Whispered Moon: A Witch's Lycan Love

Magic stems from inspiration, and such inspiration is gifted by the divine.

Laurel leaves for purifying the eyes, a smear of golden honey for the lips, followed by a plunging of hands into the silver basin, where the essence of three full days and nights of condensed dew glimmers with a faint moonlit sheen as it is gently agitated.

Finally, with these cleansed hands, she ignites seven tallow candles. The confined space slowly fills with their balmy scent, also casting light upon a majestic and opulent statue of a goddess.

The cat's-eye stone pupils of the goddess absorb the faithful's candle flame, fracturing Dill's reflection into myriad shards, while the deity's piercing gaze seems to dissect her soul. Instinctively, the girl clasps her chest—her heart races—her demeanor becomes even more submissive and devout.

Half-leaning against a laurel-adorned throne, the goddess wears a crown woven from silver thread and pearls, with forest creatures and beasts carved below her as her subjects.

The candles cast a holy soft light around the divine seat, their glow illuminating the goddess's bright eyes and her graceful visage, which appears increasingly lifelike. The fragrant air grows heavy, as if holding one's breath, fearing that the slightest error might tarnish this splendid, resplendent moment.

The goddess's immaculate visage also mirrors the beautiful, faithful faces of her adherents. Yet, as one begins to pray fervently, the mask slips revealing the truth:

"May the Great Goddess bless, as the worshipper prays above, may the eggs crack smoothly, and the cauldron bring good fortune..."

Snap!

A shadow flickers and a candle snuffs out, startling the person who had yet to check the situation when suddenly, the second and third candles extinguish... It's as if an invisible hand is moving through the room, snuffing out candle after candle, bringing darkness ever closer.

At this moment, Siluo is terrified, forgetting all decorum, mixing pleas to Buddha and hallelujahs with calls for divine light to descend. She frantically searches her dwindling lexicon while scrambling for any weapon within reach.

Just as her hand falls upon the hefty "Ode to the Deity," precious as any treasure, about to hurl it in defense, she meets a pair of clear, aquamarine cat's eyes blinking mischievously back at her.

"...Miss Azure," Dill grinds out through clenched teeth.

The candles reignite, revealing another figure leaning casually against the wall.

The woman covers her mouth, not minding her thick, beautiful golden hair strewn about, as she bends over, stifling her laughter. Miss Azure, the big cat with azure eyes, leaps effortlessly onto her shoulder, and although it’s just a furry face, Dill can still discern the look of disdain.

"I thought you seemed too tense, wanted to help you relax a bit. What are you mumbling about now? Ha ha ha ha ha!"

Sometimes, Dill really suspects she's cursed.

Dill's real name isn't actually Dill. The woman before her, named Amber, had bought her from an Eastern merchant ship; a wailing, newborn foundling. But even a foundling was merchandise on the ship, and Amber haggled with the shrewd Eastern merchant until dusk fell. In the end, she acquired the baby in exchange for two dozen bottles of dill spice. Too lazy to think of a name, the woman simply called her Dill from then on.

Raised half in jest and half in earnest by Amber, Dill grew up safely, her fragmented memories making her mature beyond her years compared to other girls her age, as she began to explore this strange new world. Buying a baby, Amber had no intentions of raising a servant, nor did she consider her a daughter.

In truth, the village was filled with pairs like them, where older women would take in clever young girls, usually orphans like Dill. Amber had Dill address her as "Lady," taking it upon herself to teach the naive girl everything about this world.

Bringing us back to the present, Amber finally remembers her responsibilities as a mentor after enough laughter. With a flick of her fingers, a slight ripple passes through the air, and the helter-skelter candles, like obedient soldiers, stand to attention, marching back into formation beside the goddess to await orders.

Despite having witnessed this countless times since childhood, Dill remains awestruck. There are no elaborate rituals or prayers; magic for a lady like Amber is as easy as breathing or drinking water. They draw magical inspiration from the slightest breeze, moonlight, or even a single drop of dew.

Amber, putting aside her jesting demeanor, lifts her skirts and glides forward as if she were not wearing crumpled pajamas but instead a grandiose evening gown. When serious, she embodies a graceful, mature blonde beauty.

She now leaves her beloved cat to stand before the statue, adopting an exaggeratedly humble stance as she whispers apologies to the deity; like everyone in this world, they revere the divine as the all, the giver of strength. However, someone like Amber who wields divine power so willfully is hardly a conventional nun or priest.

Amber's village is secluded year-round, and they worship not the universally recognized supreme deity but an ancient Moon Goddess.

Amber proudly claims to be favored by the goddess, but Dill knows that outsiders refer to them as something else entirely—witches.

Dill, the orphan with no one in the world, was indeed fortunate to be chosen by Amber. The blonde woman seems nonchalant, with a fat cat in her arms and her pajamas a patchwork of pockets that can spew astonishing trinkets at any moment. However, it is with Amber's support that Dill thrives in this otherworldly realm.

Amber is the high priestess of the Moon Goddess, the strongest and most brazen witch in the village of witches—in other words, the village bully.

Dill's fragmented memories still faintly recall a childhood of waiting for messages from owls. Once she realized how unique this place was, the girl who had been reborn felt no discomfort, diving headfirst into this fantastical world.

However, she soon came to feel this other world's deep-seated malice towards transients.

After ensuring she hadn't displeased the goddess, Amber finally saunters over. Pulling out a bronze monocle with a long handle from some unknown, tattered pocket—the lenses, she claims, are crystal formed from moonlight, enhancing the witch's sight to see through all blessings and curses, even to the truth of things.

Amber, holding the monocle, inspects the potion brewing in the cauldron before lifting her gaze to tease her apprentice:

"Do we really need a cauldron-opening ceremony? How lacking in confidence is my disciple? It's just a simple fertility potion..."

Dill glances out the window, too late to stop her, and indeed sees a shadow dart by, followed by a sharp cry:

"Dill is practicing her potions again!"

Outside, the sound of pots and pans clattering erupts, accompanied by the hurried footsteps of the villagers—it's a call to arms.

The usually carefree Amber catches on and can't help but show a hint of guilt as she sees her little apprentice burying her face in her hands, knowing full well that the women of the village are en route, bowls in hand, and not in the best of moods.

Dill's dream of magic has indeed come true, albeit with a minor hiccup.

It's like thinking you've enrolled in the popular Mechanical Engineering course, only to find out it's actually the mystifying specialization of Agricultural Machinery and Biological Engineering.

Magic always comes with a price, and the lesser witches must make offerings to the goddess to obtain the inspiration to cast their spells. Dill's first encounter with magic was to replicate the ancient Greek witch Medea's rejuvenation of an old sheep—a ritual symbolic of the everlasting cycle of life, a renewal of all things.

The witches would dismember an old mountain goat and toss it into the cauldron, using its blood and flesh to bring forth a young lamb. This rite was a passage for every young witch-in-training.

While other witches quickly managed to produce sprightly little lambs, Dill, stirring the cauldron, had sweat beading on her forehead with no sign of life emerging, only the tantalizing aroma that made everyone's mouth water.

In the end, watching the coven divide up the goat stew, Dill questioned whether she possessed any magic at all. But it wasn't long before she proved her concerns unfounded. She had all the required gifts; it