The dormitory was silent, shrouded in the stillness of early dawn. Belial stirred in her bed, her golden eyes fluttering open. Something had woken her, something that wasn't the usual creak of the old academy walls or the faint chatter of birds outside. It was a sound—a low, haunting hum that seemed to echo from within the depths of her mind.
Her heart quickened as the noise grew louder, transforming into a voice. It was faint, almost a whisper, but distinct enough to send a chill racing down her spine.
"Belial…"
She bolted upright, her breaths coming fast and shallow. The sheets tangled around her legs as she struggled to untangle herself. Her room was dimly lit by the pale glow of moonlight streaming through the cracked window, casting eerie shadows across the stone walls.
"Who's there?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
The room offered no reply, only the steady hum of the voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. It called her name again, soft but insistent.
Belial swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet brushing against the cold stone floor. Her fingers clenched the edge of the mattress, her knuckles whitening. Every muscle in her body screamed for her to stay put, to ignore the sound, but curiosity and an odd pull she couldn't resist compelled her forward.
As she stood, her knees wobbled slightly, a mix of fear and the lingering fog of sleep. The air felt heavier now, charged with an unfamiliar energy that pressed against her chest. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to ward off the chill that seeped into her skin.
Then she saw it.
Lying on her desk, glinting faintly in the moonlight, was a talisman. She hadn't placed it there, of that she was certain. The object was small, intricately carved with ancient symbols she didn't recognize. It was bound with a thin thread that seemed too fragile to hold its weight, yet it pulsed faintly with a power she could feel even from across the room.
Her breath hitched as she stepped closer, her movements hesitant and deliberate. Her eyes were locked on the talisman, her golden irises reflecting its faint glow.
"Belial…" the voice murmured again, clearer this time.
She froze, her hands hovering inches from the talisman. The voice wasn't just in her head—it was in the room, circling her like an unseen presence.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice steadier now, though a shiver ran down her spine.
There was no reply, only a sudden wave of warmth that brushed against her skin, almost comforting in its touch. The talisman pulsed again, brighter this time, and a faint swirl of smoke rose from its center.
Belial's hands trembled as she reached out, her fingertips brushing against the cold surface. The moment she touched it, a flood of images rushed into her mind—flashes of faces, battles, and an overwhelming sense of loss. She gasped, stumbling back, but the talisman remained in her grasp as if it had anchored itself to her.
The voice returned, stronger and filled with a deep, sorrowful tone.
"You are the last of us… the last Salem witch. Make us proud."
The words struck her like a physical blow, and she collapsed into the chair behind her. Her chest heaved as she tried to process what she had just heard. The Salem witches—the name was familiar, a fragment of a story she had heard as a child. They were a powerful coven wiped out in a brutal war against the warlocks.
But her? One of them?
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "That's impossible. I'm just… I'm just me."
The talisman pulsed again, sending a wave of warmth through her hand. It wasn't painful, but it carried a weight, a responsibility she wasn't sure she could bear. She stared at the object, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear.
The voice softened, almost gentle now. "You carry our blood, our magic. You are the hope we thought lost. Do not be afraid."
Belial clenched her jaw, her fingers tightening around the talisman. Fear warred with a growing sense of determination. If what the voice said was true, then she carried the legacy of an entire people—one that had been silenced for generations.
She rose from the chair, her movements deliberate now. Her golden eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, filled with a fire she hadn't realized was there.
"I don't know why you've chosen me," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "But I won't let you down."
The talisman warmed in response, as if acknowledging her resolve.
Belial turned to the window, her gaze fixed on the moonlit grounds of the academy. The weight of her newfound identity pressed against her, but she straightened her spine, refusing to let it bow her.
She was the last of the Salem witches, and she would honor their memory—no matter what it took.