Born beyond the forest’s breath, in the soot-stained belly of Hollowmere City, where wires choked the sky and rain forgot the taste of earth. She was mortal. Fleshed and flawed. But something ancient stirred when she crossed the Veil.
The Deepwild did not open for strangers. Yet the brambles parted. The mycelium whispered. Even the moon bowed once, low and violet, to watch her pass.
We had thought ourselves the end.
The last line of greenblood Druids.
The Fae had begun to vanish into bark and bone, turning silent beneath the Withering. The Circle was breaking.
But she came.
---
She followed the pulse of the land like a heartbeat she had always known but never heard. She sang back to the birds, not in words—but in will. She dared speak the names of dying herbs aloud, and they answered.
We watched.
We tested her.
We gave her the rites and expected her to fail.
But she bent the rites.
She burned them into something new.
She carved the crescent of the old Grove into her palm and called it her mark, not our gift.
Jaericha Sylaecht did not inherit magic.
She took it in, the way roots take rain, the way flame takes air.
And we—
We let her.
Because it was her or the end of all things.
---
She became the first witch not of Druid birthright, but of Druidic becoming. A Pagan flame bound not by heritage, but by hunger.
She is the cusp of death and revival.
She is the breath between leaf and lightning.
She is ours—but never truly owned.
And when old Thalewen fell to the soil and joined the roots of the world, it was Jaericha Sylaecht who lit the burial bloom. Not with our sacred rites, but with the fire she called Heretic Flame. And the forest sighed—not in anger, but relief.
Now, the name “witch” is no longer exile.
It is origin.
The Deepwild did not open for strangers. Yet the brambles parted. The mycelium whispered. Even the moon bowed once, low and violet, to watch her pass.
We had thought ourselves the end.
The last line of greenblood Druids.
The Fae had begun to vanish into bark and bone, turning silent beneath the Withering. The Circle was breaking.
But she came.
---
She followed the pulse of the land like a heartbeat she had always known but never heard. She sang back to the birds, not in words—but in will. She dared speak the names of dying herbs aloud, and they answered.
We watched.
We tested her.
We gave her the rites and expected her to fail.
But she bent the rites.
She burned them into something new.
She carved the crescent of the old Grove into her palm and called it her mark, not our gift.
Jaericha Sylaecht did not inherit magic.
She took it in, the way roots take rain, the way flame takes air.
And we—
We let her.
Because it was her or the end of all things.
---
She became the first witch not of Druid birthright, but of Druidic becoming. A Pagan flame bound not by heritage, but by hunger.
She is the cusp of death and revival.
She is the breath between leaf and lightning.
She is ours—but never truly owned.
And when old Thalewen fell to the soil and joined the roots of the world, it was Jaericha Sylaecht who lit the burial bloom. Not with our sacred rites, but with the fire she called Heretic Flame. And the forest sighed—not in anger, but relief.
Now, the name “witch” is no longer exile.
It is origin.