The Hart family's Rolls-Royce smoothly moved through Manhattan's busy streets, shining like a phantom among the noise. Inside, Jessica sat next to Azure, watching the swirling patterns of light and shadow on the skyscrapers outside. The city’s energetic pulse made her heart race with excitement, sparking a thrill she couldn't suppress. Tonight held the promise of a new adventure—full of destiny and dreams.
Jessica settled back into the plush leather seats, turning to Azure. Her gaze met his, a sparkle mirroring the vibrant world beyond the windows. The joy of being with him lit up her face as she clutched his hand to her chest. Her fingers traced gentle patterns across his skin, a smile dancing on her lips. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Can you feel my heart racing?” she asked, her voice a soft melody.
She ran her hands over the long sleeves of her red blouse—the same one she’d worn the night they first met—its fabric shimmering like a promise.
“Do you think I look okay? This blouse is my only sophisticated top, and I love how it catches the light.”
Azure’s gaze was warm, and his smile was reassuring. “You look perfect,” he told her.
He appreciated her choice of black slacks over the skirt and fishnets from that unforgettable night. With a playful twinkle in his eye, he motioned for Mārtiņš to hand him a box from the front seat, then set it gently on Jessica’s lap.
Her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she shook the box, surprised by its heft. Carefully, she untied the black bow and lifted the lid, revealing a luxurious black leather coat with sheer sleeves.
“It might get a little cold in the lounge,” Azure said as she pulled the coat from its box. He helped her slip it on, the leather soft and enveloping.
“It’s perfect—long, just like my peacoat, but even better,” Jessica said, setting the empty box aside as her eyes roamed appreciatively over Azure. “You look amazing in your black suit. And that red tie—did you plan it to match my blouse?”
Azure grinned, saying nothing—but the secret in his eyes gave him away.
Jessica's eyes lit up as the limousine slowed to a stop; they had reached their destination. Before them stood Grand Central Station, its grand facade steeped in history. The chauffeur, elegant and old-world, opened the door, and Azure gently offered his hand, helping her out into the brisk evening. A cool breeze made Jessica tighten her new coat, savoring its comforting warmth.
Azure’s voice, smooth as velvet, assured Mārtiņš they would return in three hours. The chauffeur nodded, tipped his hat in a respectful bow, then slipped back into his seat.
Azure offered Jessica his arm, and they moved toward the station’s grand entrance, her heart fluttering with anticipation.
Azure glanced at her with a mischievous smile, as if sensing her thoughts. “No trains tonight,” he murmured, gripping the ornate handle of the massive door. With a conspiratorial wink, he added,
“Open Sesame.”
Jessica stifled a laugh, her mind racing with thoughts of ancient tales and hidden treasures. Like a charm from Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, the utterance froze time, its impact lingering long after the words left his lips. Azure’s sly grin confirmed her suspicions as he pushed open the door, revealing a breathtaking scene beyond—a world where magick and reality intertwined, promising the extraordinary night ahead.
Before them lay a grand hall, its ceilings soaring like the dreams of giants, adorned with shimmering chandeliers that cast a glittering light across the room. The air thrummed with otherworldly energy, alive with an exclusive assembly of men and women draped in elegant black robes, each exuding an aura of power and sophistication. Amidst this sea of ebony, Jessica’s red blouse and Azure’s crimson tie stood out like vibrant beacons—the only splashes of color in an otherwise monochromatic ocean.
The room teemed with animated conversations and laughter that ricocheted off the rich wood paneling and luxurious period furniture, reminiscent of the opulent 1930s. A tantalizing scent filled the air—a heady blend of suede and spices: nutmeg, cinnamon, black pepper—woven with the earthy aroma of burning sage.
Round tables draped in sumptuous black linen dotted the hall, each adorned with exquisite 17th-century Italian chalices. These glasses, supported by intricately cast pewter angels, cradled a dark, crimson liquid that glistened like blood-red rubies in the soft glow of tea lights floating on ebony pools.
As Jessica and Azure navigated the mesmerizing reception, heads turned. Whispers followed. An electric sense of anticipation crackled through the room like static. They had not merely entered Grand Central Station—they had stepped into a realm veiled in secrecy and magick:
The Wicca Room—a secret haven where those versed in the ancient arts gathered to weave spells, share secrets, and shape the unseen currents of the world.
Every detail worked in careful harmony to conjure an enchanting, almost bewitching atmosphere. Jessica’s pulse quickened. The lounge wasn’t just a room—it was a portal to a fantastical dimension where anything could happen.
“Who are these people?” Jessica whispered as they approached a green door guarded by an enormous, inhuman figure whose skin seemed hewn from stone. The being towered over eight feet tall, with massive shoulders spanning at least five feet. He resembled a barbarian, his unkempt, shoulder-length mossy hair framing charcoal wool trousers and a loose-fitting tunic.
As they drew near, the figure exuded a dense, musky scent, earthy and ancient. The imposing figure stood so still that Jessica mistook him for a statue—until he turned to glare down at her with a fierce, unblinking gaze. His eyes shimmered like aquamarine gemstones, their brilliance almost blinding.
The air grew thick with tension—What could be waiting behind that glowing emerald door? Another question—Why were all the people wearing black?
“We are here to see the Great Oz,” Azure said, prompting the massive guard to struggle to his knees. His enormous frame made the movement awkward and slow, joints grinding like ancient stone.
“A dinnae mean tae disrespect ye, m’Lord,” the guard rumbled, his voice gravel and thunder. “But I cannae say I’m familiar wi’ this Great Oz ye speak o’.” His accent was hard to place—a blend of British English and something older, perhaps from Europa’s hidden corners. His furrowed brow showed sincere confusion at Azure’s remark.
As he strained to rise again, Azure extended a hand. The giant grasped it gratefully, wobbling upright like a statue brought to life.
Turning to Jessica, Azure explained softly, “Everyone we passed is waiting to enter through that green door. They need an invitation because they aren’t magick-born.”
He gestured subtly to the robed guests behind them, then added, “The guard is a Gargroll—a hybrid of a stone gargoyle and a troll. They make excellent sentries, but they tend to take things literally. The ‘Great Oz’ joke went over his head.”
Jessica stifled a laugh, eyes wide with fascination. “Gargrolls? That’s a thing?”
Azure nodded, then stepped forward to speak to the guard again.
“We are here to meet with the Council of Elders. Have they arrived?”
“All are waitin’, m’Lord,” the Gargroll replied, straightening his massive shoulders in reverence. With a deep bow, he swung the heavy green door open, granting them passage as the line of guests behind them watched with thinly veiled envy.
“If looks could kill,” Jessica muttered under her breath as she noticed a row of women staring at her with narrowed eyes, pretending to sip from their wine glasses—each glance a sharpened blade.
A toothy grin spread across the Gargroll’s rough face as he leaned in and murmured in a low growl, “Witches can be as wild as their familiars. Pay them nae mind—they’re merely jealous. Ye’re wi’ one o’ the bloodborne Elders… ye are revered.”
The corridor stretched endlessly, a polished mirror reflecting otherworldly light that shimmered beneath their feet until it reached an emerald threshold—a gateway to hidden realms. Beyond lay a door, vast as the sea and sparkling like a sapphire, its surface pulsing with a spectral glow. It was no ordinary entry—it was a sentinel, guarding the sanctuary of the Magick Realms, unreachable to mortals.
Inside, the chamber was cathedral-like in scope. The ceiling soared high above, a tapestry of ornate carvings and celestial geometry, while the white marble floor glistened in the ambient, shifting light. Beyond the towering windows, the sky was a living canvas—colors swirled and morphed like ink in water, shifting through hues of green, blue, and deep violet.
At the room’s heart stood a grand, circular table carved from dark granite, around which five representatives of the seven ancient magick-born bloodlines sat. Orbs of soft white light hovered above them, diffusing the glow streaming in through the windows and casting the room in an eternal dusk of power and mystery. History and reverence saturated the space, a place where the arcane’s highest matters took shape—tonight, the Great Rebirth, already reshaping both the mortal and magickal worlds. Mithra, the Elder of the ancient Yazata bloodline, rose from his high-backed chair, tapping the handle of his black wooden cane on the granite to summon attention. Though small in stature, he commanded the room with almond-shaped eyes—framed by thick, dark brows—piercing the air with the weight of centuries. The lines etched into his sun-worn features were maps of wisdom and pain, earning him silent reverence among the gathered.
Each Elder wore a livery collar, wrought in silver and enchantment, that settled heavily on their shoulders. Mithra’s collar bore a sunburst etched with flame, the ancient sigil of the Yazata—a symbol of illumination, sacrifice, and unseen judgment. Though each collar differed in design, all shimmered with latent power, marking the bloodline of their bearer for those who knew how to read them.
Yet the group continued speaking—ignoring him.
With a sudden surge of dominance, Mithra slammed his open palm onto the table. The sound thundered through the room, echoing off stone and soul alike. A subtle tremor rippled across the hall. Silence fell.
His eyes blazed with a faint light as he lowered himself back into his seat, adjusting his pristine white robe and folding his hands calmly in front of him.
He exhaled, then spoke in a rich, slightly accented voice, commanding in rhythm. “Now that I have your attention,” he began, “we must address the mortal organization... actively collecting the children of the Great Rebirth.”
Masud, the appointed Chancellor, a mortal, not an immortal, who had been a tribal witch doctor and now represented the Azande bloodline, responded swiftly. His deep baritone, laced with a rich African accent and razor-sharp sarcasm, cut through the thick quiet:
“We eliminate them! No hesitation.” Each word landed like a war drum, heavy with finality.
Masud was a commanding man in his sixties, his dark skin marked with intricate scarifications—each a rite earned, a pain survived. He wore a grand Bubu robe of tan, red, and dark brown mud cloth—emblazoned with a black lion’s profile across the chest—paired with well-worn khaki cargo pants, likely from an outlet sale. A feathered headdress crowned his head, and before him rested a hand-carved, ornate ritual mask, carved to intimidate, protect, and terrify.
A livery collar of blackened brass and rawhide hung around his neck, heavy with history. At its center gleamed a lion’s fang encircled by a burning sunwheel, the ancestral sigil of the Azande. It shimmered with heatless flame, a symbol of unyielding resolve, ancestral fury, and blood-won wisdom—earned, not inherited.
“Oh, bai, the one bereft of true power suggests we eliminate them,” sneered Arantxa (ur·aan·chuh), her words honeyed with mockery and as sharp as blades.
She, the Elder of the Sugaar bloodline from Iberian–Latin America, leaned back in her chair with elegant disdain. Her Basque accent clung to her speech, lending it an exotic edge as she rolled out her contempt.
“What do you plan to do? Frighten them with your trinkets of voodoo sorginkeria—sorcery—and those revolting maskarak—masks?” she said, gesturing with a flick of her hand. “Do you truly believe they will cower before such zoroakeriak—foolish tricks?”
She turned to Mithra, then laughed—cold and cutting—as if daring the room to dispute her view. Masud, clutching his mask to his chest, said nothing.
Arantxa sat regally, her skin fair, her features sharp. She wore her hair cropped in a short, masculine cut that gleamed beneath the floating orbs. Rings of every metal and stone adorned her fingers, catching the room’s glow with each motion. She adjusted the single lapel of her ocean-blue Alexander McQueen blazer, her prized piece from an enviable collection.
A livery collar of sculpted silver and volcanic glass rested around her neck, its centerpiece a serpent entwined with a crescent moon, the ancient symbol of the Sugaar bloodline—deception cloaked in beauty, seduction sharpened by flame. The collar shimmered with a dark opalescence, as though absorbing light and truth alike.
She smirked, satisfied, as Masud remained silent.
Tanjirō Shimizu, the fifty-year-old appointed Elder of Japan's Kotodama bloodline, rose gracefully from his seat. His black suit jacket parted to reveal a black katana dress shirt with ruby buttons, its satin red lining catching the eye with every subtle movement.
His presence commanded attention—not just for his poise or striking style, but for his unusual path to power. The Council appointed him after the mysterious disappearance of the last true Elder of the Kotodama lineage. That was in 1969, and no one had contested his position since.
Around his neck, a livery collar of lacquered obsidian and crimson silk cords lay perfectly balanced. At its center hung a suspended silken glyph, a kanji for kotodama—the ancient belief that words held spirits. It pulsed faintly with invisible resonance, as though every syllable he spoke might bend the world.
Ignoring the rising tension between Masud and Arantxa, Tanjirō calmly ran his hands through his straight black hair, his sharp eyes narrowing as a waiter entered carrying a lacquered tray with a ceramic teapot, delicate cups, and two packs of cigarettes.
Without hesitation, he reached for one of the packs and extracted a cigarette with measured precision. With a crisp snap of his fingers, he summoned a small flame at his fingertips and lit it. He inhaled deeply, held the smoke in his lungs, then exhaled in a long, serene stream. The tendrils curled through the air like drifting calligraphy, and for a moment, the room’s pressure seemed to dissipate into the vapor.
“Kore ga riyū desu—this is why we are here, is it not?” Tanjirō asked calmly, his Japanese-accented voice betraying none of the inner turmoil coiling beneath his polished surface. He spoke with refined precision, choosing each word carefully and maintaining absolute control.
“I despise these things,” he added with a trace of regret as smoke curled from his nostrils. He pressed the cigarette into a black marble ashtray and sighed deeply, as though the burden of leadership rested on his shoulders like ancestral armor.
To his right sat Katica, the ethereal Elder of the Azovka bloodline, her homeland now known as the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Her attire was a haunting echo of centuries-old tradition—elegant, layered silks in pale gray and icy blue. A lime-green lizard was draped over her shoulder, its gleaming eyes alert and unblinking.
A livery collar shimmered around her neck, woven from frost-bound silver and ancient, brittle bone. At its center lay a glacial crystal shaped like a sleeping eye, the sigil of the Azovka bloodline—seers of the drowned, keepers of stillness, watchers of the veil. The collar seemed to draw warmth from the air itself, casting a faint chill that whispered of the tomb and the tide.
Wrinkling her nose at the smoke, she declared in her Hungarian-accented voice, “Ai detest ze szmell off sigarety,” as the plume reached her.
Then, with a flash of reptilian agility, her pet lizard darted forward and swallowed the still-smoking cigarette.
“Brutus loves ze nicotine, though,” Katica remarked with a smile as the lizard curled contentedly around her neck, smoke coiling faintly from its nostrils.
Tanjirō reached for another cigarette but froze under the lizard’s unwavering, jewel-bright stare. With a resigned sigh, he set the pack aside and summoned the waiter.
“Perhaps ocha would be… more appropriate,” Tanjirō murmured.
The waiter returned promptly with the ceramic teapot and cups, his movements respectful and deliberate. He set one of the cups before the Elder, steam spiraling upward as he poured the enchanted tea.
Tanjirō took a measured sip, his composure undisturbed, and turned to Katica.
“Do you have any wisdom to impart on this matter? Are you so eager to wage sensō—war—against these mortals?”
Katica leaned back, her cool gaze sweeping the chamber.
“I am eager to hear the counsel of our Creed Elder,” she said, gesturing elegantly toward the door.
All eyes turned as Azure entered the chamber, accompanied by a mortal girl cloaked in awe. Her presence was an anomaly—an echo that didn’t belong in the room’s natural order.
Tanjirō set his teacup down and turned fully, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Azure gave the council a respectful nod and led Jessica to a seat by the tall, arched windows, where she sat quietly, captivated by the changing iridescent sky colors, reminiscent of molten glass across a dreamlike horizon.
“You’re not supposed to be here, technically,” Azure whispered, his voice low, a secret thread in the chamber’s tapestry. “But as the Gargroll decreed, I am revered.”
Jessica nodded, her posture relaxed, but unease stirred just beneath the surface—a hidden current beneath still waters.
With a fluid motion, Azure reached beneath his long coat and withdrew a gleaming livery collar, slipping it around his neck. Artisans forged the collar from obsidian alloy and alchemical gold, inlaying seven interlocking sigils—the sacred metals of the Magnum Opus. At its heart shimmered the symbol of the Phoenix entwined with the ouroboros, representing eternal transformation, hidden knowledge, and the doctrine of his bloodline. He wore it not as ornamentation but as birthright and burden—the mark of being the last Elder of the Creed bloodline, the alchemists who once bridged mortal craft and magical law.
“Welcome, Elder Azure,” Mithra’s voice resonated through the chamber like a sonorous bell, echoing off the marble and the magick in the air. “I briefed the council on our recent troubles with the mortal organization and their unwarranted interest in the children of the Great Rebirth.”
As Azure took his seat between Katica and Tanjirō, Mithra continued, “When I sought a solution, Masud suggested their complete eradication—though I am paraphrasing.”
Azure leaned forward, the room thick with anticipation. “Rolland and I have been devising strategies to resolve our conflict with these mortals indirectly,” he began, his words drifting through the air like a spell woven of diplomacy and determination. “Moreover, during my recent sojourn in Poland, we made significant strides toward locating the elusive Titan.”
A ripple of astonishment and excitement spread through the council.
“The Forethinker’s return would be a great boon—and an ally,” Mithra exclaimed, rising from his chair in excitement. He tapped his cane on the granite table as Elders murmured and applauded. The atmosphere surged with possibility.
“Since your uncle, our dear Hart elder, has refused to attend our council meetings,” Mithra said, his tone laced with restrained irritation, “what are your and Rolland's next steps?” He settled back, his gaze sharpened with anticipation. “Surely he is still pursuing the grand portal to the ancient Persian city of Susa?”
“He is,” Azure confirmed. “Our upcoming expedition—funded by Rolland’s benefactors—may uncover the weapon needed to collect the items required to summon the portal.”
“Ze trial of ze four tiger tails?” Katica asked, her curiosity sharpened. “No magick-born haz ever attempted such a dangerous endeavor.”
The Elders nodded in solemn agreement.
“If anyone dared, it would be Rolland,” Katica said, her voice quiet with admiration.
At that, Tanjirō leaned in closer to Azure, his voice low yet brimming with intensity. “Not true,” he said quietly. “I once attempted the Shiren—the trials.”
His expression darkened.
“I barely reached the first trial—locating a nekomata. That alone was terrifying. You’ll need to claim its tails, and then you must find a Sphinx and offer her one as keii to okurimono—respect and gifts.”
He paused, reliving the memory. “The nekomata is elusive, cunning, and deadly. The Sphinx… another challenge entirely.”
He shuddered slightly, then added, “Be careful, Azure. The path ahead is fraught with peril. I failed to obtain the yokai’s tails.”
Azure, caught off guard by the admission, felt a quiet surge of gratitude. He had not yet grasped the full scope of Rolland’s quest.
“Thank you for sharing this, Tanjirō,” Azure said sincerely. “It gives me a clearer understanding of the challenges to come.”
Then, as if the weight of unspoken knowledge had become too heavy to bear, Tanjirō raised his voice.
“But do you know what lies on the other side of the pōtaru?”
Azure shook his head, his body still, the room holding its breath.
“It leads to the lair of a mantikoa no gunzei—an army of manticores. Whoever commands the pōtaru… commands them.”
“I would love to see these mortals try to vanquish such an army of feral flesh-eaters,” Mithra exclaimed, his cane tapping rhythmically on the table. “This is splendid news.”
“Is anyone else going to ask the question?” Arantxa's voice cut through the clamor, her gaze locked on Jessica, who feigned disinterest by staring at the surreal sky beyond the window.
“Who is the mortal girl sitting in the corner?”
Azure turned to Jessica, who sank lower in her chair, feeling the full weight of the room’s scrutiny. With calm, firm confidence, Azure replied, “She’s with me.”
His eyes returned to Arantxa, narrowing. He knew she had seen them enter together. Her question was a provocation, not curiosity.
Azure continued. “She’s very special to me. I brought her here to begin her introduction to our world—to the ancient bloodlines.”
Katica gently placed her hand over Azure’s. Her fingers were cool and soft, and her expression softened with a sudden, distant look—as though witnessing something only she could see. Her eyes briefly glowed with a subtle light.
She quickly withdrew, respecting his privacy.
“You care for zis young voman deeply, don’t you?” she asked. A faint blush tinted her porcelain cheeks. “I can see it was love at first sight… and I look forward to meeting zis Jessica.”
The Elders conferred in hushed tones, their voices slipping into ancient dialects—threads of forgotten languages woven into the ritual decision-making.
After a brief deliberation, they granted their approval with solemn nods.
A wave of quiet relief and gratitude washed over Azure.
He approached Jessica, who was still sitting near the window. Despite the council’s blessing, a pang of anxiety surfaced—Arantxa remained a source of unease.
He reached out and touched Jessica’s shoulder, gently brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. Leaning in, he whispered, “It’s time for you to meet my extended family.”
“This is a good omen,” Mithra declared, watching them with approval. “The Parcae guide all life’s threads. The Fates would not mislead the architect of the Great Rebirth with trivial distractions. Azure’s destiny requires love to flourish.”
Returning to the table, Azure paused as Tanjirō rose from his seat and moved to the empty chair beside Azure, making space. He held it out for Jessica with a graceful bow.
“Elders, this is Jessica Harrison,” Azure announced formally.
Jessica sat, her movements tentative, a shy smile blooming on her lips as she met the gaze of the three Elders across from her.
Mithra gave her a warm, respectful nod.
However, Arantxa did not smile. Her expression remained unreadable, eyes shifting from Jessica to Azure, unblinking.
Masud grinned widely, his crooked, tobacco-stained teeth showing as he nodded and rocked slightly in his seat.
“It’s nice to meet all of you,” Jessica said in a soft voice.
Katica surprised her by reaching across and gently holding her wrist, their eyes meeting. In clear, deliberate Russian, she said: “Ty lyubish’ yego (Ты любишь его)” — You love him.
A sudden clarity struck Jessica—she understood every word, even though she’d never studied the language.
Katica released her wrist and turned to Azure, winking as she continued speaking in Russian:
“Ona mne nravitsya (Она мне нравится),” — I like her.
“Thank you?” Jessica responded, uncertainly.
The small lizard suddenly dropped onto the table from Katica’s shoulder, its tongue flicking as it stared up at her with intense, snake-like eyes.
Thrilled, Jessica extended her palm. The lizard leaped into it without hesitation.
She raised it gently, studying the creature. Its yellowish-green throat puffed slightly, and the green-and-brown scales along its long tail shimmered in the magickal light. She smiled.
“He’s male,” she said confidently, returning her hand to the table. “You can tell by the throat and tail patterns.”
Katica, visibly impressed, nodded. “His name is Brutus.”
Jessica smiled again. “I’ve always loved reptiles. I wrote my first big school report on the Russian Snake-eyed Lizard. They’re fascinating—fixed eyelids like snakes, but they’re lizards. I guess it left an impression on me.”
“Nice to meet you, Brutus,” she added as the lizard sprang back to Katica’s shoulder and coiled around her neck contentedly, as it had before.
Tanjirō Shimizu introduced himself with a graceful nod. “I am the Elder of the Kotodama bloodline, but please… call me Mr. Shimizu.”
As she looked around the table, Jessica’s gaze lingered on the ornate collars each Elder wore—each one different, yet gleaming with the same quiet authority.
What did they mean? Were they ceremonial? Magickal? Markers of power?
She wanted to ask, but she didn’t. Not yet. The moment didn’t feel like hers to interrupt.
Observing her lingering stare on the softly glowing orbs floating above the table, Tanjirō glanced at Mithra, then around the table, finally focusing on Jessica. His tone was gentle, and his fellow Elder responded with a slight nod of approval.
“Shall we eat?”
Tanjirō clapped his hands once, sharp and deliberate. A ripple of energy followed, and the servers glided into the room like dancers, their feet barely making a sound.
Jessica shifted slightly in her seat, brushing her fingers against her blouse. “That would be nice,” she said softly.
With a subtle flick of his fingers, Tanjirō sent one of the orbs drifting toward Jessica. It hovered before her like a curious firefly, shimmering softly. Her eyes remained fixed on the radiant sphere, now within reach. She extended a hand, her fingertips brushing the orb. It was cool to the touch, not unlike the magickal lights Azure conjured in their quietest moments.
“They are spirit orbs,” Tanjirō said calmly, watching her reaction.
“Spirit orbs?” Jessica echoed, her voice laced with curiosity.
Before Tanjirō could respond, Azure made a subtle gesture, a flick of his fingers and the slightest shake of his head. A silent message: not yet.
Understanding the implication, Tanjirō nodded respectfully and offered a vague explanation. “Shizenkai no mahou—elemental magick.”
The servers now presented each guest with a glass of deep, fragrant Syrah and a steaming plate of beef Rendang atop a fluffy bed of white rice. The rich aroma of chili, coconut milk, garlic, ginger, and turmeric rose in warm clouds around them, mingling with the scent of burning sage and ancient wood.
Each dish was accented with a wedge of lime, a dollop of creamy yogurt, sprigs of fresh cilantro, and a spoonful of tangy chutney—a perfect balance of heat and cool. Baskets of warm naan followed, their golden scent beckoning like a spell.
“I hope you don’t mind eating with your fingers,” Mithra said to Jessica, already reaching for a slice of naan. “I know Arantxa deplores it,” he added, shooting a glance at the Sugaar Elder as he stuffed a generous bite of meat and rice into his mouth. Sauce dribbled down his forearm, unnoticed.
“No need to make that face… you’ll be given utensils,” he reassured.
Feeling slightly embarrassed, Arantxa offered a shy, uncharacteristic smile as the waiter set a fork before her. She picked it up carefully and took a polite bite of the Rendang, her expression brightening with delight.
“Oso goxoa,” she exclaimed—“very delicious” in Basque—her eyes gleaming with genuine appreciation. She tore off a piece of naan, dipped it into the sauce, and closed her eyes as she savored each bite.
“When I first saw this dish, it reminded me of Ropa Vieja, one of my favorite Cuban dishes… but these flavors are distinctly different. What an excellent choice for tonight’s meal, Mithra,” she added warmly.
Mithra beamed, pleased with his selection, as the rest of the table engaged in lively conversation and relaxed into the comfort of their food and wine.
After nearly thirty minutes of dining and light banter, the wooden door nearest the table let out a low, eerie creak.
Silence fell like a veil. All eyes turned.
A tanned Punjabi man entered the chamber. He wore an olive-green Bandhgala—a high-collared formal jacket—and a black pagri atop his head. With silent grace, he crossed to Mithra, leaned in, and whispered into the Elder’s ear.
Mithra froze.
The piece of naan in Mithra’s hand hovered in midair for a heartbeat before he slowly set it back on his plate and nodded once, his expression turning grave.
The messenger bowed deeply and hurried from the room, leaving behind a weight that pressed on every chest in the chamber.
Still processing the message he had just received, Mithra motioned to a waiter and asked for a finger bowl. He waited patiently until the bowl of warm water arrived at the table, then dipped his fingers into it and dried them with the cloth napkin beside his plate. He dabbed his mouth, dropped the napkin onto his nearly empty plate, and signaled the waiter that he had finished his meal.
Addressing the other Elders and their guest, Mithra said, “My attaché has informed me that I must attend to something. Please continue your meal.” He stood and added, “I will return shortly.” As he made his way toward the door, everyone watched him with curious eyes, wondering what could be so important that he had to leave in the middle of his meal.
Conversation buzzed around the table once more, forks clinking gently against plates as laughter filled the air.
Then—a sharp rap echoed through the chamber.
All heads turned toward the grand entrance.
A vision of elegance entered the room—a Japanese woman whose commanding presence drew admiration. Everyone, including Jessica, watched as she gracefully moved in, dressed in a magnificent royal-purple silk kimono.
The kimono was a masterpiece, adorned with intricate sakura blossom paintings that seemed to sway with each of her steps, as if caught in a gentle breeze. Her flawless makeup lent her an ethereal beauty—a porcelain doll brought to life. With a smooth white oshiroi base, vibrant beni, dark ohaguro, and perfectly groomed brows, she exuded a timeless grace.
Her hair, styled in a traditional Shimada updo, sparkled with delicate hairpins that shimmered like starlight. Each step she took toward Tanjirō was like a dance; her feet were barely visible beneath the trailing hem of her robe, giving the illusion that she floated rather than walked.
She stopped beside him and spoke softly in Japanese: “Kanojo wa matteimasu.”
(She is waiting.)
Tanjirō paused mid-bite, setting down the rest of his naan. He turned toward the woman, all amusement gone from his face. Without a word, he wiped his hands, stood, bowed slightly to the table, and excused himself, following the woman out of the chamber with effortless grace.
The other Elders exchanged looks, their eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Azure’s gaze lingered on Jessica, who smiled back, unaware of the moment’s gravity.
Whatever secrets lay behind the Elders’ sudden departures... would soon be revealed.
Abigail Westfall had been a practicing witch for over twelve years, yet her seasoned intuition couldn't quell her curiosity about the enigmatic Wicca Room cocktail lounge. In October 1985, on the cusp of Samhain, a friend, Sabine, finally led her to its clandestine entrance, hidden in Grand Central Station. Abigail had always assumed it was just another speakeasy—until the night her friend disappeared behind a green door, only to reemerge transformed, shimmering with otherworldly magick and a sparkle in her eyes that spoke of secrets untold.
From that moment, Abigail was spellbound. She knew she had to experience whatever lay beyond the verdant portal.
She waited in patient anticipation for three years until, at last, the door opened for her. Yet now, as she stood within the Green Room, her mind was a maelstrom of questions: Why had she been summoned? Who had sought her out?
"It's been an hour," Abigail murmured, pacing restlessly. She tugged at her green Mulberry silk scarf, which hung loosely around her neck, then paused to smooth away nonexistent wrinkles from her figure-hugging black cocktail dress. She already missed the black ceremonial robe she had worn before being left in this room to wait. Her pixie frame felt dwarfed by the room's opulent decor: walls and ceiling swathed in vibrant dianthus blooms of red, pink, and magenta, their heady fragrance mingling with peach-colored flowers arranged in vases throughout the space.
The only entrance and exit was a striking red door, framed in intricate woodwork and centered on the far wall. Two ornate chairs flanked it, but Abigail was too anxious to sit.
The room felt like an enchanted indoor garden, with a plush floral rug under her feet that gave the sensation of walking on a bed of flowers. She pondered the abundance of blooms—considering their purpose and significance.
Her gaze fell on a mural on the back wall, nearly hidden by climbing vines and petals. It depicted fairies in motion, their painted forms dancing and flickering in the dim light. As she leaned closer, moving the flowers aside for a better view, their spicy-sweet scent overwhelmed her senses, leaving her dizzy.
She staggered back—just in time to see a fairy tug the flowers back into place, concealing the mural once more.
The red door swung open.
Abigail’s breath caught in her throat. She voiced her suspicion aloud: “Are there any fairies in this room?”
Tanjirō entered, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
“Indeed, there are,” he replied, his voice smooth and enigmatic. “This room is a pōtaru to the yōsei no kuni—fairyland. If you have any doubts, let me dispel them: fairies exist.”
“I am Tanjirō Shimizu. You may call me Mr. Shimizu.” He sat across from Abigail, his gaze immediately drawn to the messy bun of her strawberry-blonde hair—a sharp contrast to her disheveled demeanor. Reclining, he crossed one leg over the other, the shiny red leather of his derby shoes catching the light, matching the ruby buttons on his coat.
As his jacket shifted, Abigail’s eyes caught a faint glint at his neck—a livery collar of black lacquer and crimson silk, coiled with the kanji for kotodama. Her breath hitched. She knew that symbol.
The Elders don’t walk among the rest of us, one of the witches in her coven once said. But if you’re ever lucky—or unlucky—enough to meet one, look for the collar. They don’t wear it for fashion.
And speak clearly. The Elders can hear more than your words.
That old warning now echoed with sudden weight.
She was in the presence of an Elder.
Abigail, though determined not to be intimidated by his refined air and the aura of power that surrounded him, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of unease—the kind that creeps in when a legend steps out of the shadows and sits across from you.
With a mere snap of his fingers, two Japanese women appeared behind her. White paint covered their faces, black makeup stretched across their eyes like bandit masks. Clad in black bodysuits, they blended into the room’s shadows as if born of them.
Abigail hadn't known that Tanjirō was the Wicca Room’s guardian—or that he commanded a security network.
She dared not turn to look at the women. Her focus remained fixed on the man, who now seemed far more formidable than the legend had allowed.
“It has come to my attention that you recently witnessed a maboroshino-jū—a mythical beast,” Tanjirō’s Japanese cut through the quiet room, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he peered into her blue eyes, which gleamed with interest. “Would you please recount what happened when you encountered the once-mythical beast… maboroshino-jū?”
Abigail nervously adjusted her green silk scarf, the memory of her weekend in Shandaken still fresh. She retraced the tale she had shared with a fellow witch earlier that evening, only now realizing her words had led her to this room. Excitement bubbled beneath her nerves—had fate played a role in bringing her here? Had she always been meant to recount her hike through Minnewaska State Park?
With wonder swirling in her thoughts, she took a steadying breath and began. Her voice brimmed with enthusiasm as she painted vivid images of breathtaking vistas, the cascading beauty of Awosting Falls, and, most importantly, the mysterious creature she had encountered. She could only hope that sharing her story would reveal the rewards ahead.
She described stumbling upon a magnificent white-winged horse drinking at the base of the waterfall. The creature’s beauty defied words, leaving Abigail in awe. Yet her peaceful excursion was abruptly shattered. Without warning, three men materialized, their presence as jarring as a gunshot. In a flash, they fired tranquilizer darts at the unsuspecting creature, and it collapsed.
The men, clad in matching hunter-green uniforms with yellow patches on their left chests, moved with disturbing efficiency, completing their grim task in mere minutes before vanishing into the wilderness.
Tanjirō listened intently, his stoic expression revealing nothing but deepening concern. As Abigail finished, he planted his feet firmly on the floor and asked, “Did the men say anything you might have heard?”
Abigail closed her eyes, trying to remember. “The man in charge called the winged horse a Scarlet Protocol, and the others said it was ready for transport to the Menagerie.”
The Kotodama Elder nodded thoughtfully, the information clearly pleasing him. He gestured for the two shadow women to leave. They bowed in silence, dissolving back into the room’s enchanted quiet. Now alone with Abigail, Tanjirō raised his hands and extended them toward her.
“Place your hands in mine.”
She complied. The moment their skin touched, a slight electric shock surged from the Edler’s fingertips into hers.
“You are an empath… a soururīdā—a soul reader,” he said, eyes narrowing in appraisal. “But I see you yearn for far more power, don’t you?”
Tanjirō slipped one hand free and reached into his jacket, pulling out a tightly rolled scroll of parchment.
“Your information has proven vital to our cause. I have something for you.” He handed Abigail a pen and unfurled the scroll. “Sign this shorui—this document—and you will receive the power you desire.” Kore wa isshō ni ichido no ofādesu. (This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer.)
Abigail didn’t understand Japanese, but the gravity in his tone made her fingers itch. Without hesitation, she signed the document without reading it and handed the parchment and pen back to him.
Tanjirō raised an amused eyebrow, excitement gleaming in his eyes as he relished her eagerness.
“Sono yōna netsui... I love it,” he murmured, tucking the scroll and pen back into his coat.
Abigail wondered what gift he would bestow—and whether it would hurt.
Tanjirō leaned forward, cupping her cheeks with a tenderness that belied the intensity glowing in his red eyes. He drew her close and pressed a delicate kiss to her forehead.
A sudden surge of heat shot through her veins, electrifying every nerve. Her blue eyes blazed with white light as energy coursed through her like a tidal wave. Tanjirō watched, pleased, as her transformation began.
“Your soul,” he murmured, “is the brightest I have ever seen.”
Slowly, he released her, his touch lingering like an imprint on her essence. Then, in a hushed whisper, he said:
“Kotodama famirī e yōkoso.”
The words resonated deeply within her—but what startled her most was that she understood them.
Welcome to the Kotodama Family.
A laugh bubbled from her lips, startled yet genuine—somehow, she had learned Japanese in that very moment.
For the first time, Abigail felt a sense of belonging she had never known as Tanjirō escorted her to the door, which slowly opened. As they left the room, mischievous laughter filled the air, seemingly coming from the lush, vibrant flowers adorning the walls. The laughter continued until the door closed firmly behind them.
A booming voice thundered from behind the closed door as Tanjirō's grip tightened on the doorknob; Mithra was agitated. As Tanjirō stepped into the room, Mithra turned to him, eyes blazing, to share the disappointing news he had just delivered to his peers. Arantxa, seemingly unbothered by the commotion, rolled her eyes at the Yazata Elder's seething fury and attempted to soothe him with a reminder that fretting over the past was futile.
Yet Mithra pressed on, explaining to Tanjirō that the Middle Eastern dessert he had so carefully arranged had spoiled—the caterer had failed to refrigerate the rose water rice pudding the previous day. The Yazata Elder's plans to share the delectable treat, a concoction of short-grain rice simmered in milk and infused with the essence of vanilla and rose water, then topped with crunchy pistachios, were now ruined. With a flourish, he tossed a small drawstring sack of pistachios onto the table, its promise now a bitter reminder of what could have been.
Tanjirō’s eyes fell on the empty chairs beside him. Azure and his guest were conspicuously absent. He asked if anything had happened.
“Rolland called him away,” Arantxa replied, reaching for the sack of nuts. She scooped a handful of shelled pistachios into her palm, then passed the bag to Masud.
“I don’t trust Rolland's influence over our young Elder. Unlike Klaus Hart, his brother—the former Hart Elder who once sat at our table—Rolland has always been driven solely by his own agenda.” She shook her head, her lips a thin line. “Klaus understood the weight of his position. He believed in balance and in our shared duty to safeguard the old ways. Even when we disagreed, we knew he acted in the best interests of our people.”
She hesitated, her voice growing quieter yet sharper. “Klaus’ decision to abdicate his seat was not an act of weakness. He turned his back on power when it turned poisonous.”
Tanjirō tilted his head, listening.
“He stood firmly against the Third Reich and its obsession with occult relics and ritual control,” Arantxa continued. “When they began hunting artifacts tied to our bloodlines, seeking to twist our knowledge into weapons, Klaus refused to lend them legitimacy. He refused to let the council’s authority serve as a political tool—not even symbolically.”
She let the silence settle before finishing: “He left this seat to Rolland not because he trusted him—but because he could no longer bear the world’s becoming.”
She exhaled sharply, irritation flaring in her eyes as she steered the conversation away from the past. “But Rolland? When was the last time he joined a council meeting? He only shows up when it benefits him.”
Arantxa huffed in annoyance and popped a pistachio into her mouth. “Azure is naïve and lacks proper training in sorginkeria (magick)… He could easily stray from the greater mission—and with Rolland whispering in his ear, I fear he already has.”
Masud offered a counterpoint. “Azure and Rolland are family. He wouldn’t harm the boy.”
“Technically, bai (yes),” Arantxa said, her words lilting with the musical cadence of her Basque accent. “His mother’s lineage traces back to the Hart bloodline—notorious for their iluneko sorginkeria (dark magick). A stark contrast to his father’s Creed heritage,” she added, her emphasis on "notorious" underscoring her disapproval.
Tanjirō, renowned for his problem-solving acumen, listened intently. He vowed in silence to safeguard the Creed bloodline’s purity, his expression betraying nothing of the resolve building within him.
Katica, sharing Arantxa’s concerns, nodded in agreement. It was imperative to shield Azure from Rolland's schemes.
“Rolland Hart has sought my counsel,” Tanjirō remarked, accepting the sack of pistachios from Katica. “I am always eager to share my chishiki (knowledge).”
He then pushed the pistachios to the center of the table, declining to eat.
“We can keep an eye on his progress in Nihon (Japan). I have someone in mind who will serve as those watchful eyes.”
As the door creaked open, Abigail Westfall stepped hesitantly into the room. No longer messy, she looked tidy, with her hair and makeup flawlessly in place. She closed the door softly, then moved swiftly to stand behind Tanjirō’s chair.
“Rolland Hart would never suspect that my newest shisubeki majo—my mortal witch—was interfering with his plans.”
Abigail’s hesitation vanished. Her posture straightened, and a cold weight settled behind her eyes.
Tanjirō rested his hands on the arms of his chair.
“Allow me to introduce the eyes and ears who will remain in Rolland Hart’s dealings in Japan.”
His smile deepened.
“Abigail Westfall.”