🌙 Chapter One – The Ritual That Wasn’t

For as long as I can remember, I have walked with one foot in this world and one in the unseen. Some call it intuition, others a gift, though to me it has always felt like a path I was born to follow. My life has been stitched together with moments of mystery: whispers in the night that no one else heard, visions that came true, dreams that felt more like memories than fantasies.

It was only natural that I found my way into the Craft. For over twenty years I had studied, practiced, and honored the old ways. My shelves sagged beneath the weight of grimoires and herbal guides, the air always carrying the faint perfume of sage, lavender, and candle wax. Crystals caught the light in the corners, casting rainbow flecks across the walls, while rows of candles in varying sizes stood ready like soldiers on my altar.

The room itself was warm, inviting — but also timeless. Worn wood, draped fabrics, and shelves crammed with trinkets and bones gave it the air of a much older place, a room that might just as easily belong in the Middle Ages as in the modern world. It was my sanctuary, my sacred space.

That night, I sat cross-legged on the rug before the altar, the flicker of flame painting shadows that seemed too alive.

The ritual was supposed to be simple — a protection charm, a strengthening of my circle, something I’d done a dozen times before with minor variations. But that night, something went wrong.

The air felt different as soon as I cast the circle, thick like smoke even though the incense hadn’t yet been lit. My hands trembled as I arranged the crystals in their usual points, but one refused to sit where it should. I sighed, thinking it was just me being clumsy, but the feeling in the room deepened, grew heavier.

I whispered the incantation under my breath, my voice steady at first. The candle flames flickered and bent as if listening. Halfway through, the words on my tongue seemed to shift. I don’t know how to explain it — the syllables twisted into something older, stranger. Not my language. Not any language I knew.

The energy surged, snapping like static across my skin. The hair on my arms stood on end. I tried to ground, to break the circle, but it was too late.

Panic pricked at the edges of my mind. This isn’t right. I’ve done this ritual before. I know the pattern. My heartbeat echoed in my ears as I felt the air thicken around me. Shadows bent unnaturally. My chest tightened, each breath sharp and shallow. Part of me screamed to stop, to undo the circle, but another part — something deeper, older — whispered to let it happen.

A sudden rush tore through me, like a storm breaking inside my chest. My heart hammered, palms damp, though the air was icy cold. My hands tingled, my skin prickled with fire and frost at the same time. The flames leapt higher, bending toward me. The room seemed to stretch, breathing, alive with something ancient.

That’s when I saw it.

At first a shimmer on the shelf — like heat waves on asphalt. Then a solid outline, leather cracked with age, etched with a strange sigil that seemed to writhe if I looked too long. My eyes watered as though it carried its own light.

The moment my eyes fell on it, the air around me seemed to ripple. The shadows stretched and twisted as if alive, pulling me toward it with a force I couldn’t resist. My heart skipped, and a shiver ran down my spine as though the room itself were holding its breath. The book.

I stumbled forward, desperate to anchor myself. My hands shook as I touched the cover. The chaotic energy snapped into focus. Not gone, but ordered — as if the book had been waiting for me all along.

I pulled it down. Its weight was undeniable, heavier than it looked. When I opened it, the pages were blank. My breath caught. Then — as though an unseen hand pressed ink into the parchment — words bled through:

“Rome, 4th Century.”

The room blurred, stretching thin like smoke in the wind. My altar, my shelves, my walls all melted into light. The pressure in my chest burst outward, and for a moment I was nothing but sound and flame, tumbling through some unseen corridor. The floor gave way.

Whispers echoed all around me — Latin? Or something older still. I smelled smoke and incense, mingling with pine and iron. My body twisted, elongated, and weightless, tumbling through the unseen.

My hands were no longer my own. Bracelets adorned my wrists, skin darker from sun and toil. The candlelight became torchlight, the walls transforming into stone and timber. Hundreds of voices rose in chant, some welcoming, some accusing, none mine.

The very air seemed alive, singing with an energy older than memory. I staggered forward, dizzy, realizing I was no longer in my room.

Time itself stretched thin, warping, until I was suspended between two worlds: the familiar warmth of my ritual space and this ancient, living reality.

The ritual had opened a door, and in that moment, everything I had longed to learn and witness — the knowledge and visions I had been yearning for — pulled me through without giving me a choice.

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Discussion question: 

Have you ever had a ritual go differently than planned? What did you learn from it?