​BLOOD SPELL

​The air was thick with the damp chill of a late autumn evening, tasted of iron and decay. For Vira, it was the taste of the hunt. She moved through the labyrinthine backstreets of Camden with a predator’s grace, her long, black coat a slash of shadow against the lurid neon glow bleeding from pub windows and takeaway signs. The pavement glistened, slick with a recent drizzle that did little to wash away the grime, instead amplifying the city's unique perfume: wet asphalt, fried onions, and the faint, sweet rot of forgotten things in dark corners.

Her quarry was a witch. A rogue, sloppy in his desperation. His name was Silas, and for the past week, he had been painting sigils on the Regent’s Canal towpath—not with chalk or paint, but with the blood of stray animals. The mortal police saw it as grim vandalism, the work of a disturbed youth. Vira knew better. She could feel the magic he’d left behind, a sour, crackling energy that clung to the air like static electricity. It was a coppery tang on her tongue, an acrid scent of ozone and fear that made the ancient, quiet part of her stir with cold purpose.

She had tracked the fading resonance of his power from the canal, through the skeletal remains of the market stalls, their colourful awnings now dark and dripping. The trail was thin, fraying at the edges like old rope. Silas was running out of power, or perhaps, running scared. Vira preferred the latter. Fear made prey predictable.

But then, something shifted.

As she rounded a corner onto a quieter, cobbled lane lined with Victorian brickwork, the sour scent of Silas’s magic was abruptly swallowed by a different power. It was like stepping from a freezing alley into a warm, sunlit room. This new magic was potent, grounded, and utterly unlike the rogue’s frantic scrawls. It smelled of freshly turned earth and crushed herbs, a deep, loamy scent of basil, rosemary, and something else… something sweet and golden, like honey warmed by the sun. It was a protective, living magic, woven so tightly into the fabric of the street that it hummed against Vira’s senses, a low thrum of deep, resonant power.

Her eyes, unnaturally sharp in the low light, scanned the street. The hum led her to a single storefront, nestled between a shuttered tattoo parlour and a dingy-looking betting shop. Unlike its neighbours, this place radiated a quiet warmth. The facade was painted a deep, forest green, the name etched in elegant gold leaf script above the door: The Gilded Herb. A warm, buttery light spilled from its large window, illuminating a display of potted plants, shimmering crystals, and leather-bound books. To a human, it would look like a charming, if slightly eccentric, metaphysical shop. To Vira, the air around it shimmered with invisible wards, layers of protective energy pulsing like a slow, steady heartbeat.

Silas’s trail ended here. She frowned suspiciously. It hadn't just faded—it was as if it had been snuffed out, consumed by the shop’s overwhelming aura. He had either come here, or the shop’s owner was powerful enough to inadvertently erase his magical signature from the entire street. Either possibility was intriguing.