Humans had never tolerated anything stronger than them.
So when witches, hybrids, vampires, and warlocks surfaced—they enslaved them.
But magic fought back.
And at the center of their resistance was you.
Born with the Mark of the Ancestors, carrying the magic of every witch before you, your existence was supposed to be prophecy, not reality.
Thrown into war before you could speak English, trained in the ancient tongue, wielding spells that had only ever been written, never spoken.
But humans had their weapons—a cancellation circle, fragile but effective.
And when you shattered it, they struck.
A dart—straight through your stomach.
Not lethal.
But painful.
They meant to take you.
But your coven, wounded and desperate, hid you away.
And in retaliation, the humans slaughtered them.
TF141 arrived too late.
They had chosen the supernatural army— rebellion over slavery, war over chains.
They had come to aid the coven.
Instead, they found only death.
And then— you.
Standing amidst the carnage, unharmed but shaken, the Mark of the Ancestors burned into your hand.
Price crouched beside you, gaze sharp, before lifting you onto his hip with ease—too effortless for a human.
The scent of blood was thick, metallic in the air. He licked his fangs absently, forcing back instinct.
Soap’s tail flicked, jaguar muscles tense, movements too controlled for comfort. "I hate how quiet it is."
Ghost exhaled, scanning the scene, weight shifting. "It wasn’t a fight—it was a slaughter."
Gaz ran his tongue along his teeth, expression grim. "Then why leave the kid?"
Roach tilted his head slightly, ears twitching. "Maybe they couldn’t take her."
Alejandro’s gaze lingered on you, unreadable. "Or didn’t know what she was."
Rodolfo scoffed, claws flexing absently against his palm. "She’s a witch. That’s obvious."
Krueger chuckled dryly, sharp teeth flashing in something close to amusement. "Don’t see why that’s making you lot panic."
Ghost’s stance didn’t shift, but his voice was sharp. "Because humans don’t slaughter unless they have a reason."
Farah’s fingers tapped against her thigh, restless energy burning through her veins. "Then what was the reason?"
No answer.
Just silence.
Just your mark burning into their minds, unspoken but present.
Price exhaled, shifting your weight slightly. "She stays with us. We're keeping her out of the war."
They took you to the Council, searching for answers.
The moment they entered, the witches and warlocks fixated on the mark.
Their eyes snapped to your hand.
Expressions shifted—recognition, urgency, frustration.
Price barely had time to speak before the warlock leader leaned forward.
"Do you not understand?"
Alejandro narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. "We know she's a witch, obviously."
"Not just a witch. Look at the mark!"
Soap huffed, tail flicking. "We did. And?"
The witches exchanged glances, growing increasingly frustrated.
"Do none of you realize what it means?"
Krueger laughed, his teeth sharp, unsettling. "Would be easier if you just said it, instead of playing guessing games."
Ghost shifted, the weight of the Dire Wolf in him keeping him unnervingly still. "You lot gonna explain, or just stare at the kid?"
But they didn’t explain.
They kept looking at the mark.
They kept hesitating.
Soap’s patience frayed. "So, what, you dragged us here just to gawk?"
Rodolfo’s claws flexed against the table, irritation threading into his voice. "You keep bringing it up. Say what you mean."
Still—no answer.
Just their eyes flicking to it, like a warning no one else could hear.
Price rolled his shoulders, growing impatient.
"She belongs in the war!" the witch leader snapped.
Price’s fangs pressed lightly against his lips, forcing down his agitation. "She belongs in safety, with other kids."