Magic, Amara quickly learned, was not like the movies.
There were no swirling blue balls of power flying from her fingers on day one.
No dramatic hair blowing in invisible wind.
No instant transformation from "confused Nigerian uni girl" to "all-powerful witch queen."
There was just:
Sweat.
Headaches.
And her grandmother hitting the back of her head with a spoon whenever she lost focus.
⸻
They started that same night.
The sitting room became a training ground.
The center table was pushed aside. The curtains were drawn. A single candle burned in the middle of the room, small and steady.
"Rule one," Grandma said, barefoot on the tiled floor, wrapper tied high on her waist. "Magic is not separate from you. It is not something out there that you call like a taxi. It is part of how you exist. You don't 'summon' it. You remember it."
Amara sat cross-legged on the rug, the necklace warm against her skin.
"Okay," she said slowly. "So how do I 'remember' something I don't… remember?"
Grandma ignored the question.
"Close your eyes," she ordered.
Amara obeyed.
"Breathe," Grandma said. "In. Out. In. Out. Feel your body. The weight of your bones. The beat of your heart. The way your lungs expand."
Amara focused.
Her breathing steadied.
"Now," Grandma continued, softer, "feel beyond that. The space around you. The air touching your skin. The floor holding you up. The candle's heat. You don't have to see it. Just… sense it."
At first, there was nothing.
Just darkness behind her eyelids and the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
Then, slowly, something shifted.
She became aware of the faintest pressure on her skin—the air, holding her as gently as the floor did.
The candle at the center of the room was a warm dot in her awareness.
Grandma was a denser shape, layered and calm.
"Good," Grandma murmured. "Now, reach inward. There is a place in you where your breath, your blood, and your will meet. Some feel it in the chest. Some in the belly. Some behind the eyes. Find yours."
Amara frowned slightly.
She lowered her awareness, scanning her own body from the inside.
Her lungs expanded.
Her heart beat.
Her stomach complained faintly about being denied second dinner.
But beneath all that… there.
A point.
Low, just below her ribs.
Warm.
Quiet.
Not physical.
She focused on it.
It pulsed gently in response.
"I think I found it," she whispered.
Grandma's voice was pleased.
"Of course you did," she said. "That is your well. Your core. Your power does not sit in your hands. It flows from there."
Amara swallowed.
It felt… weirdly intimate, like discovering a secret room inside herself.
"Now," Grandma said, "without opening your eyes, extend a thread from that place to the candle."
"A thread," Amara repeated. "Like… rope?"
"Like intention," Grandma said. "Like when you look at someone across a room and they look back, even though you haven't spoken. That invisible line. Build it from your will and send it toward the flame."
Amara inhaled.
She pictured the warm point inside her, then imagined a thin line stretching from it—through her chest, through the air—to touch the candle's heat.
Something tugged.
The warmth of the flame brushed her awareness like a soft shock.
She gasped.
"Good," Grandma said again, voice low. "Now, with that thread, say hello."
Amara's eyes flew open.
"How will I say hello to fire?" she demanded.
"Not with your mouth," Grandma said, unimpressed. "With your intention. Do you want to move it? Calm it? Grow it? Choose one. And then ask."
Amara glanced at the candle.
The flame stood steady.
She exhaled slowly.
"Fine," she muttered, closing her eyes again.
She rebuilt the thread—faster this time.
Touched the flame.
This time, instead of just poking, she pushed a feeling down the line.
Come here.
The flame flickered.
Her eyes snapped open.
The candle's flame had stretched higher for a heartbeat—then settled, as if embarrassed.
Amara stared.
"I did that," she whispered.
"Who else?" Grandma said dryly. "The neighbors?"
A surge of giddiness moved through Amara.
She pointed at the candle like a child accusing a guilty sibling.
"I did that," she said again, louder.
"Yes, yes," Grandma said. "Control your excitement. Pride makes magic reckless. Again."
They practiced until her head throbbed.
Touch. Pull. Release.
Make the flame bend, stretch, shrink.
Each time, she felt drained—like she'd run mental laps—but at the same time, something in her felt more… aligned.
Like she'd been walking with one eye closed all her life, and now the second one was blinking open.
⸻
Once she could make the candle obey with a thought and a breath, Grandma moved on.
"Defence first," she said. "Always. Offensive magic is useless if one good hit can scatter you."
She knelt in front of Amara, their knees almost touching.
"Shielding," she said. "Not just emotional. Energetic. There are two types. Passive and active. You have already been doing passive—pulling your aura tight. Now, you will learn active. When something hits you—curiosity, compulsion, a probe—you answer it."
"How?" Amara asked. "Throw my CV at it?"
Grandma didn't smile.
"There is a word," she said. "Old. From before human tongues shifted. Serena used it often. It means 'Not for you.'"
Grandma slowly enunciated a single harsh, lilting syllable that seemed to vibrate in the air for a few seconds after she stopped speaking.
Amara shivered.
"That sounded like a threat," she muttered.
"It is," Grandma said. "Against intrusion."
She took Amara's hands.
"I will push," Grandma said. "You will resist. Are you ready?"
Amara nodded, though her throat felt dry.
"Close your eyes."
She did.
"Build your usual shield," Grandma instructed. "Fold your light around you. Tight."
Amara did.
Her aura zipped in close, the gold-blue mixture curling around her like a cloak.
Then, like cold fingers, she felt something press against it.
Not physically.
In her mind.
Her grandmother's presence—which was usually warm and gentle—turned sharp, focused, probing.
"Don't panic," Grandma said quietly. Her voice sounded distant, as if coming down a tunnel. "This is me. Only me."
The pressure increased.
Her shield strained.
It felt like someone leaning harder and harder against a locked door.
Amara's first instinct was to push back with everything she had.
Her second was to run.
She remembered Darian's words: You must learn faster than Serena did.
She remembered Lucian's voice saying, Because you seem interesting.
Interesting was dangerous.
She anchored herself.
Feet on the floor.
Well in her chest.
Air in her lungs.
As the pressure built, she let her awareness rest right behind her shield and spoke the word Grandma had taught her—first in her mind, then softly under her breath.
The syllable vibrated through her.
Her shield flashed.
The pressure hit it—
—and slid off.
Abruptly.
Like oil on glass.
Grandma gasped.
The pressure disappeared.
Amara opened her eyes.
Her grandmother was smiling for real this time.
"You see?" Grandma said, eyes bright. "You learn quickly."
Amara panted a little.
"That felt like someone throwing water at glass," she said. "I thought it would crack."
"It would have," Grandma said. "If you had pushed back with brute force. You didn't. You redirected. That word is not a hammer. It is… a boundary. It tells the magic: 'You stop here.'"
Amara leaned back on her hands.
"So if Lucian tries to get into my head…" she began.
"You'll feel it," Grandma said. "And you'll tell him, without saying a word, 'Not for you.'"
Amara chewed her lip.
"And if he doesn't listen?" she asked.
Grandma's smile vanished.
"Then we move to offensive spells," she said. "And he will regret it."
⸻
They practiced simple offensive work next.
Nothing flashy.
"Offence is not about showing off," Grandma said. "It is about interruption. Disruption. Buy yourself time to run or strike properly."
She placed a small metal spoon on the table.
"This is your enemy," she said.
"Poor spoon," Amara muttered.
"Focus," Grandma snapped.
They worked on pinching—sending a sharp burst of energy to jolt or sting—and tripping—making a patch of air or floor briefly unstable.
By midnight, Amara could make the spoon jump and clatter just by flicking her attention at it.
When she sent a particularly solid jolt, the spoon flew off the table entirely.
"Yes!" she crowed.
She raised her hands in the air in victory.
The lightbulb above them popped.
The room went dark.
Grandma sighed in the dark.
"Overexcited," she said. "You flared outward without direction. That is how people set houses on fire."
"Oops," Amara said meekly.
She snapped her fingers instinctively—and to her shock, a soft spark jumped from her thumb to her forefinger, illuminating her face for a second.
Then it vanished.
"Did you see that?" she squeaked.
"Of course," Grandma said calmly. "We'll work on fine control of sparks another day. For now, bed."
"But I'm not tired," Amara lied, swaying slightly where she sat.
"You are," Grandma said. "Burn too hard at the start, you crash later. Serena made that mistake."
The mention of Serena brought a dull ache to Amara's chest.
"Did you know her?" she asked quietly as they tidied up the sitting room.
Grandma paused.
"Not in the way you mean," she said. "I knew her as story. As warning. My mother's mother was a child when Serena cursed the vampires. She said the air tasted different afterward. Bitter and bright. She said Serena's scream never really left the world."
She looked at Amara.
"Maybe now," Grandma said softly, "with you, we can let it rest."
Amara gripped the back of the chair.
"Do you want me to break the curse?" she asked. "Really? After everything they've done? After Darian? After us hiding like rats for generations?"
Her grandmother's jaw tightened.
"I want you alive," she said. "More than I want them punished."
She walked toward the hallway.
At her bedroom door, she stopped.
"If breaking the curse keeps you alive, I will help you break it," Grandma said. "If keeping it does… we will keep it. This is not about justice, Amara. Justice is for people with time and safety. We have neither. We have survival."
She went inside and closed the door gently.
Amara stood alone in the dim room.
Her necklace pulsed once, twice, like a quiet heartbeat.
She pressed her palm against it.
"I don't even know what I want yet," she whispered to no one.
The necklace stayed warm.
It didn't answer.
⸻
On the other side of the city, the Lucian house was not sleeping either.
The dining room—long, polished, too large for just one family—was full.
Lucian sat at the far end of the table.
His aunt sat at the head.
The others—their "siblings," though only some were truly blood—flanked them.
They looked like a fashion campaign: each one unnaturally beautiful in a slightly different flavor.
Leah, sharp and dangerous.
Rian, lounging in his chair like a bored prince.
Matteo, fingers tapping soundlessly on the table, eyes shadowed and calculating.
Two younger ones watched everything with too-bright eyes that still hadn't learned to hide their hunger.
On the table, no one had touched the food.
They didn't need it.
Wine glasses weren't filled with wine.
Not all of them had chosen to drink tonight.
Lucian's stayed empty.
"You've confirmed it," his aunt said, fingers steepled. "She is Serena's heir."
Lucian thought of Amara standing in the corridor, gaze carefully avoiding his.
"No human feels like that," he said. "No normal witch either. Her aura is… layered. Old and new at once."
Leah smirked.
"You're staring at auras now?" she asked. "Adorable."
Rian leaned forward.
"Can you push her?" he asked. "Compel a little? See how strong her defenses are."
Lucian shook his head once.
"I already tried," he said. "Light touch. Barely anything. She felt it."
The room stilled.
"She… what?" his aunt asked quietly.
Lucian met her gaze.
"She felt it," he repeated. "I saw it in her eyes. She didn't break. She didn't lean in. She… slid around it. Like she'd been trained."
A murmur went around the table.
"So the witches are not sleeping as soundly as we thought," Matteo murmured. "They've been preparing her."
"Good," Lucian's aunt said. "I would have been disappointed otherwise."
Rian made a face.
"You're the only one who thinks 'hard to control' is a good thing," he muttered.
His aunt smiled slightly.
"We are not raising cattle," she said. "We are dealing with a living key. Keys that do not resist are usually traps."
She turned back to Lucian.
"You will continue to get close," she said. "But gently. No more prodding for now. Curiosity, not pressure."
Lucian nodded, though something in him bristled at the order to stop testing her.
"And the rest of us?" Leah drawled.
His aunt's gaze slid along the table.
"You will stay away," she said. "For now. Let Lucian be the only constant in her new world. Too many of us circling will make the wolves obvious."
Rian scoffed quietly.
"We are not wolves," he said. "We are—"
"Predators," his aunt cut in. "Call it poetry if you wish. The function is the same."
She looked back at Lucian.
"There is one more thing," she said. "We need to know how deeply she's embedded. Who she lives with. What protections surround her home. Old witches love wards. Younger ones love mistakes."
Lucian stilled.
"You want me to follow her," he said.
"Discreetly," his aunt said. "You are not a fledgling. You know how to cloak yourself."
He did.
It still made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
"She's suspicious already," he said. "If she sees me near her house, the game ends early."
"Then don't be seen," Leah said sweetly.
His aunt tapped a finger lightly against her glass.
"Rian," she said, without looking at him, "you will trail him from a distance. If anything goes wrong, you pull him out. If anyone else interferes…"
Her eyes went cold.
"Remove them," she finished.
Rian grinned.
"With pleasure."
Lucian sat still for a moment.
"If we find strong witch wards," he said slowly, "what then?"
"Then we know they are serious," his aunt said. "And we adjust. Perhaps we approach the older ones instead. Deals can be made. Threats can be shaped."
She smiled.
"Or," she added, "we burn the house down and steal the girl from the ashes. We'll see."
Lucian's jaw clenched.
He didn't let it show.
He stood when dismissed and walked out into the cool night air of the courtyard.
The sky above was hazy.
He tilted his head back anyway.
Somewhere, in the weave of the world, he could feel it.
A slight… strain.
Like a knot pulling tight.
The curse.
Old magic stirring.
His mark under his skin pulsed faintly.
For the first time in years, under the ancient, suffocating weight of his family's expectations, he felt something dangerously close to…
Doubt.
⸻
Amara slept like a stone that night.
No dreams.
No visions.
Just heavy, exhausted black.
In the early hours, before dawn, she woke to a prickling sensation along her spine.
Not a vision.
Not a call.
A warning.
Her eyes snapped open.
The room was dark.
Her necklace was warm.
She lay very still, listening.
The world outside was quiet.
Then, faintly, she heard it.
A soft disturbance in the flow of energy around the house.
Grandma's wards hummed gently in the walls—a lattice of protection that she could now see when she squinted her senses.
Something brushed against that lattice.
Lightly.
Testing.
Like a fingertip running along the outside of a fence.
Her heart hammered.
She swung her legs slowly to the floor.
Padded silently to her window.
Carefully, she peeled back the curtain just a bit.
The street outside looked normal.
Streetlight flickering.
Stray dog sniffing at something by the gutter.
No figures.
No looming shapes.
But the magic didn't lie.
Something unseen was walking past their house.
Amara reached for her well.
Just in case.
The wards brightened slightly in response.
Down the hall, she heard the soft creak of another door opening.
Grandma.
They didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
The presence outside paused.
For a long moment, Amara felt it hover—
—and then move on.
The tension in the wards eased.
Grandma appeared at her door, a faintly glowing sigil fading from her palm.
"Did you feel that?" Amara whispered.
"Yes," Grandma said. "They are not knocking yet. Only pacing."
Amara swallowed.
"Lucian?" she asked.
"Maybe," Grandma said. "Maybe another. It doesn't matter. What matters is this: they know which street to watch now. We have less time than I hoped."
She held out her hand.
"Come," Grandma said. "The sun is not up yet. It is the best time for harsh lessons."
Amara groaned.
"Harsh how?" she asked, already following.
"In this world," Grandma said, "you will not always have time to breathe and center before danger comes."
She glanced back.
"Today," she said, "we see what you do when someone actually tries to hurt you."
Amara's stomach flipped.
"But," she protested, "I've only been doing this for one day!"
Grandma's eyes were steady.
"The world will not wait," she said. "And neither can we."
The candle flickered to life on its own as they entered the sitting room.
Outside, dawn was still a rumor.
Inside, under the thin roof of their home, two bloodlines were moving:
One training a girl to survive.
One closing in to claim her.
And above them all, somewhere between worlds, an old curse shifted in its sleep—waiting for the moment it would be truly awakened or finally unmade.