- Don't attract attention.
- Don't use magic in front of humans (see rule #1).
- And above all else, avoid letters sealed with black wax—especially those bearing the thorny crest of Blackthorn Keep.
She'd been doing fine. Great, actually.
Until today.
Mo took a slow breath, inhaling the mingled scents of aged paper, freshly ground beans, and the hint of cinnamon from today's special. This cozy bookstore café was her sanctuary, where Edison bulbs cast honey-gold light over worn armchairs and shelves bent under the weight of a thousand worlds. Here, the only magic came from stories, not bloodlines.
She ran her fingers across a worn counter, her gaze drifting over the familiar spines that lined every wall. She chose this place after a long deliberation and intense search, tucked away from the world. A place where she was just Mo—the friendly barista who gave great book recommendations and knew how to craft the perfect latte art.
Returning from her reverie, Mo froze. The cup of latte she'd been preparing hovered a centimeter above the counter, spinning lazily counter-clockwise, foam swirling into intricate patterns no barista course had taught her. The cinnamon sprinkles arranged themselves into what looked suspiciously like ancient runes.
"Damn it," she hissed, fingers clenching as she forced the cup down with a soft clink. "Get it together, Mo."
With a soft clink, the cup dropped back on the saucer and stopped shifting. It was a tiny piece of magic, but even that wasn't wise in a life she wanted to keep as ordinary as possible. Of course, books fluttering closed on their own or dishes floating for a second. Those tricks were easy to dismiss as imagination or coincidence.
Mo knew she shouldn't do that. She craved normalcy. But these little sparks of power were the only nod to a past she kept buried.
Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through dusty windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the warm air. Mo restocked the shelves with the latest arrivals, brushing her fingertips across the colorful spines. A young girl tugged at her sleeve, eyes wide with excitement.
"Excuse me, do you have any books about dragons?"
"Absolutely," Mo replied, guiding the girl to a shelf packed with fantasy novels. "You'll find plenty of adventures here. If you want to test them first, you can seat in those cozy armchairs over there."
Soon, the girl's laughter rang like a bell as she flipped through the pages, enthralled by fire-breathing beasts and brave heroes. Mo couldn't help but smile, seeing a child who had never experienced an encounter with a real dragon. In moments like this, she felt at peace—no mention of her odd last name or reminders of the inheritance that loomed in the background.
A gray-haired guy with a kind smile awaited when she returned to the counter. Mo frothed the milk and poured it into a cup, shaping a perfect leaf on the surface. The man reached for his latte and gave her an appreciative nod.
"Oh, it's just perfect," the man said. "It's like it was 3D-printed! Or..." he paused dramatically. "Made with magic!"
"Ha-ha! Just my trained hands here," answered Mo with a smile, showing her open palms.
The ease of these interactions. Absence of manipulative tactics. Ordinary chatter, friendly faces, no family secrets. Mo loved all of that.
Soon after the man left, the brass bell above the door fell silent mid-chime. A sudden chill slithered across the floorboards, turning the cozy warmth brittle. Mo's spine went rigid before she even turned. The espresso machine sputtered and died. Every light dimmed as if something were drinking the electricity.
Perched on the window sill was a raven, its feathers so black they seemed to swallow the afternoon sunlight. Its eyes—too knowing, too ancient—fixed on Mo with unmistakable recognition. The dishcloth slipped from her fingers as memories she'd spent years burying clawed their way to the surface.
The raven hopped onto a table, silent and still, a cold presence in a place meant for warmth and laughter. A place that Mo chose explicitly for its mundanity. Mo willed it to leave, but instead, the raven tilted his head and dropped a letter onto the tabletop. The envelope didn't have a name or a return address on it. Instead, it was sealed with black wax.
Mo's stomach twisted.
She recognized the crest pressed into that seal: a twisted, thorny emblem from a place she had made so many efforts to forget. Taking a tremulous breath, Mo approached, snatching the letter before any of her customers noticed. Even if it was hard to hope that no one wouldn't be surprised by a large black bird sitting on the table indoors.
"Please go," she whispered, heart hammering in her chest. "You are starting to attract attention."
The raven only cocked his head, black eyes reflecting the warm golden light of the café. Then he spoke in a rasping croak that sent a tremor up her spine: "Alright, alright. I'm out of here—happy now?"
Before Mo could reply, the bird fluttered his wings and vanished through the open door. She stared after him, the echo of that ragged voice lodging in her mind.
Pressing the letter against her apron, Mo fought the urge to tear it up on the spot. But she knew better than to destroy the message. Surprisingly, no one else in the café seemed to notice anything unusual. It was as if the door had never opened, and the raven had never let itself inside.
Mo went back to the counter. Nothing changed in the space around her. But now, she could see all the books that were returned to the wrong places by the customers. All the cracks of the ancient counter. All the spots on the tables that she could never fully clean up.
With forced composure, Mo slipped the envelope into a drawer beneath the register. She wasn't going to open it. Not yet. Not ever, if she could help it. But her heart refused to slow, and a faint hum of dread settled over her day.
Mo locked up the café that evening. Flipping the sign on the door to Closed, she prepared herself for the last chores of the late shift. She still had to prepare the place for the morning.
The hush that fell over the store was usually her favorite part of the day, a time when the only sounds were the soft settling of books and the faint whir of cooling coffee machines. Tonight, though, the silence pressed on her like a weight. She glanced toward the drawer where the letter lay hidden. It felt like the letter pulsed with power she couldn't ignore.
Shaking off her nerves, Mo finished wiping down the tables. A flicker at the window snagged her attention. She turned, heart stuttering. Outside, a raven perched on the streetlamp, illuminated by the dim glow. He stared straight into the bookstore, straight at her.
Her throat tightened. "Not tonight," she muttered. "Please, not tonight."
But the raven didn't leave until she shut off the lights. And even then, he lingered for a few minutes as if making sure that he wasn't getting an answer any time soon.
By the next afternoon, Mo had almost convinced herself it was all a bad dream. She greeted regulars with a cheery smile and recommended titles to curious newcomers. But tension coiled beneath her friendly demeanor.
"Hey, Mo," a voice called from across the room, breaking the spell of her little moment. It was Mrs. Harlow, a regular who always came in for her afternoon tea and a chat. "I never paid attention to your last name. But, you know, I've been reading the schedule of the restroom cleaning shifts… hm… in the restroom. And saw it near your name. Nightshade? That's a peculiar last name, isn't it?"
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Mo forced a laugh.
"My parents are goths—super into spooky stuff," she said. "You haven't yet heard my full first name. It's all, uh, part of the family brand."
Mrs. Harlow chuckled, picked up a book, and returned to her table, seemingly satisfied. Mo exhaled, grateful the conversation hadn't gone further. Sharing too much of her family's history was never a safe thing.
She returned to organizing the shelves, smoothing out the covers. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him again: the raven.
He was perched on a ledge just outside the window. At least the raven wasn't trying to sneak in anymore. But something had to be done about it. And done soon.
Mo tried to focus on the café chatter, the hiss of the espresso machine, anything to distract herself. But every glance at the window revealed the same glossy black wings and those eerie, unblinking eyes.
Refusing to give in to panic, Mo summoned a tiny flicker of magic to steady the pile of books in her arms. They floated gently from her hands onto the shelf. She never allowed herself to do this, afraid of rumors and misunderstandings. Still, it centered her and gave her a small opportunity to do something that was second nature to her.
The sensation was so good that Mo almost took solace in its neatness. Both the magical action and the result. Until the raven fluttered his wings in what looked like a mocking response.
He saw.
Another shift ended, and Mo found herself alone. The lights dimmed, and the doors locked. She pulled open the drawer beneath the counter. The letter, sealed with black wax, looked at her ominously. Of course, it didn't literally look at Mo. But she felt its pointed attention.
After a moment's hesitation, Mo set it on the countertop, staring at the elaborate crest pressed into the seal.
Blackthorn Keep.
It was a name that brought a storm of memories—her parents, old halls echoing with spells, the claustrophobic weight of a legacy she never asked for. The darkness.
Her throat constricted. And when she took it in her hands, the letter felt heavier than paper should be.
"Just burn it," she whispered to herself. "No more nightmares, no more ravens."
Yet her feet didn't move. She didn't go to pick up a pan or a pot in which she could safely destroy this envelope. She wrestled with indecision, the hush of the store closing in around her. Finally, Mo snatched the letter and headed into the kitchen. But as soon as she struck a match, the door at the back of the café flew open, hitting the wall with a dull thud.
Mo spun around to find the raven standing in the doorway— looming even larger than before, his feathers so black that it felt like they had absorbed the dim light. One moment, he stood there; the next, he beat his wings and vanished, leaving only a swirl of cold air and the feeling that something ancient was watching.
The letter slipped from Mo's fingers, landing on the floor before she could put it to flames. She gasped, heart thudding, and picked it up again. Magic tingled at her fingertips, an unwanted reminder of her true identity.
This time, she took the letter home. The whole night, it lay on her small kitchen table, and Mo almost sensed whispers crawling into her dreams. She wasn't even sure if it were really dreams or something else. But when the first light of the new day crept from behind the curtain, Mo felt like she hadn't slept even a minute.
***
Early next morning, Mo stood her hands on her hips in the entrance hall of her apartment. From this spot, she could see the letter still waiting for her on the kitchen table. She hoped it wouldn't be there. A girl could dream, right? But, of course, it didn't move even a millimeter.
"A quick peek," she muttered. "Then I'll decide."
She took a few decisive steps, approached the table, and broke the seal with one quick motion. The letter's script was ornate, almost archaic. Proper. At the top, it bore the crest of the High Council, along with an urgent summon:
By order of the High Council, Morgana Nightshade is summoned to Blackthorn Keep. Your parents have gone missing. As the statutory waiting time has elapsed, your inheritance has to be claimed. Your presence is required immediately.
Mo's blood turned to ice. Missing? That couldn't be right. They might have been distant and wrapped up in their own affairs. They left all the time for their weird projects and escapades. But her parents never just vanished.
Anger welled in her—was this some twisted ploy to lure her back?
Slamming the letter on the table, she paced the tiny apartment. She wanted her quiet life, her bookstore café, her beloved, mundane routine. She wasn't the wandering heir to a dangerous legacy; she was just Mo, the barista who recommended great reads.
Yet the words on the page refused to fade. She thought of that unnatural raven. Of course, she knew him. She had known him well since her earliest childhood. Mo recognized him at first sight.
And the creeping shadows in her apartment, the faint hum of magic in her veins that had felt so alive since the letter arrived. In the pit of her stomach, she knew that ignoring the summons wouldn't make them go away.
Despite everything that was happening in her life, despite the ominous news about her parents, Mo went through the motions—serving customers at the café, chatting about novels, and restocking shelves. But she caught herself flinching at every slight movement of shadow. More than once, she saw a flicker of black outside the windows. Whether it was the same raven or her rattled imagination, she couldn't say.
Mr. Thompson, a regular known for his mystery-novel obsessions, noticed her mood. "You all right, Mo? You seem a bit on edge today. Do you need any help?"
Mo mustered a tight smile. "Just didn't sleep well, Mr. T. Everything's fine."
He nodded sympathetically. "Well, take care of yourself, kiddo. Sleep is important. When you don't sleep, you start to see all sorts of strange things!"
Eh… What did he know about strange things? And it wasn't like Mo didn't try to sleep. But the pull of the letter buzzed at the back of her mind like a persistent wasp. Each hour that passed felt heavier, as if time itself was thickening around her. She could almost feel the whole weight of Blackthorn Keep pressing on her, calling her name with a voice that echoed through centuries of her family's lineage.
That evening, she stood alone in her apartment, watching shadows gather in the corners. Mo couldn't force herself to step into the kitchen and didn't even grab anything to eat yet. The letter lay on her kitchen table. Of course, where would it go from there?
A small, half-packed suitcase sat by the door—a grudging admission that she might have to leave.
Slowly, she stretched her hand and turned on the light. It was as if the decision would have been easier if it hadn't been made in darkness.
Darkness. That was it. That was what the decision was about.
Mo turned the letter over and over in her hands. Memories of the Keep overwhelmed her: the echo of ancient halls, cryptic incantations scrawled on stone walls, her parents' aloof silhouettes gliding through corridors. Insane parties and affairs. Control and manipulation. She'd left that world because it had felt oppressive, stifling.
Yet now, it reached for her again.
Mo clenched her jaw. She struck a match and brought it to the letter. The paper didn't burn—it dissolved, black wax melting upward against gravity, letter crumbling into motes that hung suspended in the air. In their place, silence spread like spilled ink, so complete Mo could hear her own heartbeat echoing off the walls. For three breaths, she dared to hope.
Then came the humming—a sound that vibrated in her molars before reaching her ears, like thunder trapped inside her skull. The potted fern by the window withered. Her phone died with a plaintive beep. The shadows peeled themselves from every corner, slithering across the ceiling and walls to converge in her living room—not darkness, but absence, a hungry void that bent the light around it.
A portal. The air crackled with ozone and possibility, that unmistakable metallic tang of raw magic that brought back memories of sneaking into her father's study, of whispered incantations under moonless skies.
"Of course," thought Mo. "They know me too well. They knew how to trigger it."
Mo's breath came in rapid gulps as she crept toward the roiling darkness. The half-packed suitcase sat next to her feet; she grabbed it on instinct. There was no point in taking much—what use were clothes and toiletries in a place where spells reigned?
"This is a terrible idea," she whispered. The swirling portal seemed to pulse in agreement, a silent heartbeat in the gloom.
Mo squeezed the handle of her suitcase. She heard a distant caw in the stillness—like the raven was mocking her from without. Her throat tightened, and for an instant, she considered running. But where would she go? The Keep wouldn't let her slip away, not if it had truly begun to seek for Mo…rgana. If it had started to attune itself to her.
Mo stood at the edge of normalcy, her carefully constructed life behind her, the shadows of her birthright ahead. The half-packed suitcase held pitifully little—a worn paperback, her favorite coffee mug, the ordinary talismans of a life she'd chosen. None of it belonged where she was going.
"Just one look," she promised herself. "Just to make sure they're really gone."
Summoning every ounce of nerve she had left, Mo extended her hand. The portal's surface felt cool and fluid, neither liquid nor gas but something ancient that predated such distinctions. It swallowed her fingers, recognizing her blood, her magic—the heritage she couldn't escape. The darkness tugged at her with the familiarity of family, urging her to surrender.
She clutched the suitcase until her knuckles ached.
"Damn it," she muttered, closing her eyes as the café apron dropped forgotten to the floor. "Damn it all."
Heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, she stepped through.
The apartment vanished in a rush of disorienting cold. In its place came suffocating shadows and the faint echo of distant bells tolling. Mo was caught between worlds for one breathless instant, her body weightless, her mind spinning. A single thought thundered through her:
I was right—this is a terrible idea.
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