"Who tricked you into doing this?" I demand, my voice raw. "This kind of spell... it costs you everything. Your body and soul."
"Tricked me?" The girl laughs, a brittle, terrifying sound that holds no joy. "Hahaha. You see what they did to me. No one tricked me."
"Then why me of all people?" I plead, the question echoing the darkness of the woods. "Do you even know me?"
The spectral girl leans closer, her hollow eyes burning. "Yes. You are Lyra. The notorious witch whose past is etched in blood and betrayal." Her voice drops, becoming accusatory as she recites a terrifying, fabricated history.
"Once a powerful, but chillingly pragmatic, member of a secretive coven, you earned your darkest reputation as the Slayer of the Vampire Lord, a feat achieved not through noble heroism, but through ruthless, calculated power."
I feel a physical shock, the blatant lie slamming into me.
"You became the infamous Poisonous Bride," she continues, leaning in, "using a venomous wedding to shatter alliances and secure your own dark ambitions. You are now known widely as a villainous witch, cold-hearted and evil, the perfect person for the job."
Slayer of the Vampire Lord? Poisonous Bride? It was clearly lies, twisted and spiced up by someone with malicious intent. I never poisoned Lucien nor killed him.
"Someone lied to you," I say, the protest weak against the force of her dark conviction. "I didn't do all that."
"It doesn't matter," she snaps, the dark energy flaring around her. "You are already here, and I need those three dead." She means the family who tortured her. But why would whoever knew this spell not help her? The thought is a needle of ice.
"Whoever helped you with this dangerous spell," I ask, my voice tightening with suspicion, "why didn't they help you to get out of this situation?"
The young woman's ghostly head tilts. "No one helped me. I helped myself."
I don't believe it. The ritual is too dangerous, too complex for an untaught witch even if she was innate. But the truth is irrelevant now.
"If you want to keep this body, you have to fulfill three obligations," she states, the voice of the tormented child replaced by the cold logic of the curse. "All three. I want them dead, and it shouldn't be quick."
The young woman's eyes turn redder and even more sinister as she floats around me, the dark aura chilling my soul. She stops right behind me and whispers, her voice eerie: "Make them suffer until I am satisfied."
My gaze instantly blurs. The resentful ghost, the fresh grave, the snowy forest all of it is sucked away in a wrenching pull. I open my eyes, and I am slammed back into the cold, crushing reality of my newly reborn body and the claustrophobic wooden crate coffin.
I am here now, in this broken, sickly shell of a young woman, and the terms of my rebirth, the slow, agonizing deaths of three tormentors, are absolute.
The memory of the girl's suffering, her silent tears, the crack of the whip, fuels a terrifying, cold resolve. I ignore the throbbing everywhere, the frantic need for air, and force my mind to focus. I reach inward, searching for the dry, dead well of my old magic, but instead, I find a flickering ember.
This body is weak, abused, and barely fed, but its inherent magic is innate and pure, unmarred by the dark powers I used to wield.
It is a natural talent, a clear, rushing spring. And flowing into it, amplifying it, is the vast, ancient power of my own soul, marked by centuries of life, death, and now, resurrection. The two powers, the raw talent of the young woman and the ruthless experience of my spirit, lock together, a perfect, terrible ignition.
I begin to chant. The words are pulled from the deepest, forgotten corners of my being, a spell of violent, desperate unbinding. They are thin and raspy in this young throat, but they vibrate with amplified power, shaking the wood around me.
Tenebris. Ferum. Solvo.
The crate gives a sharp, protesting squeal. The nails holding the lid shut immediately split the damp, rotten wood, releasing a shower of rusty metal. The sound is deafening in the tiny space.
Then, the ceiling of the coffin collapses. A wave of frozen, heavy soil pours down onto my face, forcing dirt into my mouth and eyes.
I push, fueled by adrenaline and curse-magic, not strength. My shoulders hit the ragged opening, scraping raw flesh as I desperately crawl out of the earth.
I break the surface, gasping for the cold, clean air. I pull myself completely free, throwing my body onto the pile of overturned dirt, and I sit there for a second, my lungs heaving.
I am panting, truly winded, and I realize the depth of the body's weakness. This girl was starving, her muscles atrophied. Every movement is a monumental effort.
I push myself to stand. I am covered in wet, freezing dirt and mud, which mats the long, dark hair to my face. My bare feet, already bruised from the torture she was subjected to, step directly onto the snow. The cold stings, but it also anchors me, grounding the runaway energy of the resurrection.
I look toward the tree line, toward the direction they carried her from. I see no light, but I see the path of their wheelbarrow.
The walk is agonizing. My bare feet, already raw, are instantly numb in the snow, but the sight of the dark outline of the house gives me purpose. I am freezing, covered in the dirt of the grave, but the knowledge of the young girl's torture is a hot, relentless pressure behind my ribs.
Soon, I see the lights. It is a warm, inviting yellow glow spilling from the windows, promising comfort to the three monsters inside. My lip curls into a sinister smile. Warmth is not what they will receive.
I pick up a heavy, chopped log near the woodpile. My body is weak, but my will is not. I walk up the creaking wooden stairs of the front porch.
My aura is imposing, fueled by the combined power of two witches and the rage of a resurrection spell. My eyes, still echoing the deep red of the ghostly whisper, burn in the darkness.
I open the screen door, a small sound, then yank the main door open. This small-town life, where everyone trusts everyone, means the latch is unlocked.
The house is old and the air is thick with the scent of cheap cleaning spray and stale sweat. The floorboards creak beneath my feet, announcing my presence.
I hear the sound of cheers coming from the lounge and a woman's voice calling from the kitchen: "Onion, pepperoni pizza, two pineapple pizzas, and..." She pauses, yelling, "Al, do you want anything else?!"