Snow blanketed the cobbled streets of Paris, the sky a leaden sheet that threatened more. In the alleyways, whispers carried like fog, clinging to the shadows.
Mireille clutched an ancient tome to her chest as she navigated through the labyrinth of the market square. Her eyes darted between the faces in the crowd, searching for any sign of friend or foe. At her side, an older man, Mathis, moved with purpose, his fingers hidden within the folds of his cloak where he kept a small collection of protective amulets.
“The comet,” Mathis breathed, barely audible over the din of bartering voices and clinking coins. “It’s our sign.”
Mireille nodded. “The forests of Bohemia will whisper with our gathering.”
In Rome, under the cover of dusk, Giancarlo hurried through narrow streets towards an inconspicuous house that had a lovely rose garden out the front. He knocked thrice, paused, then twice more—a silent code among those who studied the stars and dared delve into ancient texts.
The door creaked open and a pair of intelligent eyes peered out from behind it. “Giancarlo,” acknowledged the man inside, ushering him into a room heavy with books and parchment.
“The Great Comet,” Giancarlo said without preamble. “It’s time.”
In London, amid raucous taverns and fog-shrouded docks, Joseph met with a circle of cloaked figures in an abandoned warehouse. Their breaths hung in the air like smoke as they circled a pentagram etched into the floorboards.
“We must be swift,” Joseph urged. “The comet won’t wait for us.”
From Madrid to Copenhagen, from Amsterdam to Vienna, whispers turned into plans. Clandestine messages were sent on hidden slips of paper tucked into innocent-looking packages; codes embedded in letters spoke of a gathering that would unite them all.
As December’s chill tightened its grip on Europe, Mireille and Mathis journeyed through France’s frosty countryside, while Giancarlo took secret roads out of Italy. Joseph sailed across rough seas from England, and many others traveled by foot or horseback through harsh winter landscapes.
Their collective destination was an ancient forest deep within Bohemia’s heartland.
Mireille and Mathis, the chosen delegates of the Grand Covens Of France, arrived first at Sudičin Polan, the ancient witches meeting place. As twilight descended upon them, Mireille gazed up at the comet and whispered a prayer to deities mostly long forgotten. Mathis, joined her side shortly after, his face weary but his eyes alight with fervor. They watched in silence as one by one, figures emerged from the woods’ shadows—men and women whose very presence spoke volumes of their hidden lives dedicated to preserving knowledge deemed forbidden.
A bonfire crackled to life at the forest clearing’s center as Joseph, Leader of The English Covens, arrived with several others leaders from across the channel. Giancarlo, the Italian representee, approached with a contingent of Italians; More and more representives of the European covens emerged from the darkness, to circle around the fire.
At the head of the assembly stood an imposing couple, cloaked in robes that shimmered with a twilight hue. The King and Queen of the witches—Naturally selected at the moment of their birth, as the final king or queen passes away. They presided over the gathering with an air of solemnity that befit their clandestine coronation.
The Queen’s voice rose above the assembly, clear and commanding. “Gather, my children of shadowed paths, let us begin.”
The King and Queen, their faces obscured by the shadows cast by their hoods, stood before the assembly. The Queen raised her hand, and silence fell over the gathering. Her voice, rich and resonant, carried across the clearing.
“We gather here under the watchful eye of a Great Comet, a celestial sign of change.” She paused, allowing her words to sink in before continuing. “It is time for us to unite, to cast off our shackles and reclaim our birthright.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. Mireille shifted uneasily, her eyes darting between the faces of her fellow coven members. Mathis, standing beside her, remained stoic, his gaze fixed on the King and Queen.
“We have been scattered, our numbers dwindling as we were hunted down like animals. But no more!” The King’s voice boomed out, echoing off the trees. “Together, we can rebuild what was lost. Together, we can reclaim our heritage.”
The Queen then took over from her husband with a smile, “But first, let us celebrate our unity with a feast!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “And let us toast to a brighter future for all witches!”
As if on cue, servants emerged from the forest’s depths carrying trays laden with food and drink. The feast was laid out around the bonfire while musicians struck up a lively tune on fiddles and drums. Soon, laughter and chatter filled the air as the witches indulged in their first communal meal in what seemed to be an age.
Mireille found herself seated next to Giancarlo at one of the tables. They shared a platter of roasted game and vegetables, their conversation ranging from mundane details about their journey to more serious topics about their and their covens plans for the future.
Mathis sat across from them, his expression unreadable as he listened intently to their discussion. Joseph joined them later, his arrival causing a stir among those nearby who recognized him as one of the most influential figures in the European covens.
As the evening wore on, the mood shifted from jubilant celebration to somber reflection. In the midst of this, the Queen’s voice rose like a clarion call above the din, commanding attention. “Tonight is not just a celebration of our union but a step towards our collective futures.” Her gaze swept over the assembly before settling on Mireille. “Mireille of France has dedicated her life to unlocking the Velamen Umbrarum’s secrets, and tonight she shares her revelations with us.”
Mireille stood, her heart hammering against her ribs as all eyes turned to her. She stepped forward, clutching the leather-bound tome to her chest—a relic whispered about in hushed tones and sought after by many who dared walk the hidden paths.
She placed the Velamen Umbrarum on a pedestal that stood before the bonfire, its pages illuminated by flickering flames. The tome seemed to absorb the light, its ancient script glowing with an otherworldly energy.
“For years,” Mireille began, her voice steady despite the weight of countless gazes upon her, “this book has been our enigma and our hope.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd as she turned a page, revealing a detailed illustration of a comet much like the one that graced their skies that very night.
“The Velamen Umbrarum speaks of a time when the heavens themselves will signal our resurgence as masters of this world,” Mireille continued. “A time when those who wield magic can step forth from the shadows without fear.”
Mathis watched her with pride evident in his eyes. He knew better than most how tirelessly Mireille had worked to decipher the text’s cryptic language—a script that twisted and turned upon itself like roots beneath ancient soil.
As Mireille spoke, she revealed more illustrations: depictions of covens united under a single banner, scenes of magic wielded openly without fear of persecution or death. She spoke of signs and symbols hidden within everyday life that would guide them towards their destiny.
“The Velamen Umbrarum is not just a record of what may come,” she explained, “but a guide for how we may bring it about. It speaks of unity—of setting aside old grievances for a greater purpose.”
She paused then, allowing her words to sink into their hearts. The witches gathered around felt a stir within them—an awakening to possibilities long since buried beneath doubt and caution.
“The comet is merely the beginning,” Mireille resumed after a moment’s silence. “We must ready ourselves for what comes next—a journey to a new land.”
Questions bubbled up from those assembled; some voices tinged with skepticism, others with fervent hope.
Mireille took a deep breath. She knew that translating the Velamen Umbrarum was one thing; guiding an entire collective towards an uncertain future was another entirely.
“Maybe it’s time we listen to this prophecy,” suggested Giancarlo from among the throng.
Mireille nodded, her voice threading through the crackle of the fire, she opened the tome and read aloud, her French accent coloring each syllable.
“In the age when the sea binds lands afar,
‘Neath a comet’s tail, as celestial lore implores,
To the west shall the night’s children wander.
In the New World’s embrace, ‘neath the evening star,
Their arcane might grows, as fates ponder.
With whispers of old, and shadows in tow,
The sojourn, in secrecy’s guise.
A power unseen, like an undercurrent’s flow,
In the land of the free, their destiny lies.”
Mireille continued, “We think it speaks of a new land where our kind can thrive away from persecution and create a new utopia.”
Mathis followed, his eyes alight with possibility. “Many of us believe this new land to be America,” he added. “A place vast and wild, where old ways might flourish anew.”
Giancarlo raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “To cross an ocean on mere belief?” he challenged. “Our lives here are rooted in knowledge and evidence, not flights of fancy.”
Kadir, representive of the covens from the Ottoman Empire, listened intently, his expression unreadable as he pondered their words. “Perhaps,” he suggested smoothly, “this prophecy speaks not of geography but of a state of being—a new era for our kind.”
From the shadows stepped Isabela, the delegate of Spain, she could wait to speak no longer. “America is but a dream for some,” she countered. “For others, it is an escape from a noose that tightens daily.”
Isabela’s gaze swept over the gathering, and in her eyes, the firelight danced with reflections of memories far darker than the shadows that surrounded them. She stepped closer to the blaze, the flickering flames casting a glow on her determined face.
“The Spanish Inquisition,” she began, her voice a mix of iron and sorrow, “has been our relentless scourge. Its claws reach deep into our flesh, into our souls, leaving scars that may never heal. They hunt us under the guise of purity—of cleansing our lands from heresy and witchcraft. But what they truly seek is to snuff out knowledge and to remove us from power.”
Isabela recounted tales of friends and kin dragged from their homes in the dead of night, their pleas for mercy echoing off stone walls that showed none. She told of torture devices—racks that stretched limbs until they tore from sockets, iron chairs with spikes that punctured skin and muscle while the victim remained conscious throughout their agony.
She described how public executions became spectacles—human flesh burning at stakes as crowds cheered, convinced they were witnessing the eradication of evil from their midst. The stench of charred bodies hung heavy in the air while children played nearby, oblivious to the grotesque nature of such ‘entertainment.’
“A young herbalist,” Isabela’s voice broke slightly but carried on, “barely more than a girl was branded a witch for her knowledge of plants and roots.” She paused, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. “I watched from afar as they tied her to a stake in Plaza Mayor. I heard her cries as flames consumed her.”
Her eyes met those around her, each reflecting back their own horrors witnessed or endured.
“My own brother,” she confessed, a tremor running through her words now, “they broke him on the wheel before burning his body. I could do nothing but hide and weep.”
Murmurs rippled through the gathering—shared pain and anger knitting them tighter together.
Isabela drew a deep breath before she concluded. “The Inquisition’s shadow stretches far beyond Spain’s borders—it is a darkness that could engulf us all if we let it. The prophecy speaks truth! We must leave for new lands, it is our only option”
A somber mood settled over the clearing as each member pondered Isabela’s words. Their own encounters with persecution bound them together—a tapestry woven from threads of suffering and resilience.
Mireille nodded in agreement. “The comet is not just a sign but a beacon—a call to find refuge where we may practice our ways without fear.”
Kadir interjected thoughtfully. “And yet we must ask ourselves—is it not also our duty to stand against such tyranny? To be the light in an age overwhelmed by darkness?”
Pieter, leader of the Dutch Covens, nodded, his Dutch pragmatism surfacing. “A New World could offer us sanctuary,” he offered thoughtfully. “But we must weigh this against the dangers of such a journey.”
Astrid’s, the female leader of the Swedish covens, voice cut through the discussion like ice shattering on a frozen lake. “To leave for America is to admit defeat,” she declared coolly. “Our power lies in our history and our connection to these ancient lands.”
Joseph stepped into the circle’s heart, his English resolve unwavering as he faced his peers. “I agree with Astrid, Fleeing to America is folly,” he stated firmly. “England’s might is unassailable—our strength lies in unity and perseverance on familiar ground.”
Bran the Welsh leader, leaned on his staff, his accent adding melody to his words. “A new land offers no guarantee of safety,” he mused aloud. “Persecution could follow us across seas as easily as it can ride upon the wind and a new land is no guarantee of prosperity and Utopia!”
Grigor, a master of Necromancy known all through Bulgaria, stroked his beard thoughtfully before speaking up. “We must consider all options,” he advised cautiously.
Isabela interjected, “This might be easy for you, who don’t live every day with the church’s threat of death looming over you!”
Nora, only a representive for a couple of moon phases now, chimed in from Scotland’s perspective, her voice laced with practicality despite its gentle lilt. “Establishing a colony requires more than hope, Isabela—it demands resources and planning beyond what we may possess.”
Ciaran from Portugal nodded solemnly in agreement. His nation knew well the perils of sea voyages to unknown shores.
Dragana, leader of The Balkan witches, stepped forward, her gaze sweeping across her fellow occultists with an intensity that matched her earlier passion. “To do nothing would be just as perilous, who are you not to follow a prophecy such as this!” she cautioned.
Branko, Draganas male counterpart, crossed his arms over his chest, his face etched with lines like those carved by glaciers across his homeland’s peaks. “We must be cautious,” he rumbled deeply.
The debate swirled like leaves caught in an autumn gale—some occultists argued fervently for departure to America while others staunchly defended their European heritage and their ability to remain concealed within it. The comet blazed indifferent to their quandary—a celestial traveler whose journey would continue long after theirs had reached its end.
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