Hylder's Curse 2 Coming Soon ¿,!

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THE BATTLE OF WITCHE'S DEN

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Gwendolynn the Good had always been a vision—long blonde hair like spun sunlight, eyes bright as candle‑flame, and those famously scandalous short blue lace outfits that made even other witches whisper. But beauty wasn’t her power. Her power was rightness—a kind of inner clarity that made her magic steady, luminous, and incorruptible. And that was exactly why her wicked cousin Mavis hated her. --- 🌒 The Witche’s Den The ancestral grounds were older than any living witch remembered: a stone‑and‑earth castle built into the hillside, its foundations sinking deep into the mountain like roots. Locals called it The Witche’s Den, but witches knew its true name was The Sleeping Hollow, because something ancient had been dreaming beneath it for three centuries. The castle belonged to Gwendolynn by bloodright.   But Mavis—sharp‑tongued, raven‑haired, and wicked in the way that felt almost elegant—wanted it for herself. Not for the land.   Not for the castle. ...
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The Fledgling and the Ice Dragon

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## Chapter 1: The Frost-Etched Egg The Great Hall of the Aethelgard Academy was usually a place of booming echoes and the smell of ancient parchment. For Elian, a third-year apprentice with ink-stained fingers and a perpetual cowlick, it was currently a place of suffocating silence. He stood before the High Magister, his boots clicking nervously on the obsidian floor. Between them sat a heavy iron crate, venting a steady, rhythmic pulse of cold mist that clung to the floor like a living thing. "The northern expeditions found it in the ribs of a dying glacier," Magister Thorne said, his voice as dry as the deserts he usually studied. "An Ice Dragon. *Draco glacies*. They are thought to be extinct in the southern reaches, Elian. This egg is volatile, sensitive to the slightest shift in magical resonance. You have been chosen not for your power, but for your patience." Elian swallowed hard. He wasn't the strongest evocator, nor the swiftest at alchemy. ...
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Hecate of the CrossRoads

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Hecate of the Crossroads In the hush between the heartbeat and the flame, Where shadows stretch and whisper out her name, She walks the paths no mortal dares to see Hecate reigns in triple sovereignty. At moonrise pale, with torches held on high, She parts the veil that blinds the inward eye, Her hounds cry out where restless spirits roam, And guide the lost and wandering dead back home. At crossroads carved in silence, stone, and bone, She claims the night as wholly as her own, Three faces turned to past and yet-to-be, She threads the loom of fate’s dark tapestry. She taught the herbs their secrets, root and leaf, To heal the wound or conjure dream or grief, In whispered rites where candle smoke ascends, She bends the will where mortal magic ends. When Persephone was taken by the deep, And Demeter’s sorrow shook the earth from sleep, It was Hecate, with flame that would not wane, Who lit the path through shadow, loss, and pain. She rides the wind where storm and omen meet,...
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