Witchcraft Sigils Novels & Stories

She smiled, “That would be great.” We walked to the kitchen, so that I could finish supper, when I saw another group of dark warlocks outside, trying to see in. I launched daggers at them and they all dropped. Lori asked, “How do you do that?” I laughed, “I have a bunch of daggers and spears premade so that I can do that. I tell the weapons where to stab them, and they do it.” She smiled, “That is such an amazing ability. I bet it has come in handy. I smiled, “It has. They are made of ice, but they don’t melt until I use them. Then they melt immediately. They are invisible to the enemy, but I have a spell on them that will make them melt immediately if anyone but me touches them or hands the

Gritting my molars, I stated firmly that the money was no issue, but the safety of my family was catching a raised brow from Cedric. “I mean Eva's safety,” I quickly reiterated, causing Gideon and Jace to cover their faces at my gaffe. “Jaxon Wellspring is probably the culprit. He's a rogue hunter from the Crescent Moon pack and is a hybrid warlock and wolf,” Gideon Landers asserted while rubbing his chin. “Can you transport us to him?” I asked. Shaking his head, he explained that he could only teleport to individuals whom he had met in person. “I have only heard about him; however, I can take us to the pine forest you mentioned, and we can search for his forest home,” Gideon offered.

Daisy hurriedly explained. "You're wasting my time. I think I have to do this." He said and I turned to face him 'cause I didn't understand what he wanted to do. Turning back to look at him, I inhaled some sort of powder and my thinking changed. "Will you follow me now?" Sage asked with a smile. "Yeah, sure." I answered and gasps filled the air. "Sage" Morgan roared. "You know black magic is forbidden in this kingdom. How dare you use it?"

It was a low, inner rot, an infection of some sorts—someone was teaching the rogues obedience through magic, old forbidden magic. We moved on, quieter. The world narrowed to breath, footfall, twig, scent. A splatter of ash on a stone led to a den; not a cave for rogues but an altar, blackened sticks were arranged in a circle. At its center something lay there : a small bundle wrapped in hide, and beneath the hide, a token stamped with a sigil I recognized from an old book-grimoire of mine: a twisted crescent I had seen in the book.

She passed on information without speaking. All that had been playing on was engulfed by a harmonic play which severed the purpose of rising tension. Valac once again was seen in a larger underground location with more witches. All he said was ; "Mark upon the properties of men, this sigil of mine." And suddenly, on the left side of the wall of the underground basement, the sigil of the pentacle with a moon going through the triangle was drawn.

"I do not seek revenge. I only seek restoration." "What is that supposed to mean?" The witch's eyebrow shot up. It was as if my reply surprised her. She paused for a moment and continued drawing her sigils. As I stared on, I noticed in the middle where I sat, was a sigil that looked more like a butterfly of some sort. What the hell was this woman doing, I wondered. I looked across the room to where Satake was tied up, a similar sigil was below him connected by a series of interlocking circles and one straight line that connected to my side.

It collapsed at my feet, its growl fading into silence. “Clear,” Mike said, his voice cutting through the aftermath. As we regrouped, one of the scouts knelt beside the fallen rogues, examining their tattered clothing. “They’re wearing sigils,” he said, holding up a torn piece of fabric. I stepped closer, my brow furrowing as I studied the symbol. It was unfamiliar, a jagged spiral etched in black. “Witchcraft,” Mike said grimly. “Elara’s marking them as her own.”

“Break the vow, and the Spiral won’t die it will scatter. It will find others. Without the Hollow to contain it, it will spread.” John rose beside her, still weak, voice hoarse. “Let it try. We’re done building prisons for monsters.” The Clint-shadow snarled, then splintered into dust, its final scream buried beneath the roar of the shifting forest. Sarah turned to the altar. The spiral markings had begun to burn away, replaced by something older wolf sigils, lunar symbols, names she didn’t recognize. Then, the moon cracked wide open. Not shattered opened, like an eye awakening.

It was when we reached the third chapter of Rowena’s book that Cordelia’s knowledge came into play. The chapter on sigils and their unique brand of magic was one of the longest in the book. “Sigil’s tie into the other forms of magic since there’s a symbol for just about everything. There are ones to scare off enemies, capture memories and fool the human eye. There are a few witches, who after decades of practice, manage to create their own but it’s dangerous and tricky work.” Cordelia said as she entered the room, a small and unassuming book in her hand.

As the blood darkened the steel, she felt the runes across the Hellebore wake faintly, as if answering a call they had been waiting for. She began to set sigils into the ground around a small circle. Each mark she drew was precise: hemal lines that would hold a rift stable long enough for transit, anchor points keyed to her priestess names and the Hellebore’s metallic language. The wounds sealed as she worked; the blade in her hand cooled to a steady hum beneath the skin. Pain and power braided together, sharp and practical. She did not flinch.