Incense burnt, wafting its aroma, likely scented by everyone in Malia. Bethan hated the scent; it reminded her of visiting her ex-boyfriend’s family estate. His mother was always so insistent on cleansing for ‘spirits.’ Memories of her standing in a high doorway and his mother waving sage all over her body gripped her soul. The stench would stay on her clothes, even after washing them. Bethan would have to use an enchantment to remove the strong smell. She rubbed her palm across her forehead; the stench induced an unbearable migraine pulsating in her temples.

Limestone columns mounted the temple. Delicate yet intricate frescos of the ancient goddesses lined every wall of the decadent temple, aptly named The Cult of The Trine. One oil-painted fresco depicted the Maiden standing naked in a field of pink blossoms. Deep in the background, a dark forest loomed behind her, and something lurked within the deadly-looking shadows. A man stood behind a tree trunk, spying on her. The romantic in Bethan used to think the figure was a suitor, lovingly observing the goddess from afar. But the much older, jaded Bethan feared the figure was there for sinister purposes. Ones she didn’t know and didn’t dare to find out.

Bethan’s eyes darted from the eerie fresco when Elnora Rennigan shifted beside her. Her friend sat, slouching in the pew, playing with the ends of her raven-coloured hair. She stared at Circe, who had been secretly messaging her colleagues. Bethan was relieved when she realised she was not the only one not paying attention to the ceremony. In Circe’s defence, she was probably working. She was a minister, after all; she hardly ever had time off those days.

Bethan leant forward and spied Agatha Elmwood’s soft blonde curls, whose teal eyes gazed at the unfolding ritual. At least Agatha would inform them of what the hell was happening.

Her three roommates dragged her to the ancient ritual, the first autumn rite without her magic, and she despised every minute of it. The history books told her the day of autumn’s first full moon was the day the Trine defeated the Devil. Bethan doubted the battle ever took place; no archaeological evidence had proven the Trine or the Devil had ever walked this realm. It was likely an ancient religion that had carried over from the ill-fated Old Kingdom.

Her dark eyes narrowed towards the Maiden statue; she wondered how the sculptor had carved the hair’s long waves out of clay and how they’d crafted the crown-shaped, wanning crescent moon pressed on the goddess’s forehead. The Crone, who, at the centre of the trio, donned a full moon on her crown, Mother Goddess a waxing crescent. She marvelled at the craftsmanship—as any historian would—when Circe nudged her.

A bell chimed through the hollowed temple.

The witches stood in unison, squeezing between pews to encircle the Crone, Mother and Maiden.