The Prince Of Curses h.s.

Twenty three

I was currently sitting in the library, with an empty notebook positioned at my fingertips.

Earlier this morning, I asked Olesia if she could bring me one. The idea crossed my brain last night, and I had been itching to act on it. The idea of creating my own spellbook or just documenting my journey on learning magic, for my own reference, and for others after me. Certainly, I wouldn't be the only witch to be born again. Even after a 600 hundred-year period and many cycles of generations, the witch bloodline seemed to travel far enough to somehow reach me.

How I got so fortunate I will never know.

However, what this meant to me is that my future children could potentially be born witches as well. Or even my sister's children. Whether it was from my bloodline or another's whose bloodline was long rooted in magic— eventually, another witch will be born. Therefore it was only my responsibility to pave the path for them, or at least try to.

The library was quiet— just what I needed to focus. Not a soul crept between the bookshelves, not a whisper or a word fluttered through this space, just the sound of me turning pages.

The rebirth of witchcraft, I wrote on the cover page.

To myself, to the witches before and after me, I hope this book provides itself to be useful.

I wrote down everything I had come to know. I wrote about the magic in the moon, the influence of the stars, how I was working with a prince from the underworld— the difference between our magics. I wrote about the purpose of witch magic, our purpose to nature, how to heal flowers, how to cast magic over things. Everything I currently knew I was scribbling in between the blank pages.

And even though I had only been able to fill a small portion of this book, I highly anticipated the day that I would be able to fill its pages to the brim with words and spells.

I set my pen down, letting my aching hand rest. I flexed my fingers as I began thinking about someone reading my writings and finding them useful.

I paused to myself for a moment, another thought fluttering through my brain. As quick as the idea came I flipped my book to one of the back pages, pushing the leather spine against the table's surface as I wrote Harry: Prince of the underworld.

Summoned by a witch to our realm. Cursed by the same witch. Has ancient magic. Role in the underworld:

I stared at the paper after I wrote that last sentence. I actually haven't discovered exactly what Harry does or did in the underworld. I wasn't exactly sure what the underworld meant. If all souls went there when they died that didn't mean it was particularly hell. I left that part blank as I moved on.

Details of the curse

— the prince is bound to this realm

— the prince is powerless

—cure: currently unknown

I looked over my writing. I didn't realize how much I still had to learn about Harry. I dropped my pen again, leaning back in my chair. I gazed out the window, looking at the refreshing blue sky.

I started thinking again about how useful this book might be for someone in the future. Maybe someone wrote their spellbook for the same purpose. It was then I thought about what Harry had proposed to me. To travel with him alone in the woods to find a rumored witch cabin, in search of answers.

There had to be answers there— if the cabin existed.

I'm sure the last witches left spellbook and other materials for the same reason I'm making mine— to help the witches after them. But I just wasn't sure if I wanted to take the risk of traveling multiple days alone with Harry. Or this disappointment of not being able to find it.