Prologue
1500s England, outside of London
The night the Traveler came to the Sinclair Outpost, the portal sang a note Willem had never heard before, a low, trembling hum that curled through the frigid air like a lullaby meant for something ancient and restless.
Willem stepped out into the moonlit clearing, lantern raised. The standing stones around the portal glimmered silver, their runes pulsing faintly as if waking from a long, uneasy sleep. Behind him, Johana stood in the doorway of their small stone cottage, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. A strange silence pressed against her chest, too delicate to call danger, too insistent to ignore.
“Willem?” she whispered.
“It’s all right,” he said, hoping that saying it aloud made it true.
The hum deepened. Not hostile, merely wrong, like a mispronounced word. Then the air folded inward with a soft, trembling sigh. A man stepped through, not a creature from their nightmares, nor a monster from the Grimoire’s warnings. Just a man, travel-worn, frost-dusted, his smile warm and apologetic.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “Your crossing opened just as I reached it. I hope I’m not intruding.”
Johana exhaled. Willem lowered the lantern a fraction. The ward stones glowed pale blue, identifying the newcomer as a witch. Harmless.
“Not at all,” Willem said quickly. “You’re welcome here.”
The man’s eyes softened, grateful. “I had hoped,” he said gently, “that the Sinclairs would be precisely as gracious as the stories claim.”
They froze. No stranger should know their name. But the Traveler’s admiration felt so genuine, so earnest, that suspicion melted like ice left too near a fire.
“Guardians of the portal,” he said with a reverent bow. “Stewards of the Grimoire. It is an honor.”
Willem flushed with pride. Johana looked over at her husband, faint unease apparent on her face.
“Please,” Willem said. “Come inside. Warm yourself.”
The Traveler followed Willem into the cottage. The man paused before the hearth, extending his hands toward the flames as though grateful beyond words.
“This home,” he murmured, “is peaceful. Your ward craft… it hums with precision. Only a Sinclair could weave such strength with such grace.”
Willem nearly preened. Johana’s cheeks flushed with pride. The Traveler’s gaze drifted to the iron-clasped Grimoire resting on the mantel. He didn’t touch it.
“You will have daughters,” he said softly.
The words dropped like stones in a still pond. Johana froze. Willem inhaled sharply.
“We…” Johana responded with a slight stutter. “We have no children.”
He smiled, serenely. “Not yet.”
Johana visibly stiffened, and Willem laid a hand on hers.
“Their births,” the Traveler murmured, “will shape the age to come.”
Willem stepped closer, captivated. “Tell us.”
The Traveler’s expression softened, almost affectionate. “The first daughter will be easy to love,” he said. “Bright. Gentle. She will sense magic the way some sense storms before they break. A herald of old powers awakening.”
Tears slipped down Johana’s cheeks.
“And the second…” His voice lowered, tender as a confession. “The second will be the one marked for greatness.”
Willem’s pulse quickened, and Johana’s breath shuddered.
“Greatness,” the Traveler continued, “is a fragile thing. A double-edged gift. A child born with such fire must never be indulged.”
