In one way or another, we are all servants of magic—the forces that be.
Whether it be by blood, by spirit, by choice—or not—we live to serve. We all are bound to a force greater than ourselves—even when we can not see it—it is always there. Watching. Waiting. Learning. Even those without magic—without the belief in pantheons—all live to serve that which they lack and oppose.
There is no escaping the power that shapes worlds and influences life—as well as death.
There was no temperature in the room. It was neither cold nor warm, the sensation was impossible to describe but it left the white witch feeling numb. It fit perfectly with the absence of color on the surrounding four walls, ceiling and floor. Everything was black, except for the porcelain doll—Nicoletta Dominika. There was no light to reflect and yet the room was perfectly lit. Everything inside was visible. The chair she was currently sitting in was obsidian along with the matching pedestal end table directly in front of the warlock. Her eyes were fixated on the tall glass goblet that was placed precisely in the middle of the table and was filled to the brim with something sinister. She knew what she had to do. Her fingers gripped the edge of her chest plate in a fidgeting action before she reached out for what was assuredly her demise.
She pressed the cold glass to her lips and closed her eyes.
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