Author's note: I forgot to publish chapter 7. I apologize and will publish it as so as I finish editing it.

Fawn, Mom, and I ventured into the inviting ambiance of the 13 Moon Apothecary, a sanctuary for our witchcraft needs. The air inside was thick with the earthy aroma of dried herbs and the sweet scent of essential oils, inviting us deeper into its mystical embrace. We were on a mission to replenish our supplies for the spells we practiced. While some spells flowed naturally from the depths of our innate powers, others demanded the precision of ritual magic, a dance of intention and elements.

For these rituals, we needed to meticulously gather the right components—exotic herbs that whispered secrets of the earth, intricately etched crystals that caught the light like starlit diamonds, oils captured under the silvery glow of the moon, and sometimes even unique offerings that resonated with our individual power signatures, each as distinct as a fingerprint.

During the car ride, Mom settled into a heavy silence, her thoughts swirling like storm clouds. I could feel the tension radiating from her, palpable and thick in the confined space. Ever since the unsettling confrontation with the Holy Hypocrites, her usual calm demeanor had been replaced with a vigilant alertness. She was resolute about fortifying the wards around our coven house—reinforcing our defensive barriers so no uninvited guest, be it a member of the Church, a lurking spy, or anyone else with ill intent, could breach our sanctuary undetected.

We pulled up to the crooked timber shop, its gabled roof adorned with a rusted weathervane, intricately shaped like a crescent moon. The swinging wrought-iron sign above creaked softly in the gentle breeze, its elegant design capturing attention—a ring of twelve silvery moons encircling a radiant thirteenth, which glowed softly at the center. Beneath the celestial motifs, the words “13 Moons Apothecary” shimmered faintly in enchanted lettering, revealing hidden runes that danced and shifted for anyone daring enough to gaze too long.

As we crossed the threshold, the bell above the door chimed with a delicate tone that resonated through my chest like a heartbeat—soft yet profound. Instantly, we were enveloped by an intoxicating scent that mingled in the air, a rich tapestry woven from sage, myrrh, and patchouli, underlined by the earthy musk of ancient wood, each note hinting at untold power and wisdom. The lights dimmed to a warm glow, casting flickering shadows across towering shelves filled with mysterious jars and scrolls, all pulsating with a faint, quiet magic that seemed to breathe with life.

“Gods,” Fawn breathed beside me, her luminous green eyes wide with awe. “I always forget how alive this place feels.”

Selene, the enigmatic shop cat with silver eyes that glimmered like moonlight, lounged languidly atop a glass jar whimsically labeled Crushed Phoenix Petals – For Rebirth and Renewal. She regarded us with a slow, deliberate blink, an ephemeral gesture that seemed to acknowledge our presence while simultaneously casting a veil of judgment over our intrusion.

“Don’t knock anything over,” my mother cautioned, her tone sharp and unwavering, as she strode purposefully toward the herb wall nestled at the back of the shop. Her figure was cloaked in a flowing black coat, the hem swirling around her like tendrils of smoke, amplifying her aura of authority in the dimly lit space.

Fawn and I exchanged a glance, a silent communication of shared curiosity and excitement, before we ventured deeper into the enchanting labyrinth of curiosities that surrounded us.

The herb wall loomed high, reaching up to the ceiling, a magnificent tapestry of countless jars and packets, each one a treasure waiting to be discovered. Some jars glimmered softly, almost ethereally, while others bore ominous warning labels, their faded ink curling at the edges. A small, weathered ladder leaned against the shelves, its rungs stained from years of eager hands searching for something magical. Above, a chalkboard hung lightly, its surface covered in a delicate layer of dust, boldly proclaiming in sweeping cursive:

“Consult Madame Elowen for assistance with restricted items. No summoning in the aisles.”

Moments later, Madame Elowen herself appeared, gliding into view from behind a faded curtain, cradling a steaming mug of herbal tea that released fragrant tendrils of steam into the air. Her silver braid cascaded down her back, catching the light and shimmering like a river of starlight. “Warding supplies today?” she inquired, her voice rich and melodic, reminiscent of velvet and the whisper of ancient spellbooks.

Mom gave her a firm nod, her expression serious. “Upgraded protections. We’ve had some… uninvited guests sniffing around our territory lately.”

Elowen’s eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of concern flickering within their depths. She set her steaming cup of tea down with a soft clink and gestured for us to follow her toward a sturdy locked cabinet that loomed behind the counter like a sentinel guarding precious secrets. “You’ll want dragon’s claw root,” she revealed, her voice low and measured, “powdered iron bark, and a few slivers of mirror obsidian. I’ve also got a new batch of nightshade oil—blessed under the silver glow of the new moon and sealed in obsidian glass. It’s stronger than the last one we had.”

As Mom conversed with Elowen in hushed tones, the air thick with an unspoken tension, Fawn tugged eagerly on my sleeve, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Can we check the crystal nook?” she whispered, her voice barely above a sigh. “I want to see if they’ve restocked the moonstone.”

“Yeah,” I replied, already feeling the heavy, tingling pulse of residual magic radiating from the nearby shelf, each shimmering vial holding untold mysteries. “But let’s not linger here all afternoon. We have a mountain of preparations ahead of us if we’re going to successfully upgrade the wards tonight.”

The gentle chime of the bell echoed behind us as another customer crossed the threshold, but I didn’t bother to glance back. The apothecary had wrapped me in its spell—its presence both soothing and formidable. This was a sanctuary of ancient secrets, a haven of quiet strength, and a conduit for moonlit revelations.

We had important work ahead.

And above us, the watchful moon silently observed.

As evening descended, the city lights began to twinkle like scattered stars through the glass balcony doors, casting a warm glow that contrasted sharply with the encroaching darkness. We readied our condo, perched on the twenty-second floor, for the sacred ritual. From our vantage point, the skyline unfolded in a breathtaking panorama—glittering spires punctuated by the deep shadows of concrete, a vibrant tapestry of urban life. Yet tonight, we were resolutely detached from that bustling world outside. Our attention was firmly fixed on safeguarding our secrets from the inquisitive gaze of those self-righteous zealots we call the Holy Hypocrites.

Their presence had been creeping closer, their curiosity sharpening with every passing day. Mom, ever vigilant, had decided enough was enough.

Fawn and I moved stealthily through the apartment, the hushed sound of our footsteps barely disturbing the air as we rearranged furniture to clear a sacred space on the living room floor. Meanwhile, Mom meticulously laid out her ritual tools on a pristine linen cloth at the dining table. Each item held significance and power: an obsidian mirror that glinted ominously in the dim light, iron bark dust that promised protection, delicately salted black candles standing like sentinels of the dark, and a newly-acquired vial of nightshade oil—its obsidian surface somehow absorbing the light around it—sourced from 13 Moons Apothecary. The atmosphere thrummed with anticipation, a palpable energy weaving through the air as we prepared to fortify what was ours against the encroaching scrutiny of a world we were all too aware wished to unearth us.

The fragrant aroma of lavender blended with the earthy notes of dragon’s claw root permeated the atmosphere as I ignited the incense, its delicate tendrils of smoke curling gracefully through the apartment, reaching into every shadowed crevice. Fawn trailed behind me, her voice a soft murmur as she recited our cleansing incantations, the syllables intertwining with each flick of her enchanted fox-tail charm, creating a soothing rhythm that echoed in the stillness. The walls, typically cold and unyielding, seemed to soften, as if made of warm wood and ancient stone, leaning in as attentive listeners to our ritual.

As the circle was meticulously drawn on the floor, the transformation was palpable; what was once a mere condo evolved into a sacred sanctum. The buzzing energy enveloped us, a protective cocoon that shielded against the outside world, inviting only peace and intention within our newfound haven.

At the heart of this sacred space lay an obsidian mirror, its dark surface reflecting the unearthly glow and adding a sense of depth to the ritual. Surrounding the mirror were carefully selected offerings: her cherished bloodstone pendant, glinting with earthy hues, a worn strip of my baby blanket that held memories of warmth and comfort, and Fawn’s intricately carved fox talisman, embodying cleverness and protection.

The glowing sigils, intricately drawn in saltwater infused with our own blood, shimmered beneath our feet, arranged in a six-pointed warding star that pulsed in soft, rhythmic waves of light. Fawn sat cross-legged on one arm of the star, her eyes closed in concentration, while I positioned myself directly opposite her, mirroring her focus. At the center of our protective formation stood Mom, clad in her floor-length ritual robe, its fabric rich and heavy, embroidered with shimmering silver thread that caught the dim light, creating a halo effect around her. In her hands, she cradled the obsidian mirror against her heart, its dark surface reflecting the fragile glow of our protective marks.

“I know this isn’t the Coven House,” Mom's voice murmured softly, thick with the weight of memories long past, “but this is our home now. And I will not have it breached.”

We exchanged solemn nods, the air thick with unspoken fears and determination. None of us dared to mention Grandma’s house, a sacred sanctuary in its own right, yet too distant and too closely watched for our needs this evening. This place—tinged with remnants of our past—had never hosted a ritual of such significance before. But after the events of today, it was evident that the very energy of this space warranted a shield as powerful as the bonds that tied us together.

Mom raised her hand, gripping the ritual blade with deliberate care, and with a swift, practiced motion, she sliced a shallow line across her palm. Vivid red droplets welled up, glistening like rubies as they dripped onto the meticulously drawn sigil at the center of our circle. The moment the blood touched the salt, it hissed softly, releasing a burst of radiant light that danced within the dimness of the room.

With a voice that resonated like the echo of ancient stones, she began the chant, each word weaving a tapestry of magic that filled the air with palpable energy. The atmosphere around us seemed to inhale deeply, drawn into the potent rhythm of her invocation, before holding its breath in reverent stillness. The candles, their flames flickering like restless spirits, flared taller in response to the rising power. The mirrored glass shimmered with an ethereal glow, reflecting a ghostly light reminiscent of the moon, despite the fact that no moonlight dared to encroach upon our sacred space.

I closed my eyes, surrendering to the growing tide of magic, and joined in the chant, feeling the energy swell and swirl within me. My fingertips tingled with electric anticipation as my source thrummed beneath my ribs, a powerful river being pulled irresistibly toward something far greater than ourselves. The ritual words flowed effortlessly from my lips — they always had — but tonight, they resonated with a deeper significance. Fawn’s voice joined the harmony, rich and warm, her animal-linked magic enveloping us like a comforting embrace of fur, leaves, and tendrils of earthen roots, binding us together in this sacred moment.

Mom pressed her bloodied palm to the mirror. The reflection shattered — not physically, but metaphysically — rippling outward as the wards activated. Lines of glowing magic spread like a spiderweb from the sigils we’d laid down, crawling up the walls, across the ceiling, and even into the pipes and wiring hidden behind the drywall. The entire condo hummed with layered protection, new magic fusing with old.

A sudden, fierce gust of wind surged through the tightly sealed windows, swirling around the room as if grasping for freedom, even though the panes remained shut. The lights overhead flickered erratically, casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls. In that fleeting moment, I thought I caught a glimpse of Grandma’s face reflected in the mirror — proud and fierce, her gaze penetrating through the veil of time and space as if she were watching over us from a realm beyond.

And then, just like that, it was over.

The candles flickered down to a soft, steady glow, their waxen bodies creating a flickering halo of warmth in an otherwise encroaching darkness. The intricate sigils etched into the floor shone brightly one last time, their ethereal light pulsating like a heartbeat before succumbing to obscurity. Yet, I could feel them lingering — an invisible network layered deep within the foundation of the building. I was certain of one thing: no one could penetrate our sanctuary without us feeling the tremors of their approach.

Fawn leaned wearily against the cool concrete wall, her laughter bubbling up like a joyful melody, echoing softly in the otherwise quiet space. “That was like... weaving a spell into steel. It felt solid, you know?”

Mom didn’t return the smile that danced in Fawn’s eyes, but I noticed the way her rigid shoulders slowly unfolded, releasing the tension that had gripped her. “Good. That’s exactly what we need,” she said, her voice steady, filled with unspoken resolve.

Outside, the city pulsed with the usual rhythm of life, a cacophony of honking cars and distant chatter, blissfully unaware that anything had shifted. Yet within these four walls—this high-rise—something profound had changed. It was no longer merely an apartment; it had transformed into a fortress, a haven fortified against the world outside.

And for anyone daring enough to breach this sanctuary… let them try. We were ready.

The Spirit Lights wove themselves through the air, swirling in slow, graceful spirals and flickering like distant stars come to life. Their warm, ethereal glow danced off the glass doors of the balcony, casting a kaleidoscope of shimmering patterns across the walls, where shadows shifted and twirled like whispers. Tonight, they were particularly vibrant, their usual vibrancy intensified, likely drawn from the remnants of the potent magic that still lingered like a heady fragrance in the aftermath of the ritual. Their gentle illumination enveloped the room, a soft embrace that reminded us of the significance of our craft, the weight of our magic—a living testament to the power we wielded.

Fawn nestled into the crook of my arm, her petite form curling up against me as we sank deeper into the inviting contours of the couch. The soft hum of the warding spells vibrated beneath our skin, a comforting reminder of our protective barriers resembling faint, distant thunder that rolled just out of reach. She pressed closer, her breath a soothing lullaby against my collarbone, rhythmic and steady. My fingers found their way through her silky, honey-brown curls, moving instinctively as if obeying an unspoken connection. After the whirlwind of the day—the intensity of the ritual, the electric tension that had crackled in the air, and the sweet release that followed—this moment transcended mere tranquility. It was a cocoon of peace, woven from the fabric of shared magic and quiet intimacy.

She let out a soft sigh, a sound that seemed to ripple through the air, almost like a purr of contentment as the warmth of my attention enveloped her. In that moment, it dawned on me just how deeply her nymph essence craved this tactile connection after she channeled her magic. There was an undeniable quality within her nature—something primal and deeply rooted, akin to the way a flower yearns for the nurturing light of the sun. I found solace in this closeness; it was grounding, a reassuring reminder that I was needed in ways that transcended the ordinary.

Our mothers, wise and knowing, never raised an eyebrow at the intimacy we shared. They understood the ancient customs of our coven, weaving a tapestry of bonds more sacred than mere friendship. For us, the closeness among sisters was not simply accepted; it was revered. It was within these tender moments that we healed old wounds, strengthened our connections, and gently reminded each other that we were never truly alone, even in our most solitary struggles.

There had always been a profound and gentle tug among us witches—a natural inclination toward the warmth of feminine comfort, the soothing embrace of affection, and the intoxicating allure of pleasure. Our magic flourished most vibrantly when we surrendered to our instincts, weaving an unbreakable bond with one another. The female form radiated a compelling power that beckoned us, igniting a shared energy that was both exhilarating and grounding.

Yet, this didn’t mean we completely closed ourselves off from the world beyond. Some of us had ventured into the arms of men when the deep, instinctual urge to create life stirred within us, but those connections were always characterized by a different essence. They were purposeful, tethered to the physical plane.

But this? This was something far more profound—an intimate connection that reached deep into our souls, transcending the boundaries of mere existence and resonating with the very core of who we were.

Fawn shifted slightly, those enchanting forest-green eyes meeting mine, shimmering with a hint of mischief. Her cheeks were painted with the soft blush of warmth, like petals kissed by the morning sun. “You’re still buzzing,” she whispered, her smile delicate and inviting, as if it held a secret just for me.

“So are you,” I murmured back, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, my fingertips grazing her soft skin. Above us, the Spirit Lights began to slow their ethereal dance, drifting gently like scattered stars in twilight, as if they, too, were succumbing to the tender, palpable atmosphere of the moment.