A Promised Prophecy

Chapter One

Prophecies, those seemingly random words concocted by people hidden behind their keyboards, are nothing more than imaginative tales. That's all they've ever been. Only a select few wield the true power of prophecy, and they hail from a hidden community nestled in Silverleaf, a storybook setting adorned with cottages deep in the forest. No one bothered the inhabitants, mainly because none rivaled the power of those who dwelled there. I was born in Silverleaf, gifted with magical abilities, and spent my teenage years under the tutelage of the coven's leader. Real prophets were rare, and I didn't readily trust just any prophecy. While I came from Silverleaf, the gift of prophecy eluded me. However, my magical powers were the strongest the community had witnessed in decades, thanks to Celeste and her coven.

I left Silverleaf when I outgrew it, seeking more—not just with my magic but with my life. The community never forgave my departure. Over the last decade, I've hopped from one job to another, never feeling satisfied, until I found the coven of Deadly Witches. Despite their ominous name, they aren't deadly unless the situation demands it. We live in a big city doing the work the magicless or those with less magic can't. We aid them in finding their missing persons, stolen items, or whatever else they need help with, if the pay is good. And we do it in style: skintight clothing, high heels, and makeup. We're B-list celebrities at best, but the people know us, and the pay is great.

Some of the women in the coven pretend to have prophetic abilities. I don't correct them, even though I know they aren't from Silverleaf. I prefer to keep my origins a secret because I don't want to be seen as a failure—the only witch who hailed from Silverleaf without the ability to prophesize. I let them lie, just like all the other fake prophets out there, because, in the end, people don't need a prophecy; they just want reassurance that everything will be okay. And it feels nice to hear that from someone else.

In the Deadly Witches, only one friend, Ophelia, knew my background. Ophelia came from a smaller town and shared my dreams of a big city life. She had shockingly intense dark magic, the kind I would never expect from such a petite and naïve woman. But her psychosis-inducing visions inflicted on others as punishment for heinous crimes were enough to terrify anyone left alone in the dark with her. Still, her sweet personality never failed to brighten my mood, which is why I lived with her. I hated most roommates, but it was hard to hate my Ophie.

"Rhea, have you heard about Dreadshade Summit?" Ophelia asked, sitting on the couch next to me. She painted her nails a light shade of pink while watching some love story and drinking straight from the bottle of wine.

"No." I didn't stop scrolling through my phone when I responded, but I adjusted my body in my seat, feeling uncomfortable with the discussion but not wanting to make it obvious to Ophelia.

"Hm, I heard people have been entering the caves there. They aren't coming back out though. Some of the girls have been thinking about making a trip and finding any survivors. Since it's close to your home, I thought you might have an advantage in the area and any dangers we might face. You in?"

I made it my life's mission to avoid Dreadshade Summit, but the funny thing about prophecies, real prophecies, is that they follow you around—a future you can never shake or break free from, no matter how much you try to avoid it. I found it difficult to avoid Dreadshade Summit, caught between a prophecy and a promise. A prophecy in which I am determined to become the strongest witch in fire magic, and a promise to Celeste, the giver of the prophecy, that I will never step foot in Dreadshade Summit.