The First Spell
A young woman sits with a small, empty stew pot in her lap, brows furled in concentration as she clumsily butchers a language she doesn’t know, reads incorrectly, and is desperately trying to learn.
And suddenly. Just like that. It works.
Reflexively she gasps and starts pushing backwards, crawling awkwardly away from the pot as it bellows out an eldritch smoke in a formless, colorless void. Lazily, the smoke curls around itself, knowing the pleasure of existence for the first time. The woman’s back is to the wall and she gasps in fear, delight, surprise, wonder, a complex and overwhelming matrix of emotions. She tries to make herself small, she covers her mouth, she is shaking.
And suddenly, just like that, the smoke dissipates with a small, barely audible pitihpwa, a sound like popcorn popping.
And her world is different.
And witchcraft is no longer an abstract concept.
And she is one of the midnight folk now, with much to learn, much to gain, much to take, and much to give back.