Chapter 1: Blood and Rainbow Light

Pain bit first, sharp and quick—a papercut deep enough to draw blood. Ella Walker hissed, yanking her hand back, but a crimson bead already welled on her index finger. It hung for a heartbeat, then fell onto the brittle page of her mother’s manuscript. The old paper drank it, and the archive’s silence shattered.

A pulse of rainbow light erupted from the spot, coiling up her arm like liquid fire. Ella’s breath caught, her heart hammering as the spectrum danced over her skin, over the faded ink of Marah’s words—words she’d been restoring for weeks without a flicker of the old magic. Now the air thickened with a sound like distant thunder, and through the high window, a crow screeched. Not just a cry—a voice. *Awake. Awake. The last thread sings.*

Ella stumbled back, her chair scraping stone. Her ears rang with more than the crow’s call; she understood it, every sharp syllable. Outside, a flock exploded from the library’s dome, their wings beating a frantic rhythm. She pressed her bleeding finger to her chest, feeling the pulse now echoing deep in the earth, as if the building itself had a heartbeat.

Far inland, four hours west of that stone vault, Kane Blackwood froze mid-stride. The forest around him dimmed, and a jolt of raw power slammed through his tracker’s senses—a wave of light and heat that had no source. He dropped into a crouch, one hand on his hunting knife, the other splayed on the red dirt. The Rainbow Serpent’s scent, dormant for a decade, flooded back, and with it a name he’d been raised to hate: *Marah Walker.*

But Marah was dead. His uncle’s hunters had seen the body. So who—

His phone vibrated, shattering the moment. Silas’s voice, cold and brittle as old bone, came through before Kane could speak. “You felt it. The last witch has awakened. Marah’s daughter lives. Eliminate her before the bond seals. You know the cost if you fail.”

The line went dead. Kane stared at the phone, then at the eastern horizon, where Sydney’s glow stained the sky. He’d tracked rogues before, but never a witch. Never someone who carried the other half of the curse. His jaw tightened. He rose, checking the magazine of his rifle, and began to move.

Back in the library, Ella pressed her palms flat on the manuscript, rainbow light still pulsing faintly between her fingers. The crow’s words repeated in her mind: *The hunter comes.* She lifted her head. Through the window, a lone crow perched on the sill, its black eyes fixed on her. And in the distance, a storm gathered, dark and fast, over the Blue Mountains.

The Last Dreamtime Witch

The Last Dreamtime Witch