Virelight Trilogy - Book One - The Witch of Westwood Lane

The box opens as if sighing in relief-soft, almost exhausted.

Elara barely touches the crescent moon-shaped latch before the lid lifts, floating upward with a reluctant, airy click. A gentle puff of lavender-scented air escapes, swirling around her like a whispered secret carried on a breeze that forgot it was supposed to be long gone. The scent is faint but unmistakable-Isadora's favourite. The kind of fragrance that clings to memories like spiderwebs catching morning dew.

Inside, nestled in deep velvet the colour of twilight, rests a single key.

Elara's breath hitches. This key was nothing like the clunky brass ones she'd wrestled with at the library. No, this was elegant-almost regal. Longer than her hand, wrought from tarnished silver that shimmered with a faint iridescence, as if the metal itself was made from moonlight caught in a rainstorm. Intricate constellations were etched into its surface, subtly shifting and rearranging themselves as if alive, tracing secret star-paths she could almost follow if she stared long enough.

At the head of the key was a compass-round, small, and spinning in lazy, drunken circles. It didn't care for north or south or any direction rooted in the mundane world. Instead, it seemed indifferent to reality itself, rotating as though searching for something only it could perceive. Perhaps the key's own lost car keys.

Her fingers hovered, reluctant to touch. The key pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat-or maybe a mild caffeine addiction. It waited-patient and eager for her to claim it.

Under the box lay a folded piece of parchment, thick and smooth as leather, sealed with dark wax imprinted with the figure of a moth. The wax shimmered faintly blue, like it was holding onto stolen starlight-or just really proud of itself.

Elara glanced at Moony, who was perched atop a dusty globe nearby, tail curled neatly around his paws, gold eyes gleaming with sardonic amusement.

"Cursed?" she asks, voice uncertain.

"Likely just inconveniently cursed," Moony replies with a dismissive flick of his tail. "Expect hallucinations, illusions, maybe an unexpected bout of longing or dread. Nothing fatal. Probably just a spider or two, or your most embarrassing memory deciding to stage a public cameo. Again."

Elara snorts. "You're really not the emotionally supportive type, are you?"

"I'm a familiar cat extraordinaire, not a therapist," he says with a mischievous gleam. "Though I'm open to bartering in treats and sarcasm."

Rolling her eyes, Elara carefully picks up the parchment and breaks the wax seal. The paper beneath is unnaturally cold-like it had been preserved in a frost no fire could melt. The ink shimmered faintly violet, as if written with liquid night.

She unfolds the letter and begins to read aloud, the words echoing softly in the stillness, like the room was leaning in to listen.

To whoever holds this key,

The dead do not rest easily in Westwood.

Secrets grow like weeds here, and this town's roots burrow deeper than most graves.

This key opens a door hidden from time.

Find the Night Vault beneath the chapel.

What was lost begins there.

But beware: you are not the only one searching.

Some truths are buried for a reason.

- I.F.

(P.S. Don't trust any animal that speaks in full sentences. Except maybe the frog in the pantry. He's reliable.)

Elara lets out a low whistle, the tension in her chest tightening like a knot in a very old sweater. "Well. That's...foreboding."

"Isadora was rarely subtle," Moony says, leaping down with a puff of displaced dust. "Also, the frog has been missing for six months. Just putting that out there."

Elara rubs her temples, blinking away the swirl of thoughts. "The Night Vault? The chapel? Where exactly is that?"

She flips the parchment over, searching for any hidden clue or map, but finds nothing but the elegant script.

Moony's tail flicks. "You know, most people inherit a savings account. Maybe a cursed ring. You? You get secret crypts, mysterious keys, and cryptic posthumous riddles. Your aunt was clearly trying to one-up the family legacy."

Elara smirks despite herself. "I always was the lucky one."

She glances back down at the key, picking it up and feeling it hum faintly in her palm-its light ebbing and flowing like a lullaby she couldn't quite place but felt etched deep into her bones.

Suddenly, a strange pressure settles behind her eyes, gentle but insistent. A flickering vision bursting to life in her mind's eye: a vast stone chamber underground, circular and shadowed, with passages twisting in impossible angles. Intricate puzzles were etched into the walls, faintly glowing runes floating like mist. At the chamber's centre stands a woman-her back turned to Elara, long silver hair trailing down her spine like smoke curling in a dream.

Is this Isadora?

Elara's heart stutters. She feels a pull, a mix of longing and dread so sharp it prickles her skin, as if the vision was reaching for her through the veil of time.

Then, just as suddenly, the vision dissolves, leaving a cold echo lingering in her thoughts.

Elara blinks, shaking her head to clear the haze. "What...was that?"

Moony's voice is quiet, almost reverent. "The key gave you a vision. It's bound to your bloodline-like a calling card. It wants you to find the Night Vault."

"But I don't even know where the chapel is. How am I supposed to find the Night Vault?" Her frustration prickles beneath her skin, sharp as a thorn.

"Neither does half the town," Moony replies. "The chapel vanished decades ago. Like all the best mysteries in Westwood."

Elara looked down at the box again. The velvet lining had faded from deep purple to worn ash-grey, as if it had spent the last of its magic opening itself for her.

A sudden chill crawls up her spine, the room's warmth receding in a slow wave-like a tide pulling back to reveal dark secrets beneath.

Carefully, she slips the key and parchment into her dress pocket, where they nestle together with a soft thud.

"Well," she mutters, dusting off her hands, "looks like we're in it now."

"That's the spirit," Moony purrs in approval, then becomes suddenly alert. "Also...someone's here."

Elara's heart jolted.

She hadn't heard footsteps or voices, but a soft melodic chime echoes downstairs.

The doorbell.

Her stomach drops.

No one should know she was here. She hadn't told a soul-not even the Metropolitan Library of Esoteric Studies. Nor her roommates. Nor distant relatives who could barely remember her name.

Moony's whiskers twitch. "Do you feel that?"

"What?"

"An unmistakable scent." He sniffs dramatically. "Pinewood, wet wool and brooding."

Elara groans. "Wonderful. Probably a door-to-door vampire salesman or the Girl Scouts."

"Don't be ridiculous," Moony shoots back, eyes gleaming with mischief. "They only come on Wednesdays. And the Girl Scouts should've learned their lesson by now."

Elara grabs the box, mind racing. Time had shifted-hours had passed upstairs, but it felt like mere minutes to her. She felt different now, changed somehow. This was no longer just a strange inheritance. It was a summons. A puzzle wrapped in shadow and mystery.

And as the house seems to lean in closer, listening and waiting, Elara feels a heavy truth settle deep in her bones:

Nothing in Westwood stays buried forever.

Especially not the dead.

Especially not the missing.

The doorbell rang again-three soft, deliberate chimes that echoes like a tolling bell through the stillness.

Elara swallows hard.

With a steadying breath, she steps toward the staircase.

The house groaned around her, settling into the sound.

Moony trails silently, ears perked, muscles taut like a coiled spring.

She reaches the first-floor landing and peers down the stairs. The front door sits closed, light from the porch filtering through the stained glass.

A shadow flickers beyond the stained glass window-too tall for a child, too slow for a stray animal.

Her pulse quickens.

Elara hesitates. Could she ignore it? Let whoever it was go away?

But something in the air-an electric charge, a whisper of recognition-pushes her forward.

"Stay close," she whispers to Moony as she descends.

At the bottom step, she pauses, then places a tentative hand on the heavy brass handle. It was cold-colder than the night should allow.

The knock comes again-three more chimes, deliberate, patient.

Elara forces a smile on her lips and opens the door just a crack.

The house holds its breath.

And so does she.