Witch stories are the black velvet cake of folklore. Rich, decadent, a little sinful, and absolutely irresistible. Everyone loves a good witchy tale - especially the twisted, eerie, glamour-soaked kind we serve at this mad little tea party.
So grab your crystal spoon and stir counterclockwise, darling - we’re about to dive into a fresh, original tale of enchantment, betrayal, and dark empowerment.
☕️ Alice’s Mad Tea Party Presents: Storytime
Alice Spills the Tea: The Witches of Widow’s Vale
Let me tell you a tale soaked in shadow and scented with lavender smoke, my dear mortals. A story whispered through tomb vines and written in salt and wine. A tale of three sisters—witches, naturally—and a valley that dared to forget them.
Welcome to Widow’s Vale, where the fog wears perfume and the ravens keep secrets.
Long ago, the Thorne sisters ruled the vale—not from thrones, but from candlelit covens and moonlit meadows. Each one was… shall we say… a different flavor of delightful danger:
- Selene Thorne, the eldest, read futures in wine glasses and knew what you were going to say before you did. She didn’t suffer fools. Or neighbors.
- Morganna Thorne, the middle child, spoke to shadows. Rumor said she once dated one. No one asked follow-ups.
- And Ivy Thorne, the youngest? Oh, she was sugar-laced poison. Sweet voice, deadly curses. Could charm a priest into sin and then hex his garden for good measure.
They kept the balance of Widow’s Vale—healing the sick, blessing the crops, hexing only when extremely necessary (and occasionally just for sport).
But mortals, as we know, are terribly fickle little things.
A drought came. Crops failed. The people panicked. And just like that—out came the torches. The sisters were declared a menace and evil incarnate, dragged through the muddy streets, and sentenced to “a purifying fire.”
Spoiler: it didn’t work.
You see, witches don’t burn, darling. Not real ones. The Thorne sisters simply vanished in a burst of ash and wind, leaving behind a warning scrawled across the courthouse walls in a rust-colored ink that suspiciously resembled blood:
“We were your blessings. Now we’ll be your curse. Every daughter of this vale shall carry our wrath.”
And oh, how they meant it.
Every generation since, a girl is born with Thorne blood. She’ll be quiet until she’s not. She’ll hum to plants and they’ll grow. She’ll dream in symbols and cry storms. And one day, she’ll hear three voices in the wind—Selene, Morganna, Ivy—welcoming her home.
They call them the Hollowborn now. Young witches who don’t know they’re witches—until they do.
And Widow’s Vale? Still cursed. The fog never leaves. Men disappear if they insult the wrong woman. And sometimes, when the moon is high and the tea leaves form three swirling thorns… you’ll hear laughter from the woods.
The sisters are still watching.
Still waiting.
Still stirring their vengeance like a fine herbal blend.
So my little mortals, if you ever feel a chill run down your spine as you sip your midnight tea, don’t worry. It’s probably just the Thorne sisters… checking in.
And if you are Hollowborn - welcome to the coven, darling.
With spell-kissed ink and wicked affection,
Alice, Queen of Ink & Lore
Witch-adjacent and always well-accessorized
🍵
More wicked tea and magical mischief? You know where to find it:
Alice Spills the Tea
The Immortal Gazette
Summoned by: Sonia Bloodthorn
and Bloodthorn Publishing
