Dominant - Witches

And somewhere, deep in the earth, the old magic stirred and smiled.

“High Witch Blackwood,” the lead diplomat, a man named Graves, began. He attempted a smile. It failed. “We’ve come to negotiate terms for weather stabilization.”

“Negotiate?” She tasted the word like spoiled fruit. “You misunderstand, Mr. Graves. You are not here to negotiate. You are here to submit .”

Tonight’s supplicants were a delegation from the United Nations. Climate collapse had outrun technology. Rising seas swallowed coastlines; the sun scorched the breadbaskets dry. The world’s last hope wasn’t a missile or a vaccine. It was a coven of women who could command the wind, seed the clouds, and stitch the torn fabric of weather itself. Dominant Witches

Graves swallowed. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. “And if we refuse?”

Inside, Seraphina Blackwood, the High Witch of the Eastern Circle, adjusted the obsidian choker at her throat. It pulsed with a low, amber light. Power. Authority. The kind that bent the knee of governors and made senators forget their own names.

As the delegation stumbled out into the suddenly silent night, Seraphina stood before her altar. The bones of saints, the feathers of extinct birds, a mirror that showed not her face but the face of every woman who had been drowned, hanged, or silenced. And somewhere, deep in the earth, the old

“You have until dawn,” she said without looking down. “The novice at the door will give you tea and a blanket. My answer will not change.”

She stood, turned her back on them, and ascended the spiral staircase toward her private sanctum. At the top, she paused.

“Here are my terms,” she said, walking toward them. Each step echoed like a gavel. “First: The Eastern Coven assumes governance of all climate policy. No votes. No oversight. Our word is the final weather system. Second: Every nation dismantles its nuclear arsenal within one lunar cycle. Not because we fear them—but because we find them tasteless . Third: A tithe. Not gold. Not oil. The old growth forests you’ve been saving as ‘carbon offsets’? They become ours. To rewild. To rule. To remember.” It failed

She swept into the Grand Conclave, her velvet gown trailing like a pool of midnight. The delegation—three men in expensive, ill-fitting suits—stood huddled by the hearth, as if the fire’s warmth could protect them from her.

“Let them wait,” Seraphina said, not turning. She watched her reflection in the rain-smeared glass. At forty-seven, she looked thirty. Magic was a magnificent cosmetician. “Fear is the only currency they understand.”

She stood. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and wet clay—the smell of creation being unmade and remade.

The younger man, mouth still sealed, made a muffled, desperate sound.

Seraphina smiled. It was a predator’s smile—wide, serene, and utterly without mercy. She raised her left hand. Outside, the rain stopped. Not tapered off—stopped, mid-fall, hanging in the air like a billion frozen tears. Then, with a casual turn of her palm, she sent it blasting back into the clouds, which shredded apart to reveal a sky of violent, peaceful stars.