1759 – Edinburgh, Scotland
It was a cold morning. The winds of winter blew across the castle grounds. The sun had gone into hiding, as all beautiful things should in these dire times. Yet, the city's occupants lived as they normally would, moving back and forth, like little mice. They went on with their businesses and their lives, as usual, trying to earn a living one day at the time. She could see them, some of them at least.
The women stared, and she stared. Her hands touched the stone, a biting cold that made this moment real. They were so close to peace at last. This silent war has been fought for centuries, and it had cost too much. It had to come to an end. She would make it work. She had lost too much already.
"Supreme, we are ready for 'ye," a quiet voice called above the wind. The soft Scottish accent had a strange effect on the young lady's voice. The woman did not turn around. They are so close to ending this.
"Is everyone here?"
"Most of 'em. I am 'fraid tis' the best we will be able to do. For now."
The Supreme turned around. Her blue eyes were serene but decisive. Her face was pale and tired, lined with features too old for her young age. She had a small curve-like scar that ran through her left eyebrow. It was an old wound from a failed assassination. It was an important memory, to never forget what was at stake.
Elizabeth James made a quick motion with her hand, and the young Scottish girl led the way, to the Great Hall of the castle. This was perhaps one of the few neutral territories the witches and warlocks decided to meet.
The room was quiet, and most importantly, it was warm. A long wooden table stretched across the room, surrounded by equally wooden chairs. A fire ravaged in the pit, offering light and comfort to the place. Scattered across were cloaked figures, some on their own, some gathered in groups. A constant mumbling floated in the air, a mumbling that almost masked the tension that lay beneath all of it.
A wrong word, a wrong movement, one sideways look, and this would all crumble to dust. It took years to make enough amends, to get almost everyone in this room.
Elizabeth looked over them all. Children, the lot of them, with too much power on their hands.
"Everyone. Please gather around. We have much to discuss."
"This better be worth my time Elizabeth," one of the insufferable, pompous, pricks replied. A sneer seeming to be always stuck on his face.
"This is in everyone's best interest. We have fought too long over nothing. Our disagreements have had horrible consequences, and it needs to stop."
"An Englishwoman telling us what to do. How typical."
The venom-laced voice came from an old acquaintance of Elizabeth. A powerful French witch, a leader among her kind, a Supreme. Long curly blonde hair that framed a slender pale face, with vicious blue eyes that have ensnared a king or two.
They had never seen eye-to-eye. But then again, no English would ever see eye-to-eye with a French. Some things do not change, magic or not. Moreover, the war that has been raging in the colonies for the past three years, have made discussion nearly impossible.
Nearly.
"Brigitte, how glad I am that you have decided to grace us with your presence."
"I am representing the French witches of the world."
"Of course, how's Québec?"
A few snickers were heard around the room.
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The Witching Hours
अलौकिक❝THE NIGHT BELONGS TO THE THE MAD, THE FORGOTTEN, AND THE DEAD.❞ Kora James is a witch and a bartender. Not necessarily in that order. With her skilled hands, she delivers liquid ecstasy to her customers. Her duties as a magical being and a me...
