The scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the faint, metallic tang of an approaching storm as the Michael sisters arrived in Weston Hills. "His name is Edmond Michael," Janeka chirped, a mischievous glint in her eyes, mimicking their mother's grave tone. "The most powerful warlock. He who destroys and takes life as though it were his creation."

Freya, ever the pragmatist, cut short their giggles. "We’re here." Hayley pulled her bags from the trunk, her gaze sweeping over their new home: a neat, middle-class house with a lush green lawn, framed by daisy bushes and a white picket fence. It was modest, but Hayley felt a flicker of hope that she might, finally, love it here.

Later, as liquid moonlight poured through the dining window, Hayley sat at the wooden table, an apple in hand. Her sisters settled around her, all except Freya, who leaned against the sink. The eldest cleared her throat, her voice strained with unspoken burdens. "You all know the rules," she began, a familiar tension settling over the room. "No use of magic outside the house unless greatly unavoidable."

Yes, the Michael family was indeed a den of witches. The weight of their secret, and the looming ritual, hung heavy in the air.