Prologue: Something wicked this way comes

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. A ‘harrowing phenomenon’ was the general opinion whispered with bated breath around town. But this event was no ‘phenomenon’, not in the slightest. The dragon’s migration toward the southern town was a consequence from the mother. A consequence so jarring, so harrowing that most humans now carried all means of eclectic herbs, spices and salts to keep them safe. Which Lyra found bemusing. The folk had hated magic practise yet now they were relying on a semblance of such for their protection.

The humans did this to themselves. Now they would suffer and reap the consequences of their actions. Some would die, others wouldn’t. And Lyra was certain that the tales of the dragons entering the Valley would be sustained for quite some time in scriptures and folktales.

That was if those who were literate were spared.    

Death and uncertainty were the prices that the humans now unknowingly had to pay. Consequences that were born out of their foolish attitudes and practises. The migration was caused by the mother, a retaliation in response to the humans destroying her balance.

Magic was governed in Sahitala by Wicca, magic that sought to not create nor destroy. Wiccan power was balanced on a finite spectrum. Like an ever-poised pendulum that swung back and forth. A sacrifice to Wicca in exchange for power followed the magic’s natural law. It allowed for the pendulum to oscillate in perfect regularity of give and take, give and then take. To the benefit of every Wicca practitioner.

But Wicca law was a way of nature, all nature. Even those not blessed with the magic affected the balance.  Those being humans. This led to unknown disruption, these were often slight and typically rectified by coven leaders and elders. But at times, that wasn’t always possible. And when such imbalance could not be righted a mother born consequence would materialise. Unpredictable in cruelty and fervour.  

The dragons entering the Valley was the latest consequence, and far from a mere ‘phenomenon’.

It was rare for human hands to disrupt the natural balance so severely. Rare, but not impossible. The humans remained unaware that the dragon’s arrival was their own doing. That murdering women by the dozen would procure such unfavourable outcomes.

Fear was now constant, a putrid stench that Lyra could smell lingering in the trembling bodies and erratic movements of the folk. It lurked like an untameable beast in every high eve and the soft glow of every oil lamp. Watching and feasting on the never-ending sights and sounds.

So all-consuming was the fear that it threatened to decimate the folk’s belief systems. It was evident in every corner of town. Even religious affiliations were balanced on a knifes edge. As Lyra passed the small decrepit chapel the irony of pink salt forming a barrier along the rotting front porch was not lost on her.

The Wiccan balance was governed in part by the witches of Sahitala. The practices of her coven were the reason why the beasts hadn’t ventured into the south and had kept to the northern rift for a millennium. Her magic and that of her peers had abated the mother’s wrath for centuries. Maintaining the fragile balance was both a gift and a wretched curse. Keeping the balance had been easy at first, a simple counter jinx or spell in the first moonlight used to be enough to restore the pendulum to a regular rhythm. But the humans had become smarter and had started to suspect that wicked folk existed within their precious society. And in turn, had decided to try their hand at warding prayer and eclectic incantations to keep the wicked folk away. Whilst they had been correct, wicked folk did exist, their charms they believed to protect and save had set the pendulum array and done the exact opposite. It had taken less than a century for charms and prayers to dissolve into witch hunts that steadily morphed into violence.  

They targeted women first. That prejudice had been born from scriptures that claimed women became unclean and susceptible to holy misfortune upon their first bleed. But that rule, written by some man Lyra presumed, was applied with disgusting inconsistency. The sheer vagueness of the decree granted permission for men to deem women wicked as they wished and for the most simple-minded reasons. Once Lyra had heard of a woman being branded a witch for simply nursing her child back to health when the Doctor, a man, had deemed it impossible. It was archaic, Lyra had seen it happen countless times now in her three and twenty years. Only last week she had been in the market looking for some flour when she watched the king’s guard force a woman down onto her back. The three men had pressed her kicking and screaming at the top of her lungs into the filthy cobblestones. They had held her down by boots pressed with the royal insignia as they branded a W with a scalding hot brand onto her forehead. The screaming had intensified to distressed wails as the woman was dragged by her long dark hair through the streets. Lyra hadn’t recognised the female or scented any Wiccan power in her blood.

That female was human.

She had burned on a stake the following day in the centre of town for all to see. And her corpse had hung above the town as a reminder for several days. The message from the king remained clear; be compliant and avoid the temptation of evil. It was a bold message when, in Lyra’s opinion, the king was true evil incarnate.

True evil enforcing a decree with boundless reach and endless potential for sustained destruction.

Potential to kill and potential to burn.

At times the humans had been right. Lyra had watched as friends of hers had burned, cried as the flames claimed their skin and withered their hair to blackened ash. Those murders were what had disrupted the balance. Wiccan blood was being destroyed at the hands of mortals.

Blood that could not be created again.

the mother was displeased at the murder of her kin.

And so, the dragons descended on the Valley.