Witches - Dominant

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.

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.

“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.” Dominant Witches

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

Seraphina flicked her wrist. The man’s mouth fused shut. Not with stitches or glue—with a simple, absolute cessation of function. His eyes bulged. His companions stepped back. Tonight’s supplicants were a delegation from the United

“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.”

The rain over Salem’s End had a memory. It remembered the fires, the stones, the whispered names. Tonight, it fell in sheets, drumming a frantic rhythm against the stained glass of the Ivory Tower—the last covenstead in the Northeast. The world’s last hope wasn’t a missile or a vaccine

“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.”