A butterfly remembers its caterpillar stage. An elephant remembers its cage. A witch remembers burning.
It lives inside of us, smouldering, three hundred and twenty six years later. We bear the blood of the witches, and we will know their power. It may look like electricity, but that crackle in our fingers is magic, and we're waiting for precisely the right time to snap. There are dozens of us, hundreds. Thousands.
The world will drown in witches.
The blood we share has knowledge. Strength. Power. Our physical bodies belie our true selves, but the magic always knows. It calls out to its brothers and sisters and it sings to its children in