All Chapters of Bewitched: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Once, she had been called a princess. The word had been spoken with formality, with a trace of duty in her father’s voice, but never with the warmth she had imagined belonged to it. The title had not been something she wore like a crown, but rather something placed upon her as one might set a veil over a face—there, visible, but not felt. She had told herself it was enough, that simply to be acknowledged as such was better than nothing. Now even that was gone. The word had slipped away the moment her father’s heart had stopped beating.She did not think of herself as cruel, but she could not deny the thought that had haunted her since: she had not wept for him. Not truly. She had sat in silence, listening to the mutter of voices in the corridors, the shuffling of servants, the hollow sound of footsteps moving through halls where silence had fallen like a heavy cloak. Yet no tears came. The grief she felt was not for his death, but for what it left her with. She hated herself for it, ha

The path that leads to the attic has always felt different from the path to my own chambers. Cleaner somehow, though no servant ever admits to dusting the stairwell, and brighter too, as if the windows here breathe in the air more freely than the rest of the castle. Perhaps it is only my mind that gives it such a quality, because I remember how often I fled here when Father occupied the library below. He could never abide the way I whispered or hummed lines aloud when a story carried me too far to keep still. I would forget myself, forget him, and he would frown in that grave, weary way of his. Here, however, no one complained. The attic was patient. The books and trunks never minded if my voice slipped into their silence.It was the same servant who carried away my family’s portrait after Father’s death who told me she had placed it up here, away from Tremaine’s watchful eye. I was grateful, though she never admitted whether she did it out of loyalty to me or only to the memory of the

The mornings never come gently to me anymore. I used to think the sun’s arrival should feel like a blessing—its warmth, its promise, the quiet reassurance that life continues even after a night of terrors. But in this house, dawn has become the herald of dread. Daybreak means demands, punishments, reminders of what I am not. And this particular morning carries with it a different kind of weight. Tonight, there will be a ball. Everyone knows it. I have known it since Tremaine first let slip the news, her lips tightening with the peculiar satisfaction she always wears when a plan is in motion. I have been restless ever since, not from excitement, but from the heavy premonition that nothing good can follow.I rise from bed reluctantly, eyes lingering on the small pile of books I left scattered across my table. They were treasures pulled from the dust-heavy attic, volumes I had lost myself in until sleep crept upon me without warning. I try to recall their contents now, but my mind draws a

The forest is darker than I imagined it could ever be. We step out of the meadow, the brittle stalks crunching under our boots, and at once the world narrows to black trunks and shifting shadows. Pines rise like pillars into the haze, their spires so tall they might spear the stars themselves. The sky above is no longer a comfort but a broken mosaic glimpsed through tangled crowns—stars pricking faintly through the lattice of branches, the moon spilling silver across leaves that seem to shiver with each gust of wind.We have been walking only a minute, perhaps less, though the silence makes it feel longer, stretched taut like a string about to snap. Flynn’s boots find the path as though he knows it by heart, and I follow, less certain. The trail is little more than a seam of trampled weeds and black earth twisting through the undergrowth. The air smells of rot and wet moss. Every brush of grass against my ankles, every snap of twig beneath my heel sounds louder than it ought to, like a

The fall feels endless until the ground meets us with a jolt. The shards of glass scatter around us, cascading like fractured stars, catching in my hair and scratching faint lines across my arms. For a moment I am still, stunned, listening to the clattering rain of broken glass striking stone, each sound sharp and ringing, like coins scattering across a marble floor. The air is colder here, wide and open, and above us the broken window gapes, framed by startled faces leaning forward to see what fools had leapt into danger. I do not look for long—fear tightens my chest at the thought of seeing the Prince’s figure outlined against the light, or worse, Lady Tremaine’s cold eyes seeking me in the crowd.My body trembles before I realize it, my hands pressed flat against the smooth stone to steady myself. The cuts sting, tiny burns on my skin, but it is not pain that unsettles me. It is the weight of eyes. I force myself upright, brushing shards from my skirts, and beside me Flynn lets out