The moon hung high in the night sky, casting a silvery glow that glistened against the untouched snow blanketing the village. An eerie silence pervaded the air, broken only by the faint murmurs of a congregation of witches gathered in the village center.
They formed a circle, chanting a spell in low, harmonious whispers that melded together, creating the illusion of an ethereal choir.
At the heart of this gathering stood Cassandra, positioned beside an altar in front of a crumbling statue. Her face was solemn, eyes focused intently on the ritual at hand.
Lying on the altar was Marian, blindfolded and motionless, ready to embrace her fate. The entire scene held a sense of somber finality.
In Cassandra's hand, a ceremonial knife gleamed faintly under the moonlight. Unlike before, this blade was no mere ornament—it had a purpose tonight, one that would demand blood.
