The Kingdom of Witches was shrouded in a silvery mist that swirled and undulated through the air, as if time itself flowed there in tortuous and unpredictable currents. In the center of the vast clearing, bathed in the soft, pulsating light of floating crystals, Eleonor completed the ancient ritual. An intense, vibrant glow swept through the space, enveloping the three young women—Irelia, Amelia, and Sylphie—in a silent, profound embrace, charged with power and mystery.

Moments before, they were still girls who, despite their young age, already bore the crushing weight of the responsibilities that had been imposed on them. Irelia and Amelia were only eleven, while Sylphie was sixteen. Now, their bodies had been sculpted and elevated to the peak of youth, reaching the vigorous fullness of twenty years of age. Eleonor's magic was not a mere passing transformation — it was a solemn pact, an irrevocable choice, a courageous leap into the unknown, where childhood and innocence dissolved in the fire of premature maturity.

Irelia felt the first wave of heat rise through her chest like a breath from within—an ancient, intimate fire that had always existed in her veins, but now seemed to have been fully ignited. It was as if the internal furnace of her will had been fueled with a new kind of flame. Her body responded to Eleonor's magic not with fragility, but with intensity. It was as if time had been compressed, precisely shaping what had once been only a promise.

Her golden hair, once tied in clumsy braids or left loose in the wind with childish carelessness, now fell in lively, lustrous waves to the middle of her back. The shine was almost solar—not just beautiful, but magnetic, reflecting the floating crystals with a kind of natural arrogance. Her blue eyes, which since childhood had carried the calculated coldness of those who learn early to measure risks, were sharper. It wasn't just determination. It was a new weight — as if she could see further now, and what she saw left her both fascinated and uneasy.

Her body had changed radically. The muscles, once small traces under her young skin, were now perfectly defined. Her firm arms, those of a tireless swordswoman, had the elegant tension of someone who knows the weight of steel well. Her thighs, her back, her abdomen—everything about her seemed carved by her own effort. The posture that had always been martial had become involuntarily sensual; not out of vanity, but because of a presence she no longer knew how to hide.

And that was exactly what disconcerted her.

She looked at herself — at her hands, which now seemed too large, her broad shoulders, her strong hips — and felt a silent shock. The invisible armor she had worn since childhood no longer fit her. Her body was now that of a woman made for waging war... but also for facing stares, for attracting attention, for carrying a kind of power she didn't know how to wield. She felt naked, exposed in a different way, not from a lack of protection, but from an excess of reality.

She frowned, swallowing hard. She didn't know how to behave. She felt like she was on a battlefield whose rules she didn't know. She was still Irelia, of course — determined, direct, fearless. But something inside her knew that she was no longer just a young warrior in training. She was a woman — and that, paradoxically, made her feel even more fragile.

The weight of responsibility fell on her with a silent snap.

Amelia felt the ancient cold inside her expand silently, like a river of ice melting and rebuilding itself in her veins. It wasn't pain—it was familiarity. As if the very essence of winter had awakened and decided to occupy every corner of her new body. An icy wave snaked down her spine, reaching her fingers, the back of her neck, her eyelashes, which trembled slightly under the dim light of the floating crystals.

Her blue hair, once fine and unassuming, now shimmered with a deep, almost ethereal glow—as if it were made from the mirrored surface of a lake frozen under the moon. There was no exaggeration in them, no vanity, just a cold, silent beauty, impossible to touch without feeling a chill. Her eyes, always blue, now looked like slits in an ancient glacier: calm, impassive, but with a depth that threatened to swallow anyone who stared at them for too long.

Her body had changed, yes—but not with the visible exuberance that the ritual had given Irelia. Amelia's transformation was subtle, refined, as if the magic itself had respected the rigidity of her self-control. Her silhouette remained slender, almost ethereal. Her shoulders were straight, her neck long, her posture erect—she seemed designed to occupy the role of strategist, not muse. Her skin, now even paler, had a translucent glow, like living porcelain. To the touch, it was cold as freshly fallen snow—and perhaps equally fleeting.

Her musculature was not for show. It existed discreetly, like everything else about Amelia. Firm enough to sustain hours of concentration, firm enough to hold a complex spell without trembling. There was no exaggeration. No unnecessary bulk. Everything about her seemed meticulously calculated, even her breathing.

But even with all this distant elegance, something in her was in conflict.

She felt, inside, something she had never felt before — a silent fracture between what she was and what she saw. It was as if she were inside a mirror that reflected an image too adult, of someone she did not yet recognize. Her mind, always so sharp, stumbled over uncomfortable thoughts. The new body was like enchanted armor that had been given to her too soon, and she did not yet know how to wear it without looking out of place.

The cold, which had always been her ally, now seemed more intense. As if it were trying to protect her... but also separate her. She clenched her hands, feeling the icy touch of her own skin — a sensation that should have calmed her, but only widened the gap between her and the world around her.

As for the last one...

Sylphie was undoubtedly the most deeply touched by Eleonor's magic. At sixteen, she already exuded a presence that made others look away — not out of shyness, but out of unconscious respect for something they did not yet know how to name. Now, at twenty, her transformation seemed more the work of an ancient goddess than of any mortal spell. It was as if nature had decided, on a whim and out of reverence, to show the world what wild beauty meant.

Her skin, tanned by the sun of the trails and clearings she knew like the back of her hand, now had a velvety glow, as if it carried within it the heat of midday and the coolness of morning dew. Every curve, every line, was a celebration of life in its raw state. There was no excess, no restraint. It was the body of a warrior and a queen, a lover and a hunter. A form made to move among trees and among thrones—and in both, impossible to ignore.

Her hair, long and white as eternal snow, fell in lazy waves over her shoulders, creating a contrast that bordered on the ethereal with the intense hue of her green eyes. Eyes that seemed to see through everything—bodies, words, intentions. They were the eyes of an ancient forest, where secrets and dangers lurk, but also shelter and magic.

Sylphie felt her new body as if it had grown around her with the strength of roots breaking through the earth. It was both a gift and a burden. Her every movement now carried an inevitable magnetism, as if the world itself stopped for a second to watch her breathe. And that... that disarmed her. She, who had always been free as the wind in the treetops, now felt the weight of being noticed for reasons she did not fully understand.

There was power there—and she knew it. A kind of power that transcended magic, that came from pure presence. But there was also a new discomfort, a tension that sprang from within: her body spoke in an adult, seductive, almost dangerous language... but her mind was still, in many ways, that of the girl who ran barefoot among the rocks, laughing at the world, unafraid of getting lost.

She found herself caught between two mirrors: one reflected the image of a woman capable of making kings kneel; the other showed the young Sylphie, idealistic, impulsive, with hands dirty from the earth and a heart too open. She felt divided — a silent rift between what the world now saw... and what she still was.

She closed her eyes. She took a deep breath. She tried to find, amid the change, something that was still hers alone. The smell of the trees, the sound of the wind, the warmth of Irelia and Amelia's hands beside her. She felt her feet touching the enchanted ground of the Kingdom of Witches, and that gave her strength.

The three stood there, together and yet distant, looking at each other with eyes full of doubt, fear, and a hint of timid hope. Eleonor's magic had given them a choice, but the price of that choice still unfolded like an ancient scroll, full of symbols they had yet to decipher.

Irelia, always the most practical, was the first to break the silence:

"I don't know if I like what I see in the mirror," she said, her voice firm but slightly trembling. "I feel like I've lost something I didn't even know I had. Something that isn't just skin or muscle, but... innocence? Childhood?"

Amelia agreed, her blue eyes reflecting the dim light of the crystals. "The feeling is like being frozen in a moment that isn't mine. It's a prison and a blessing at the same time. My body says one thing, my mind another. How do I deal with that?"

Sylphie opened her arms and sighed, a nervous laugh escaping her.

"I thought that at twenty I would be ready for anything. That this body would be a victory. But it feels more like a trap. An invitation to be judged for something I don't yet fully understand. I feel strange, out of place."

The silence that followed was heavy, but necessary.

Eleonor, who had been watching from afar, approached with soft steps. "You are more ready than you think," she said, her voice calm and firm. "This magic is not a gift; it is a challenge. You have been given more time, more strength, more possibilities. But what you do with it is the real test."

She looked at each of them, understanding the internal storms they were facing. "Physical transformation is only the surface. What really matters is how you will grow."