The clearing was ancient, sacred, and alive. Moonlight poured down through the thick canopy, casting silver webs on the forest floor. The air was crisp, cold in the way only nights after a heavy rain can be — as if the earth itself was holding its breath, waiting for a verdict older than time.
At the center of this clearing sat the Moonstone. Smooth and pale, it rested atop a stone pedestal carved with runes older than the oldest witch in our coven. The stone pulsed faintly, as if breathing — glowing softly in response to the ritual about to unfold. This was no ordinary trial. This was divine judgment.
Around the Moonstone, the council of witches had gathered in a tight circle. Their hands were linked, fingers entwined with a steady purpose born from centuries of tradition. Their voices rose in a low, hypnotic chant, weaving a tapestry of power and
