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𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐬;
𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬...
— 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦; 𝘔𝘢𝘤𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘩

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 listened to the screams of her coven sisters as they burned by way of the stake.

Abigail stood in rage — she had been away when the people of the colony came for them. The women who had committed no crime other than being born with the gift of magic.

Abigail was considered no more than an enslaved woman among those with no magic. The non-magical people believed her to be beneath them for the simple reason of her dark skin color.

The non-magical white people enslaved dark-complexion people. Forced them from their homeland in chains. The white folk called all those with dark-skin horrible slurs and they were not opposed to taking the whip toward those who stepped even a toe out of line.

It was them that should be beneath her.

Those without magic should be the ones enslaved: the ones who walked in chains.

Not her. Not her people.

The cruelty of the non-magical is why she had to hide away rather than fraternize with the non-magic as many in her coven did.

Abigail's mother had been one of the unlucky ones stolen from her beloved African homeland and brought to this new world of injustice.

However, it would appear that hiding away did Abigail more justice than just escaping the racism of colonial America. It saved her from being burned at the stake just as her coven was.

Abigail surged forward — a desperate attempt to help her coven sisters.

Not only did the non-magic folk imprison her people in this new land but now they chose to kill those who possessed the gift of magic.

Unacceptable.

Abigail would make them pay for all of their misdoings. They chose to challenge the likes of those with magic all in the name of their so-called God? They chose to challenge the likes of her?

Absurd!

She would make them pay and perhaps other warlocks and witches would also see why the non-magical folk could never be trusted.

Abigail was rather powerful, unlike many warlocks and witches, she need not any wand nor words to make her power do as she wished.

Her power was so great, in fact, that it was unmatched and there had not been a power so great as Abigail's since the times of Merlin. She displayed such a remarkable command of the magical arts — a command of ancient magic that was thought to be extinct.

She could take on anything that came at her and win.

Abigail could peek into the future on a whim, she could look into the minds of others as easily as breathing, for many spells — she need not even think as with a simple wave of her hand it was cast.

Abigail was adept in both light and dark magic.

Abigail was an incredibly powerful witch... one of the most powerful to have ever lived. For she is more than any ordinary witch, she is the Supreme Witch.

However, even Abigail's great power could not save those burned in her coven, for by the time she arrived their echoing screams were dying as their flesh blackened. And now, they were dead with skin black as ash and eyeballs melting out of their skulls.

The villagers had taken their wands away — none of them had been able to perform wandless magic as Abigail could. Not enough wandless magic to defend themselves against an entire village of non-magical people looking to kill them, at least.

The villagers tried to grab her. They screamed vile things at her. Racist slurs and promises of a painful demise.

And yet, Abigail was having none of it as she released a magical surge so strong that it sent all those within proximity of her flying through the air only to die upon a harsh impact on the ground.

"Witch — kill the witch!"

More shouts echoed around but Abigail simply raised her arms above her head. Fire encompassed everything around — it took but seconds for the entire village to drown in bright blazes.

Screams and the smell of charred human skin wafted through the air.

The non-magic people burned her coven and so they would burn with them.

An eye for an eye — or in this case, lives for lives.

The brown-skinned witch only watched as everything around her crumpled: as men, women, and children screamed and died in the fire. Everything was consumed by the flames — flames that people of the church would claim to be hellfire.

Her lips moved as she muttered words in Swahili, words that only made the fire stronger.

Her dark hair, woven into tight dreadlocks fell as the pins holding it up melted in the blazes. Even as the flames licked up Abigail's body, she was left unburnt.

Her dress was destroyed — the fire which now spread into the forests around and would cause even more destruction.

She brought her arms down and stood casually in the midst of the devastation. Death burned through the air, the screams coming to a close as no one was safe from the flames.

No one but her.

Abigail smiled at the desolation.

This would be a fire that would be remembered for centuries, for she would allow the fire to burn the forests for years to come until she chose a time to command rain to wash away the heat and destruction.

She breathed the magical annihilation.

Abigail Castor — the unburnt.

She had never quite desired to burn the world, but even she had to admit, as a woman with many injustices done to her — this was beautiful.