Hana

Hana’s POV

The car slips through the city, its windows so deeply tinted that the outside world melts into ribbons of gold and shadow. My own reflection hovers in the glass, ghostly and angular beneath the faint interior glow.

I almost don’t recognize her.

My grandmother’s chosen dress wraps me in silken blue, scattered with tiny stones that flash like trapped starlight each time the car jolts. Silver magic threads glint through my pinned-up braid. I could have stepped from one of her ancestral portraits: poised, unreachable, the flawless echo of her legacy.

Grandma sits beside me, regal as a queen. Her posture is carved from discipline. The faint scent of lavender and old parchment lingers around her, comforting and stifling in the same breath.

She hasn’t spoken since we left the palace. She doesn’t need to. Her silence is the calm before the storm, leaving you to wonder if thunder or fire will follow.

Tomorrow, she’ll announce me as her heir.

Tomorrow, the world will know the next High Witch.

The thought of tomorrow knots in my chest. That word has been both a balm and a threat all day. It means I can still breathe, but every hour tightens my nerves. I brace myself, gathering strength for the weight that’s coming.

Tonight, I’m just her companion. One of the faces at her side. I’ll stand behind her, smile, and nod when expected. I can handle that.

I glance down at my trembling hands and hide them in my lap before she notices.

The car eases to a halt. Through the window, the ballroom entrance shimmers with enchanted lanterns, silver-armored guards, and guests gliding from cars and carriages.

Grandma turns to me at last. Her pale eyes meet mine, cool and unreadable. “Head high, my little firefly. Those in power can smell fear.”

Her words strike like an order. I draw a trembling breath, lift my chin, and follow her into the waiting world.

The moment she emerges, the crowd reacts like a wave pulling toward the shore. Heads bow, whispers spread like wildfire. The High Witch has arrived.

Inside, the ballroom is a waking dream sculpted from light and music. Chandeliers drift overhead, shedding crystals that throb with magic. Golden runes spiral up marble columns, dancing to the orchestra’s rhythm. The air is thick with spiced wine, honeyed fruit, and the heady perfume of enchantment.

It is dazzling, beautiful, but almost unbearable.

Grandma glides forward, commanding the room with silent authority. I follow, heels tapping on marble, my chest constricting. Every step feels like walking on glass.

We reach the grand staircase that overlooks the entire hall. The announcer steps forward, his voice magically amplified, ringing clear across the crowd.

“Presenting the esteemed High Witch of the ShadowLands…”

The crowd bursts into applause, bows, and hushed greetings. My grandmother’s smile is the kind that could end wars or ignite them. I ready myself to retreat, to slip into the shadows where I feel safe.

But then—

“—and her heir, her granddaughter and apprentice, Lady Hana, the next High Witch.”

The words linger, suspended like a spell that has twisted out of control.

For a single heartbeat, the world freezes. Applause vanishes, swallowed by a silence so thick I can hear my pulse pounding.

Did he just say—?

I whip around to face her, eyes wide. She remains unmoved. Her grip on my hand grows firm and unbreakable, and in that instant, I understand. This was no accident. She orchestrated every moment.

A wicked, triumphant smile tugs at her lips as she flashes me a quick, conspiratorial wink.

Gotcha.

My stomach plunges and my heart hammers with sudden clarity. As she sweeps down the stairs, tugging me along, fear and resolve battle inside me. I follow, caught between dread and the fierce need to prove I belong.

Whispers ripple like waves through the hall:

“She has an heir?”

“Impossible. Her line ended centuries ago.”

“She looks terrified.”

Their voices swirl together, a heady blend of awe and suspicion. Magic vibrates in the air, so dense that I can almost taste it, sharp and electric.

Each step grows heavier, as if the floor itself pushes back. My palms slip against the silk of my gown. I force my chin up as she taught me, but every gaze presses down like a physical burden.

I steal a glance at my grandmother. She glides as if this is her natural element, serene, radiant, power radiating from her. This spectacle is not about me. It is about her legacy, her power, her unyielding control.

At the foot of the stairs, she lets go of my hand, crescent imprints from her nails left behind. She slips into the crowd, collecting bows and praise as if she had not just set off a political explosion in the heart of the room.

I stand frozen, trembling, and exposed. Now, hundreds of eyes pin me in place instead of her. Nerves crawl down my spine, embarrassment and fear wrestling for dominance.

They’re looking at me.

To the world, my grandmother’s bloodline ended long ago,  when her only daughter, my mother, left the ShadowLands for a man. She was disowned, powerless, stripped of her magic. Everyone believed the High Witch’s legacy would die with her.

Until now.

Now they know I exist.

I sense it, the instant realization sweeps through the crowd. Shock, curiosity, and fear spark in the air. Power shifts, subtle as a breeze before a storm.

Somewhere across the hall, a glass shatters. The orchestra stumbles, then quickly recovers, its music pretending nothing has changed.

But nothing is the same anymore.

My grandmother glances back at me once, her expression unreadable now, all traces of her earlier mischief gone. In its place is something cold, calculating.

She wanted the world to witness me unprepared. To test if I would shatter under the weight.

And gods help me....

I just might.