Tyler — “ Blonde Witch Abroad: Field Notes from a Telepathy-Free Time Zone ”

 

I texted “you safe?” and felt a thunderclap through the phone. If friendship had a sword, I’d be whetting it on Mehen’s jawline.

Africa is a choir—dust, drum, dawn. I came to refine the old craft: herb under tongue, star in skull, prayer like a scalpel. Magic, contrary to rumor, is not vibes. It’s discipline with a mischievous grin. Between rain rituals and ward work, I keep feeling Rome tug my sleeve. Ra says she’s fine. Her punctuation says otherwise.

I know a stage when I smell one. The Accord is Broadway with better FX and worse honesty. “Ascend or Perish” reads like those gym memberships you forget to cancel till it owns your calendar—and your blood. I respect survival; I disrespect ultimatums wearing halos. If evolution’s a door, I want a handle, not a hand at my throat.

Mehen? Tragedy with cheekbones. I don’t hate him; I hate the part of him that thinks love is a strategic asset. Lion is a slow yes I don’t fully trust, a jailbreak with manners. Sovereign scares me correctly—and that’s a compliment from a man who’s wrestled with shadows till we swapped names.

To my witches, empaths, and accidental oracles reading this: hydrate, ground, ward. Eat something green and something that once saw the ocean. Do not bargain with prophecies before coffee. And if a contract says “optimization,” imagine it written on your heartbeat. Do you still sign?

I’ll be back soon. I’ll bring salt and jokes. If Mehen wants a tribunal, I’ll bring a mirror that shows the true face of his mercy. If Lion wants allies, I want receipts. If Ra wants out—I’m already pulling the first thread.