarissa's lips parted.

Her teeth were white. Sharp.

"Well?"

Clarissa tilted her head. The red in her eyes flickered—not dimming, but intensifying, pulsing with something that looked almost like pleasure.

"Should I rip that bony mask off your face," she said softly, "and shove it right down the middle of your fat—"

"Enough."

The High Priestess's voice was not loud.

But it carried the weight of mountains.

The air in the clearing compressed. The fires bent sideways, then straightened. Every witch present felt it—a pressure behind the eyes, a tightening in the chest.

Clarissa stopped moving.

Her eyes were still red. Her hair still floated around her shoulders. But her body went still—not from fear, but from recognition. The Mother had spoken.

The bone-masked witch exhaled. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath.

The High Priestess turned her head slowly. Looked at the old witch. Then at Clarissa. Then back at the old witch.

"Step back," she said.

The bone-masked witch stepped back.

Clarissa's red eyes lingered on her for a moment longer. Then she blinked—once, twice—and the color faded. The blue-green returned. Her hair settled against her neck.

She did not smile.

She simply waited.

The High Priestess walked between them, her bare feet silent on the grass. She stopped exactly in the center, equidistant from both women.

"We are here to discuss the virus," she said. "Not our sister's choice of mask. Not another sister's choice of transportation." Her gaze swept the clearing. "Not the shortcomings of our leadership."

She paused.

"Those who wish to question my authority may do so. In private. At the appropriate time. With the appropriate respect."

Her eyes found the bone-masked witch.

"Not tonight. Not in front of the coven. Not while our enemies circle and our power drains."

The old witch grudgingly lowered her head. This time, her gaze dropped with it.

One of the High Priestess's seconds—the tall, gray-haired woman—stepped forward. Her voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

"Anyone who speaks of the Mother's weakness," the second said slowly, "should consider what happened to the last witch who raised her hand against this coven. Her bones are still in the bog. Her name is never spoken."

She scanned the crowd.

"The punishment for inciting rebellion has not changed. It will not change. Not because of a virus. Not because of silence. Not because of fear."