The forests outside Salem whispered secrets no mortal dared hear. Beneath the twisted oaks and in the glow of silver moonlight, seven cloaked figures formed a circle — the founders of the Crimson Fold. They were not ordinary witches and wizards; they were guardians of Ars Sanguinem, the ancient art of blood-bound magic, passed down through whispered rites and sacrificial oaths.
Among them, one trembled—not from fear, but from power. Alaric Thorn, the youngest and most gifted, clutched a worn grimoire, its spine cracked from forbidden readings. Salem was burning with hysteria. Witches were hunted, hanged. And he was desperate.
"We must act," Alaric hissed, eyes wild beneath his hood. "They'll find us next. The mortals are blind, but not stupid. If we don't protect ourselves, our line ends."
Ysabelle Dorne, wise and silver-eyed, stepped forward. "And so you sought it, didn't you?" she whispered. "The forbidden verse… the tear in the veil."
Alaric didn't answer. Instead, he opened the grimoire and began to chant:
"Ex fractura aeternitatis, pandetur ianua. Sanguis meum, viam patefaciat."
(From the fracture of eternity, let the gateway open. Let my blood reveal the path.)
The wind died. The stars flickered. And then—the world split.
A spiral of black flame erupted behind Alaric. Shadows clawed outward, shrieking in tongues no human should understand. A portal, jagged and alive, had opened—a gateway to a realm unknown.
The six others recoiled. From within the void, red eyes blinked open — dozens, then hundreds. Demonkind stirred, drawn to Earth like vultures to a fresh corpse.
"Alaric, you fool!" cried Gideon Vale, thunder crackling in his palms. "This is not protection — this is damnation!"
Alaric stumbled back, horror replacing pride. "I—I didn't mean to open it fully. Only to—"
"To what?" Ysabelle shouted. "Harness what you did not understand?"
The Fold united quickly, knowing they had mere moments. Chanting in unison, their voices bled into the fabric of the night.
"Per cruorem nostrum, per vincula antiqua, claudatur ianua daemoniorum!"
(By our blood, by the ancient chains, let the gate of demons be sealed!)
Their palms sliced open, blood sizzled in midair. The droplets hovered, then connected into a blazing crimson lattice around the gateway. The shadows shrieked, recoiling. The gate trembled, resisted—and then buckled beneath the spell's weight, sealed in a swirl of burning runes.
They collapsed to their knees, breathless.
"It's… bound," whispered Maeve Willow, her voice weak.
Ysabelle nodded, staring at the dimming vortex. "Bound to our blood. As long as we live, the seal holds."
"But what of the next generation?" asked Rowan Drake, the stoic one. "When we pass?"
"We pass it on," Gideon said grimly. "Our blood carries the seal. Each child will bear it, each heir inherit it. They must."
"But what of the end?" Alaric asked. "What happens when… there are no more?"
No one answered.
They raised a monument that night in the deep woods — a stone altar etched with blood-runes, hidden from mortals, over the buried remnants of the gate. Their pact was unbreakable.
They would never meet again as a full coven.
Some would hide. Others would perish. But they knew: so long as seven remained — bound by blood, bound by purpose — the seal would not break.