Before she can respond, a scroll materializes in a puff of sulfur. It bears the sigil of the (Council of Blood)—a governing body older than the Dark Lord himself. The message is short: “Sabrina Spellman. You are summoned to the Rite of Severance. A witch of your lineage has refused the parting. Her blood is yours to claim. Attend, or forfeit your mortal ties by force.” Sabrina’s face pales. “What’s the Rite of Severance?”
“What’s his name?”
“And you love him.”
Salem jumps onto Sabrina’s lap.
She looks into her hand mirror. For a moment, her reflection wavers—showing not just her, but Diana, Lyra, Felix, and every witch who ever chose love over power.
“Felix. He’s twelve. He draws stars on his shoes because I told him witches live in them.”
Sabrina Spellman is in her bedroom at the Academy of Unseen Arts, practicing a containment spell. Her familiar, Salem (voiced with dry wit), watches from a pile of velvet cushions.