The Coven

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The moon hung full and white over the forest, turning the treetops silver. Below it lay an ancient clearing—older than the trees that surrounded it, older than the paths that led to it.

Stone circles spread outward from the center. Some stones still stood two or three meters high, their surfaces scarred by weather and lichen. Others had fallen long ago and now sat half-sunk into the earth. Between them, you could walk freely. The circles were broken, interrupted, easy to pass through.

Then the women began to arrive.

Most came on foot. They emerged from between the trees in small, silent groups or alone. They walked barefoot over moss and rotting leaves, coming from every direction. The soft rustle of fabrics—wool, silk, linen—and the sound of steady breathing filled the air. Masks hid their faces: masks of leather, bone, cloth, and shadow. Beneath loose robes and wrapped fabrics, their bodies were shapely and strong.

None of them entered the innermost ring. Instead, they circled around it, forming small groups that kept changing and reforming. At the edges of the clearing, fires sparked to life on their own.

Then the broomsticks arrived.

At first there was only one—a dark streak against the moon. Then two. Three. Six. They landed silently, though the air around them trembled slightly. Their owners dismounted with practiced ease, adjusting their dresses or robes. The brooms lay down quietly at their feet, some still warm from the flight.

Then the portals opened.

Portals were rare at such gatherings. They meant that some witches had traveled from very far away—or were in a great hurry. The first one tore open just beyond the stone circle: a thin, vertical line of light that flashed white, then widened like an eye. Two more portals appeared nearby, at the northern edge of the clearing. Women stepped out of them, solemn and focused, whispering spells that sealed the pathways behind them. The light of the portals dimmed and disappeared.

A bestiary came with them.

First came the familiars—tiny, glowing creatures that brushed against their mistresses' ankles. Cats of all colors—black, ginger, piebald—stretched near the stones, vanishing into the crowd and reappearing elsewhere. Crows and ravens settled heavily on the branches, watching with yellow eyes. An owl flew silently, low over the women's heads. A fox, red as fire, paused between two standing stones, sniffed the ground, and then disappeared into the darkness.

More animals appeared. A weasel, then another. A snow-white rat sat on the shoulder of one of the witches. Somewhere in the thicket, a wild boar grunted—it did not enter the clearing, but everyone could hear that it was waiting. An adder with scales that gleamed like wet coal wrapped itself around the wrist of a grey-haired witch and did not move.

And finally, the gargoyles arrived.

Three of them appeared. No one saw where they had come from. They were simply there, suddenly, standing between the ancient stone blocks. The first was short and stocky, with massive shoulders and a face like melted wax. It crouched on a fallen monolith and froze completely still. The second was slimmer, like a statue carved by a dark dream. It spread its arms like wings, but the air beneath them did not move. The third was the smallest, shaped like a misshapen dog. It sat at its mistress's feet and never took its eyes off her hands.

None of them made a sound. Gargoyles rarely speak. But their presence meant one thing: the clearing was guarded.

The clearing continued to fill.

Robes fell to the ground. Bodies glowed golden in the firelight.

The women danced. They sang—low chants in a language older than the stones. Some whispered to one another. Others stood alone, watching the moon. The scene was beautiful and chaotic, a living thing with no single will.

But something was wrong.

You could feel it in the way the women glanced toward the trees and then quickly looked away. In the way the songs kept faltering, restarting, and faltering again. In the way some of them held their own breasts—not in celebration, but in something closer to anxiety.

The gathering was nervous.

The firelight caught bare skin, sweat, and the faint shine of milk that had leaked despite their efforts to contain it. Every woman here had experienced the same thing. Every woman here had woken up one morning to find her body doing something new. Something unstoppable.

Some kind of plague had struck them.