The High Priestess speech. Milk that binds.

The High Priestess let the silence stretch. Then she spoke again, her voice calm and absolute.

"Sisters. Listen to me now, and listen well. You have all felt the change in your bodies. You have watched your breasts swell—fuller, heavier, more beautiful than they ever were before. Yes, I see you. I see the way you look at yourselves. I see the way your robes fit differently. This is not your imagination. The virus has reshaped us. We are larger. We are softer. We produce milk now, constantly, whether we wish it or not."

She paused, letting her gaze sweep across the crowd.

"But listen to me carefully. This milk—our milk—has no special power. None. It is ordinary. It is nutritious, yes. It can feed a child or a man. But it will not heal a wound faster than any other milk. It will not poison an enemy. It will not open a door between worlds. It will not fuel a spell. It is simply... milk. Nothing more."

A murmur rippled through the gathering. Some witches shifted uncomfortably.

"The old ways do not work on it," the High Priestess continued. "Every charm you have tried—every incantation, every potion, every herb you have burned or brewed—has failed. I know. I have tried them all. The other covens have tried. The sisters across the eastern sea have tried. The virus obeys its own rules, not ours. And one of those rules is this: you cannot draw the milk out by your own hand. You cannot pump it. You cannot squeeze it. You cannot siphon it with magic. No spell will make it flow. No device will extract it. The only way it leaves your body is through the mouth of a man."

The silence that followed was different. Heavier. Some of the witches looked at each other. Others stared at the ground.

"That is the truth," the High Priestess said. "And that is the source of our weakness. Because the milk builds up inside us. It accumulates. Hour by hour, day by day. And the more it collects, the more our power fades. Not quickly. Not all at once. But steadily. Relentlessly. Like a wave slowly washing away the land beneath the cliff."

She stepped closer to the edge of the inner circle.

"You have felt it. The sluggishness when you try to summon fire. The effort it takes to lift a whisper across the clearing. The way your scrying eyes grow dim after only a few hours without relief. This is not age. This is not doubt. This is the milk pressing against your power, drowning it from within. The only cure—the only relief—is to have a man at your breast. A man who will suckle you. A man who will drain what your body cannot release on its own."

Her voice hardened.

"Not a woman. Not a child. Not your own fingers or a glass bottle. A man. His mouth. His tongue. His need. That is the key the virus has given him. That is the leash it has placed around our throats."

She let the words settle. The fires crackled. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl called out.

"We are investigating this," the High Priestess said, her tone shifting to something more practical. "We will find answers. We will find a way to break this hold. And when we do, every sister here will be the first to know. That I promise you."

She raised her chin.

"But until then, you must do what I have commanded. Find a man. Bind him to you. Feed him your milk. Keep your strength from failing. Do not let the weakness take root."

A witch near the front spoke up, her voice trembling. "And the Horned Lord, Mother? Why has he not spoken? Why does he not help us?"

The High Priestess smiled.

It was not a kind smile.

"The Horned Lord," she said slowly, "is ancient. He is patient. He does not answer to our clocks or our calendars. He speaks when he wishes, and he is silent when he wishes. That is his right. That is his nature."

She let the smile linger.

"But if any of you feel that his silence is a betrayal—if any of you believe that you deserve an answer, and that you are brave enough to demand one—then by all means, request an audience with him."

Her eyes glittered in the firelight.

"You may do so freely. Any of you. At any time. And he will come. Or he will send something in his place. Or perhaps... he will simply note your name and do nothing at all. The Horned Lord is not easily moved. He is not easily pleased. And he has a long memory for those who question him without sufficient cause."

Her smile widened, just slightly.

"He does so love to teach lessons. And his lessons... are not always gentle."

The silence that followed was absolute. No one moved. No one breathed.

Then, after a long moment, the High Priestess let her expression soften. The menace drained from her face, replaced by something calmer. More measured.

"But that is a matter for another night," she said. "Tonight, let us speak of what is real. The Church is not at our gates. The hounds are not sniffing at our skirts. Yes, they watch us. Yes, they whisper. Yes, they would burn us if they could. But they are not here. Not yet. The threat exists, but it is not as close as some among you have suggested."

She glanced toward the bone-masked witch, who lowered her head.

"We have time. Not endless time. But time. Enough to find our footing. Enough to restore our strength. Enough to prepare."

She opened her arms, her bare chest rising in the firelight.

"So do not let fear rule you. Do not let suspicion divide you. We are sisters. We are a coven. And we will endure—not because the Horned Lord will save us, and not because the Church will spare us, but because we will save ourselves. Together."

She lowered her arms.

"Now. Go. Find your men. Preserve your power. And await word from the coven. When we know more, you will know more. That is my promise. That is my command."

She turned her back to the crowd, facing the inner circle once more.

The silence spell returned. The gathering was dismissed.

The witches absorbed this. Some nodded. Others shifted uncomfortably. The command was practical, but it was also a confession: the High Priestess did not have a magical solution. The virus was beyond their spells.