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Interlude - The Witch’s Coven
🕑 Added 2026-01-20 20:15:09 +0000 UTCAN: Still on break until Thursday, here's a bit of a chonker interlude.
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Mirelda Cowens, and yes that was her real name, was nervous. A conclave had been called, and her mentor told her that everyone was coming. That hadn’t happened before... since, well, before Mirelda had been invited to the Witch’s Coven.
Everyone was coming.
She went down to take a seat when a glare hit her from the side. Mirelda instantly stopped and blinked. Then turned to the one that had hit her with such negative emotions. It was the Matron Crone, Noxelle. A Realmer witch that was normally quite nice in a catty sort of way.
That was how Mirelda knew she had messed up. She stared around and realized that there were only seven seats. Six of which had been taken up by the Matron Witches. Mirelda stumbled back and saw where the other apprentice witches were standing.
The other thing she should have noticed was how not a single one of the other witches had started gossipping.
Then she understood.
Her mentor, a Matron [Witch], Dremma, shook her head and sighed in exasperation, disappointed that Mirelda had once again, embarrassed her. Mirelda felt cheated, it was just like her mentor to trick her like this.
Everyone was coming didn’t just mean that all the Matron Witches were gathering.
It meant that the Witch Tyrant was coming. Yes, it wasn’t the ‘Witches’ Coven’, plural, it was the Witch’s Coven, singular.
As in the coven the Witch Tyrant participated in.
Mirelda stood up straight and fled to her mentor.
It was at that moment, when Mirelda was halfway in her stride, that the Witch Tyrant made her entrance. The brilliant figure in white robes appeared without any sort of flashing lights or fanfare.
Mirelda, having freshly entered her eighth realm advancement, tripped up over herself and almost went face first into another Matron Witch. Now, completely flustered and panicking, she cast [Invisibility] on herself. Realized that literally everyone here would be able to see through it, turned around and mumbled an apology to Matron Grettfield, then rushed behind to take her place behind her mentor.
Then Mirelda tilted her hat down to cover her face.
Oh Manager if you are listening please just strike me down now.
She tilted her head back to look up, only to see the Witch Tyrant tilting her head at her, a small quirk of her lips denoting her amusement.
Mirelda immediately broke eye contact and flushed. She wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. Then she wanted to hex herself so she’d forget everything. She could start fresh, forget that the Witch’s Coven ever existed.
…It wouldn’t work, the Witch’s Coven never let their members go. They would also never let her forget this, ever.
Finally, the Witch Tyrant took her seat. Mirelda, despite her embarrassment, couldn’t help but tilt her head back so she could watch the [Archwitch] in fascination. The Witch Tyrant was tall, beautiful and mana itself coalesced gracefully under her very presence. As if both bowing down and dancing to an invisible tune all at once.
Though none of that held a candle compared to her eyes. Pools of black that went so deep they drew you in, you could stare at them forever, lose yourself in the abyss–
‘Pull yourself back, Witch Mirelda.’
Her mentor’s words snapped her out of it. Mirelda shook her head and broke eye contact. Then she turned in embarrassment–only to realize all the other apprentice witches had been mesmerized as well.
Noxelle the crone Matron laughed. Not a system classed [Witch], but one who had delved into the class without it. She looked like something out of an old fairy tale. Long warted nose with crooked teeth.
Everyone called her the crone. She even preferred it.
She also cackled, like, a lot. Especially at Trialist [Witches].
“Little children that have let your classes guide your every understanding. You should spend some more time learning to guard your mind. Look at my apprentice.” She pointed proudly at the smaller, older Witch behind her. “No Trial System and she’s the only one that didn’t get mesmerized!”
Indeed, the crone’s apprentice, a Realmer in the sixth advancement, was the only one that had withstood the Witch Tyrant’s full presence without losing themselves.
Another Matron Witch, Grettfield, rolled her eyes. “Probably because you’ve prepared her for this.”
“Barely! Hahaha! If she had the Trial System, she’d be ten times more capable than all of you lot!”
The Matrons continued to bicker away as they started shifting around in their seats. Some reaching under the table while others took out their storage devices. A good conclave always started with some very important formalities first.
The crone took out a tray from a dimensional ring. On it were fifteen cracked plates piled high with uneven chunks of unappetizing spiced meat and bone. It was like someone had torn apart the meats with her bare hands… which the crone probably had done.
“Rabbit foot.” Noxelle declared.
Mirelda’s mentor, Dremma, was skeptical. “Just one?”
“Yes, just one! It’s the only one that managed to escape my trap! I tried to see if I could catch a bit of its luck. Tell me if I’ve succeeded.”
All the witches took a bite, apprentices included. Mirelda just stared at the meat, trying to figure out just how much luck the crone matron had managed to imbue into the food. She took a delicate bite out of a piece of meat and had to stifle a moan of delight. Despite how it looked, it tasted absolutely amazing.
Matron Grettfield nodded begrudgingly at the crone, “Impressive.”
Mirelda blinked. The taste had made her forget to pay attention to the magic itself. She didn’t feel any different. Darn.
Matron Grettfield was next. Hefting a massive cauldron on top of the table. She physically poured bowls of soup with chunks of cleanly cut meat in them.
“Emerald stock stew with a vial of regeneration potion.”
The crone curled her lips. “Is that all?”
“The meats are seared steaks cut out from the Guardian Beast Archerone. It should fortify your muscles and skin without impacting mana channels at all. A temporary boon, one that can turn permanent if you spend time to study it.”
The crone’s eyes widened and greedily took a big spoonful of the soup and swallowed it down. She smacked her lips loudly and then pointed her spoon at Grettfield.
“The foxes will have your hide for this.”
“That assumes they will find out.”
All the Matron Witches took a bowl and ate it. Then they turned around and stared at the bowls in the apprentice witches’ hands. Suddenly the soup Mirelda was holding felt like a deadly poison rather than a boon.
Archerone was a giant continental sized beast that presided in the eleventh realm. The unintegrated foxes had a society on the back of it that the rest of The Realm knew little about. If they found out that someone had ripped out a part of their guardian beast and made a stew out of it…
She shuddered.
Then Mirelda realized everyone was staring at her. While she had been contemplating just how dangerous this bowl was, everyone else had taken a bite and were waiting for her. She hastily took a spoon and drank some of the surprisingly light soup.
Now everyone in the Witch’s Coven was complicit in the act.
Yes, the great meeting of the Witch’s Coven always started with snacks. Delicious snacks that could provide you with powerful boons that you wouldn’t find elsewhere.
…And also end with you making enemies out of the most dangerous beings in The Realm.
The fantastic meals continued. The Elder Witches held nothing back for this meeting and every single dish was oh so delicious. It was no surprise that Witches were great at cooking, and their meals could get even more exotic than what you could find at the [Royal Chef] Jeauamper’s restaurant.
Serpent’s Brew. Depoisoned but still had that dangerous tangy poisony taste.
Third Marrow of a mature Cerulean Crow. Filled to brim with mana. Tasted like pop candy.
Air of Maiden’s first love. Gave you fluttering butterflies.
Mystery plant found in the burning lands. Perhaps the only plant in existence.
Finally, they were at the last meal. All of the other apprentice witches were exhausted, trying to desperately retain the multiple boons that were filling their bodies. Mirelda was the only apprentice witch not affected so heavily.
No, she was buzzing with excitement. For there was one meal left.
The Witch Tyrant dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and summoned a large wicker picnic basket from seemingly thin air.
Even the Matrons waited in bated breaths as the lids on both sides opened and the aroma wafted out. It tingled the senses with just how much energy was being released. You could feel it, a perfect harmonic blend of mana and qi, all wrapped in a vicious, deadly presence.
What sort of great beast had this much mana and qi? As expected of the Witch Tyrant.
Plates of differently cut up meat flew out and placed themselves in front of every witch in the clearing.
“My apologies.” The Witch Tyrant said. “This was a last minute find and I did not have much time to do much more than a simple marinade.”
The ‘simple’ marinade didn’t matter. Whatever had been done, Mirelda’s class was screaming at her. Louder than it ever had before, eat it, take it, consume half, then boil the rest in a brew, in the strongest cauldron you can find–
Even the crone hesitated, she lifted up the piece of meat and eyed it warily.
“What is this, [Archwitch]?”
The Witch Tyrant took a piece of marinated meat, everyone watching, a little more weary now that the crone herself had hesitated. The Witch Tyrant took a bite, savored it and sighed.
“Dragon wing.”
The table all paused. Some of the Matrons put the meat down. Two Matrons, the crone and a dragonslayer [Witch] Astalfa bit in greedily.
Mentor Dremma’s words rang in Mirelda’s head. ‘Do not take a bite.’
Everyone paused to stare at the meat that might as well have been the most dangerous food to have ever graced the table of the Witch’s Coven. They all remembered the Witch Tyrant holding Pinkie’s wing as she returned to the City of Defiance.
It was one thing to take bites out of meat cut from a great guardian beast. It was another when the beast was technically a person. A person that knew of the coven’s existence. It also wouldn’t surprise anyone if Pinkie could tell that someone had eaten a part of her too. The [Mystical Shapeshifter] was no stranger to the magic that witches used.
Another two Matrons took a bite, then they started to gorge themselves. The crone’s apprentice took a bite.
Matron Grettfield was scandalized. “You! It is one thing to take the risk yourself, but to let your apprentice take it too. Have you lost your senses?”
The crone cackled. “My apprentice is a true witch. Unlike the rest of you sorry children that had your classes grafted to you.”
Now four of the Matrons had eaten parts of the ‘dragon wing’. Two more remained. Grettfield and Mirelda’s mentor, Dremma.
[Witch] Grettfield pushed the plate away from her. She stared at the Witch Tyrant levelly. An eleventh realm [Grand Witch] herself. She did not cower or lose herself in the Tyrant’s presence.
“So, does this mean that the events that transpired in Sector Four were not planned?”
The Witch Tyrant tilted her head. “No, it was not.”
There was a gasp amongst the apprentice witches and even the Matrons. The table shifted as the crone slapped her knee and laughed.
“Pay up! Pay up!”
Goods rapidly exchanged hands. There had apparently been a bet between the Matrons about what exactly had transpired in Sector Four. The crone and Grettfield had apparently taken the side that the events had not gone as planned. Her mentor sniffed and threw a pouch at Noxelle.
The crone greedily snatched the bag, opened it and cackled at the contents. The other Witches acted in the same way. With disgust at having bet on the wrong horse. Grettfield barely smiled as she swept her earnings into her own storage ring.
If you were expecting grace and refinement from the most powerful coven in The Realm. Well, you would be disappointed. Mirelda knew every coven operated differently but this was the original coven, perhaps the first of The Realm, and they had formed under very… different circumstances.
The Witch Tyrant cleared her throat and everyone, even Noxelle, immediately stopped to listen.
“With that, I have a request for you all. I would like a luck curse placed on Pinkie. A partial one will suffice. An anchoring ritual for both The Realm and Earth will suffice.”
The Matrons gave each other looks, communicating with expressions rather than telepathy or words. Mirelda knew the Witch Tyrant would give them tasks from time to time but it had always been hexes on lower realm adventurers.
A pure luck curse, even a partial one wasn’t easily done. Especially on a magically resistant shapeshifter that knew of their existence…
Now that was something that could actually get them all killed.
The crone didn’t hesitate. “There is no problem, Archwitch. But we do need payment for services rendered. It has been so long, and the last time you personally paid us was…”
The crone trailed off, sounding slightly desperate for the ‘personal payment’ that hadn’t been had in two decades.
The Witch Tyrant sighed. An uncharacteristic behavior from her, and probably not something she would ever show in front of anyone else but this group.
The coven’s eyes all gleamed. Mirelda’s eyes gleamed, leaning in and almost eager for the ‘payment’ herself. How blessed would it be to receive such a thing?
“Payment…” The Witch Tyrant pondered out loud. “What about Mezhar’s recent adventures with the Highest Trial and a Fallen?”
The crone shook her head. Noxelle was willing to say the things everyone else hesitated to say.
“No. You cannot ask us to risk our lives then not give us something of equal value. We want to know about the adventurer you told us not to hex. We wish to know about your personal project. The new apex you have just raised.”
That was right, the cost of a hex that would potentially cost them their lives was a story. The behind the scenes detail of the Witch Tyrant’s latest project. It meant even more to them that the Witch Tyrant was less willing to share the details of it.
Why?
The answer to that question lay behind the original formation of this Witch’s Coven. Way back when the founders called themselves the Occult Weavers. The group that had appeared and declared themselves as part of the Witch tyrant’s faction. One without the Witch Tyrant asking them to.
In other words, they were the Witch Tyrant’s original supporters.
That was the number one thing that binded them all as a coven. The primary requirement to be eligible to join the Witch’s Coven. Mirelda had been so embarrassed at how much the coven knew she loved the Witch Tyrant. Now? She was proud of it.
After all, the Witch Tyrant was so cool. The more you learned about her the more you realized how absolutely amazing she was.
…Not that the Witch Tyrant actually liked them half as much. The reason that the Witch Tyrant presided over them was slightly embarrassing. The Occult Weavers had apparently sewn chaos. Striking at the Dwarven Tyrant’s faction when he had publicly made fun of her.
When it looked like a war was about to start between the two factions. The Witch Tyrant swept up all of the original Matrons and told them a story.
The world knew the Tyrants as reluctant heroes that had gone their separate ways after banding together to defeat Earth. They tolerated each other but only in the context that they stood against Earth.
The real story was one of camaraderie. One where they trusted each other and made fun of each other. The Dwarven Tyrant just hadn’t adapted to being a public figure, ribbing her publicly in good jest.
And that was the origins of the Witch Tyrant’s coven. The secret stories the Witch Tyrant told them were the most valuable ritual they had, and that tradition hadn’t been fulfilled in over two decades.
These stories were like the lifeblood of the Witch’s Coven.
The Witch Tyrant stared at the untouched meats on Grettfield’s and Dremma’s plates. Dremma, her mentor, stopped hesitating. Too tempted at the idea of learning more about how the Witch Tyrant had manipulated her way into producing a fourth realm apex.
Grettfield sat there. Her piercing green eyes staring at the Witch Tyrant.
Then she pushed the plate away from her. Everyone’s attention was drawn to the Matron rejecting the Witch Tyrant.
“Apologies Archwitch. I wish to bring something up with the group first.”
The Witch Tyrant nodded her head for Grettfield to continue.
“If I may ask. What did you do to create that hex in the sky? That… soulrot poison?”
An uncomfortable silence settled in the table around them. It… was a good question.
“That spell was from the Witch That Once Rotted Her Reality, was it not?”
Once again, the Witch Tyrant nodded.
Mirelda had never heard of this epithet nor knew who Matron Grettfield was referencing. Rotting reality? Was that possible? However, that was apparently not the most important subject of this conversation. Grettfield was focused on something else entirely.
“Then what deed did you perform to create it?”
“It is as you believe.”
A heavier silence descended around them. Matron Grettfield looked more dangerous than she ever had.
“You once told us that we should be ever vigilant to never fall into our class. That fighting against it is what differentiated us and gave us our continued growth.”
The Witch Tyrant looked levelly at the entire group.
“I have, not once, ever fallen into my class. You all know why I do as I must.”
Mirelda’s heart hurt at the words, the conversation. They all knew of why the Witch Tyrant had changed in recent years. Of why the Witch told them to hex lower realm adventurers. Mirelda supported it all the way. The Witch Tyrant deserved her daughter back, for all that she did for both worlds. The Witch Tyrant deserved more.
But apparently, Matron Grettfield did not agree.
“I cannot continue this. Not without you telling us what the end result of this curse will be.”
The Witch Tyrant looked at the rest of the table.
“Do the others agree?”
Suddenly the question was thrown back at the table. Four of the Matrons shook their heads.
Her mentor, Dremma did not shake her head but did not raise her hand to agree with Grettfield either.
Matron Grettfield was outvoted. Normally when this happened, the outvoted would still help with the task. Not this time.
“Then I will be recusing myself from the coven.”
Mirelda gasped, nearly everyone gasped. Everyone other than the Crone and the Witch Tyrant. Never before had a member of the Weavers’ Coven quit before. It had always been either due to death or exile.
The crone narrowed her eyes. “You put us at risk with your absence. Leaving is not the only option available to you [Witch] Grettfield.”
A threat and a request all at once. Grettfield was unimpressed by the threat from the crone, she ignored the crone and turned to the Witch Tyrant.
“I cannot continue knowing what you are capable of, Witch Tyrant. I sympathize, but you are not the one I once looked up to.” Now the entire group of Matrons were scandalized. Grettfield turned to address them. “And you, sisters. I warn the rest of you, if the [Archwitch] is capable of creating that hex then there is no line that she will not cross.”
The crone cackled in Grettfield’s face. “Lines? You say this now? After how many adventurers we have led to their deaths? After what we all owe her?! Do you think you would have reached dragonslayer without this coven? This is not–”
“Enough.” The Witch Tyrant’s voice cut through it all, she calmly kept her gaze on Matron Grettfield. “If you wish to leave then you are always free to do so.”
Grettfield stood up from the table and bowed to the Witch Tyrant.
“Then by your leave.”
The crone continued to glare at Grettfield as the ex-Matron walked away, disappearing into the forests. For a minute, there was silence. Then the Witch Tyrant looked back to the Witch’s Coven.
“Now, I believe we have a seat to fill.” The Witch Tyrant’s eyes flickered over to Mirelda. “You are of a suitable realm, would you like to join?”
Mirelda’s mind, despite being at the eighth realm, screeched to a halt. She blinked a couple times, gulped.
“U-uh I don’t believe I’m ready.”
Her mentor interrupted with a cough. “Perhaps you should give my apprentice Mirelda more time to consider the offer.”
“I believe the eighth realm [Witch] can speak for herself.” The Witch Tyrant’s gaze was soft, even looked kind. “Mirelda, I have always found that the most surprising results come from those that rise to the occasion. This is your chance to rise.”
Mirelda knew her mentor was glaring at her. She knew Matron Dremma wanted her to take it slow. Master the fundamentals so that she had a good base to build off of when, or if, the Trial System ever disappeared. That was one voice on Mirelda’s shoulder.
The other was the Witch Tyrant’s expectant eyes. The [Archwitch] actually believed in her?
It was like a dream come true.
“I accept!”
The Witch Tyrant gestured to the empty chair. “Then take your seat.”
“N-now?”
“We can do a formal ceremony later. For now I am pressed for time. If you will.”
Mirelda almost stumbled again trying to take her seat. She sat down in ex-Matron Grettfield’s chair and then shuddered.
Magic coursed through her circulatory system. It coalesced around her in dazzling fractal patterns. Magic, not mana. There was a difference. The patterns neatly fell in place as they settled all around her.
Magic itself was at her fingertips. More than she had ever dreamed of.
This was why the Witch’s Coven so zealously protected the legend of the Witch Tyrant. Part of why they continued to hex everyone that dared to speak ill of the Witch Tyrant online.
As long as they were in the same coven, they could use a little portion of her authority. Even on Earth, as long as they feared her the Witch’s Coven could access more of her power. With this, even Mirelda could hex dragonslayers in The Realm.
And the coven had, multiple times.
Mirelda stared at the bowl of marinated dragon meat in front of her.
And took a bite.
–
The coven listened then, to a story of Artigan. They all knew the Witch Tyrant was involved, just not to the extent. They were both scandalized and delighted at the level of defiance Artigan dared to give to their Witch Tyrant.
Even the parts with the Fallen Gamielle hadn’t been censored. The parts where the memory of a daughter tried to plot against her mother to support Artigan delighted them all.
Nearly everything was played out in truth by the Witch Tyrant’s illusions. They gossipped and laughed with the Witch Tyrant amongst their midst. Some even dared to laugh at the Witch Tyrant’s face, treating her as almost-equals.
It was everything Mirelda had ever dreamed of.
Then the nightmare began.
…
It started with the payment for the story given by the Witch Tyrant. A partial luck curse on one of the most dangerous beings in The Realm. Mirelda had never attempted a luck curse before. Luck boons before a Trial she had done, but this…
Mirelda felt herself lose herself to her class. Cursed magic wrapped around them as the words filled her head. Every single sentence was spoken by a different Matron Witch.
The crone started them off.
“The pot began to boil.”
“With a leftover dragon’s wing we toil.”
“Changing luck—”
“What else is it but fate we pluck?”
“And fate’s a fickle bitch,”
“That does not like to be bewitched.”
The world recoiled.
Reality itself seemed to strain, as if it revolted against what they were doing. It showed in subtle things, like the hint of a smell Mirelda had never smelled before. Like the wind hitting her from multiple directions. Gravity pulling her down then all of a sudden pulling up on just her eyeballs.
The world itself was breaking, telling them to stop.
The only thing that kept Mirelda going was her class. It was singing, rhyming, cackling, delighting at the plot they were brewing.
The Witch Tyrant finished the chant. Her hand seemingly encompassed the world itself.
“But it matters not, for bending fate is what Witches do.”
When the ritual finished, Mirelda collapsed. Her eyes were lifelessly staring at the pot in the center of the ritual. It crackled with broken pink lightning.
Then Mirelda threw up.
–
Back on Earth.
“You foolish girl!”
Matron Dremma smacked the back of Mirelda’s head for the fourth time. Mirelda the new Matron Witch of the Witch’s Coven was cowering in a corner, trying to protect her head. It didn’t work. Another smack landed on her exposed forehead. Despite her realm advancement the smacks imbued with curse mana still hurt.
Mirelda shrieked. “I’m sorry!”
“Even the Crone didn’t push for her apprentice to take the spot! Why didn’t you think?!”
“I’m sorry, mentor Dremma, I wasn’t thinking!”
The hits stopped raining down. Mirelda raised her head to take a peek. Mentor Dremma was palming her face and sighing. That was a good sign. Or at least that’s what Mirelda had thought.
“We are no longer mentor and apprentice.”
“What?! Bu–but no! Mentor Dremma!”
“Matron Mirelda, you have made your choice. Did you think our relationship could stand?”
“I wasn’t thinking!”
“Yes, and now you must live with the consequences.”
“No! Mentor Dremma!”
Mentor Dremma started picking out some choice objects from their cottage and placed them in her storage ring. All the while Mirelda clung to her thigh. Then her mentor booted her across the room as she slammed into the wall.
Then Matron Dremma left.
–
It was after the third tub of rocky road ice cream that Matron Mirelda had come to a realization.
“Wait! How do I ward myself against a twelfth realm [Shapeshifter]?”
With that thought, she came to another realization. Pinkie had been here before. Mentor Dremma had probably realized this too and fled, leaving her poor ex-apprentice behind.
Mirelda stopped moping and went into survival mode.
–
In the depths of the Amazon Rainforest, an intense magical explosion was set off seemingly at random. Investigating adventurers would later identify it as land inhabited by adventurers of a high realm. The incident was then thrown in the bin when the adventurers admitted they couldn’t find any sort of evidence beyond that.
Unfortunately this happened more often than the Brazilian officials would like to admit.
By the time a woman with a pink napkin in her suit pocket appeared at the scene, the perpetrator was long gone. She raised her head and sniffed, her predatory eyes narrowing northwards.
An invisible, scentless [Witch] was flying on her broom, holding nothing more than the bare essentials in her bag. She flew north, sometimes over and sometimes under the sea. Praying to the Manager that it would be enough to stop a [Mystical Shapeshifter] from tracking her down.
--
Indeed, the Fallenangel hexes are from a very, very toxic fanclub of the Witch Tyrant.
Also nearly 5k words. Oops! Originally I was supposed to do two sidestories during the break but this one took, uh, way more time than first anticipated. Gib thoughts!
Comments
Marquess
God, that makes so much sense yet completely surprised me. All the smaller details regarding who and where people were hexed check out. The idea that she’d hex people herself seemed silly, almost. I just thought it was a weird quirk of her personality. But it being done by her staunchest fans makes all the details fit. No wonder you can’t escape it: they’re everywhere, all at once.
Gremlin Jack
So much delicious backstory on the Witch Tyrant. And it also demonstrates just HOW MUCH the Tyrants have done, when the most powerful Coven in the two worlds was created by one of them more or less by accident.
SomeRandomGuy
Thanks for the chappie! Awesome stuff as always~ Oh, the pain of having to wait for chapters now that I caught up TT
P A J
Excellent Chapter! Super excited for what comes next!
Purveilor
TYFTE
Akkido
TFTC! “And you, sisters. I warn the rest of you, if the [Archwitch] is capable of creating that hex then there is no line that she will ^not cross.”
Jaklelope
Tyftc
