“This could mean trouble….” Anne mutters as her breath rolls out over the two ice pools before her. The seer’s vision of a set of girls blurs briefly. Then, quickly, the woman reached out to wipe the ice, making it shine again. The unfolding events were too important to miss, and the moon’s descent had begun. She couldn’t waste a single second. 

​

“Pogma.” Anne curses, angry about the need for the moon in a desolate place. The lower the moon was setting, the harder it was to see the reflection of the other worlds. Her gift would slip away once more. Curiously, she bends down, tilting the bowls to catch the light at the right angle. In the wilds of cold there, she stands up, bracing herself as she channels what little magic she has left. Her two decedents show up once more. 

​

Dark eyes glisten in with an intense gaze as they dart from one girl to the other. She considers them with bated breath. Was this the magic she had been searching for? Such contradicting gifts, yet the two were most certainly of the same clan. Both have the same pale skin and green eyes; their sisterhood is undeniable.

​

Anne chuckles wryly. One of the girls is being transported to a human school, of all places. This was dear Hypatia, whose magic was blooming more daily—though she had little control over the misunderstood ability. The council was setting everything up to be a disaster - if only they knew what the girl was capable of. Of course, the queen considered, if her damned mother was any type of teacher, the child would be leagues ahead of any other witch her age.  

​

“Humans educating one of my clan, how ridiculous.” Anne croaks, looking at the other child – Vivian.

The young seer walked home from that same damnable place. At least the school would allow the two to finally meet. But first, the queen would need to introduce herself to Vivian. A witch of her gift, having no influence from the magical realm thus far? Of course, Queen Anne would send her faithful servant, Scrimmil to facilitate such a meeting.

​

Anne smiles at her darling, the last remaining loyalist. This Witch had been used by the Council’s Academy to scare younger, less experienced magi out of studying that particular brand of shapeshifting magic. The poor thing had been tortured before they attempted to kill her.

​

​As far as the Council knew, they had succeeded in killing Scrimmil, the last of their kind. Anne smiled, finding solace that her family’s Etherion had been keen enough to keep that secret from the damned Council. It's a rare thing for a truth-sayer. And, it seemed, with the reveal of a second Moonshade Heir, Jerold had been able to save another secret.

​

With a sigh, the last of the moon rays disappear and melt into the liquid gold of the morning light. The old Queen sits back. Nothing could be done now, except wait for the next night. Her escape would come soon enough now. And with that, she smiled, the grin spreading ear to ear, sharpened teeth gleaming in the sunlight.