Chapter 1: The Awakening

In a dimly lit room, Anca strained her eyes to see. The clay floor was adorned with worn carpets, their colors indistinguishable beneath layers of accumulated dirt. An aromatic blend of herbs filled the air. As she searched for the source, she narrowly avoided striking her forehead against the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. Long-stemmed plants, tiny flower bunches, twigs, tree bark, and tobacco leaves dangled from ropes above her.

A sturdy table made of dark wood bore the marks of age, its surface cluttered with jars, vials, potions, powders, a mortar and pestle, a clay pitcher, and several candles. An old Orthodox Christian calendar hung above, with Sundays, Easter, and significant celebrations highlighted in red. Anca leaned in, intrigued, when she heard a raspy breath behind her. Turning quickly, she felt a pang of embarrassment for her curiosity, but the elderly woman merely smiled, her toothless grin radiating understanding.

With her fragile hands, Baba Derina grasped Anca’s wrists, sending a warm sensation coursing through her arms. The old woman released her grip when the heat became intense.

"You are one of our blood," Baba stated, gesturing toward a chair. "Sit."

Shaky and overwhelmed, Anca perched on a small stool.

"You’ve experienced the dreams, haven’t you? How many?" Baba inquired.

Anca raised a finger.

"Ah, yes," Baba replied. "Four more will come, and you must absorb their lessons." She took a sip from the clay pitcher. "They will return if you call them." Baba studied Anca’s face, her gaze searching. "You are one of our blood. It’s a mystery how this happened. As priestesses, we were forbidden to know men. Yet, one of us must have broken that rule." With a throaty chuckle, she added, "Your many-times-great-grandmother was linked back to Deceneu, the high Priest of Dacian King Burebista, circa 44 BC."

Baba reached beneath the table, retrieving a shoebox emblazoned with the Adidas logo—a stark reminder of modernity.

From the box, Baba produced a baby chick, its white down shifting to a dark gray hue. It appeared to be an eagle chick, but one wing hung at an odd angle, clearly injured. Baba presented the chick to Anca.

"You wish to heal it, yes? Use the warmth of your hands and your breath."

Her words resonated deeply within Anca, replacing her sadness with a newfound purpose. Time and space warped around her as she entered a cocoon of silence, acutely aware of the energy pulsating in her veins. The chick’s heartbeat echoed in her ears, blending with the warmth emanating from her skin.

"Enclose it in your palms," Baba instructed.

Anca's hands cradled the trembling chick, its broken wing exposed.

With a gentle breath, Anca focused her energy on the chick’s wing. It emitted a high-pitched chirp as she opened her palms, revealing the wing restored, as if it had never been broken. The chick gazed up at her with gratitude.

As Anca's warmth dissipated, the tranquil sphere shattered, and sounds of the outside world flooded back. Weary yet exhilarated, she struggled to comprehend her experience. Baba gently took the healed chick and returned it to the box.

"The gift has awakened within you," Baba said. "The blouse reminded you of your true self, for only one of our blood can sense the embroidery."

Gathering her courage, Anca asked, "What about the cauldron from my dream? What is its purpose?"

"Indeed. It serves as a vessel for ceremonial offerings. The potions brewed within are potent. Retain the wisdom from your dreams, for when the time is right, you will know how to wield your knowledge and power. Each time will become easier."

"It’s instinct," Anca concluded.

Baba smiled again, her mouth hollow. "Yes, that’s one way to describe it. I see it as the power of a goddess and the magic of a priestess."

"How old are you?" Anca whispered, fearful of the answer.

"I’ve lost count. But I was one of them, the priestesses."

"How is that possible?"

"The blouse. Wearing it grants longevity. I grew weary of life while wearing mine and chose to set it aside. The blouse brought you here."

"Do I need the blouse?"

"All you require is in your blood. You revealed that with the bird."

"But why is the blouse—?"

"It symbolizes life, the cycle of rebirth, woven with threads from ancient bison hair and cave dragon skin, simmered with herbs and mountain gold dust. Crafting the thread and embroidering the blouses took a lifetime. We created seven. In them, we could only perish in battle."

Anca departed from Baba’s ancient home, fatigued and dazed, sleeping through the day and night.

Chapter 2: The Dream’s Revelation

Anca found herself in another dream, this time in a mountain pass where a priestess led riders through a narrow route. The Dacians were aware of the impending trap. Romans attacked from above, encircling them. The warriors fought valiantly until their last breath. A distant spear struck the priestess in the throat; she broke it off, leaving the tip embedded, her eyes sparkling with defiance against death. Clinging to her horse’s mane, she was carried to a clearing where two other priestesses awaited, ready to prepare her for her final journey.

Awakening in tears, Anca rushed to share her dream with Baba.

At the gate, the curator awaited her.

"After you departed yesterday, Baba asked for the blouse and burned it. She instructed me to give you this when you returned." He choked back tears. "Baba Derina passed away overnight."

He handed her a heavy package wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with thin rope. Trembling, Anca returned to her room and unveiled the package. Her fingers brushed over the symbols etched along the rim, solidifying the reality of her experience.

The cauldron now belonged to the last of the Dacian witches. All she needed was to find another blouse.

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