Torch at the Crossroads
She does not bless the working. She witnesses it.
No angels attend this hour. The candle on the altar is a cigarette someone forgot to finish.
Hecate does not float in — she arrives the way a woman arrives when she already knows the ending: keys in hand, dog at heel, patience worn like good lipstick.
Three paths. One is the lie you perform at brunch. One is the debt you call self-care. One is the door you were told was not for people like you until you kicked it anyway.
She will not tell you which path is virtue. She will hold the torch while you discover which excuse you are married to.
The working is simple: stand at the crossing long enough for the hound’s breath to warm your wrist. Let the old gods watch. Let the new witches text “you good?” and do not answer yet.
Power is not the blessing. Power is being seen at the threshold without being rescued.
The crossroads is still there when the candle goes out.
JV · Dark Heart Labs