“Wands and Egos: A Field Guide to the Continuum” By Someone Who Definitely Shouldn’t Be Telling You This

Ever watch a group of self-righteous, egotistical grown man-babies argue over moon phases and quantum ether like it’s fantasy football season? No? Then let me introduce you to The Continuum—sorry, The Continuum of Wizards, if you ask them directly. They get twitchy about the full name. Branding, I suppose.

I stumbled across them—if one can stumble across a hidden society everyone knows about that wears robes and mutters Latin like they’re auditioning for a Hogwarts prequel—about six months ago. Not that I wasn’t warned. The Circle told me and the other fledglings at the time to avoid the Eastern Threshold unless being told directly to observe. Naturally, I went there immediately. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it made me invincible. Young adult mentality.

Let’s set the scene: a moss-cracked amphitheater beneath the city. Not underground, exactly—more like tucked between forgotten subway lines and collapsed dreams. Picture Stonehenge with fluorescent lighting and upscale catering. And there they were—the eleven of them (of course it’s a prime number; they love that). All men. All very white. All very serious.

One of them—Thaddeus or Thistlebum or some name that sounds like a third-rate tea blend—was floating three inches above the ground, arms outstretched, muttering something about “the convergence of ley harmonics.” Translation: he found a spot where the vibes are strong and decided to hover in it like a mood ring.

“They are realigning the arcane lattice,” whispered a girl next to me, wide-eyed and giddy.

I resisted the urge to laugh. “More like aligning their egos,” I said.

Look, I don’t hate them. The Continuum has been around for, oh, four thousand years—depending on who’s keeping score and whether you believe in Atlantis. They guard what they call The Breath Between—basically the messy overlap between magic and mundanity. According to them, if they weren’t holding it all together, the world would unravel into screaming chaos. I can agree with that overall.

The world has been screaming chaos since the dawn of existence. Especially of late, with today’s earthly population. Have you ever been on social media?

The Continuum operates in secret and glamours, cloaked in misdirection. Only appearing in flashes of thunder or dramatic candlelight when they think no one’s watching. Spoiler: we’re always watching. Again—social media.

And sure, they’re powerful. I saw one of them pull a memory out of someone’s head like a thread from a sweater. Shit, I sound like my grandmother with that phrase. Another one, I heard, turned an entire skyscraper’s security system into a murmuration of starlings. Beautiful stuff. Very cinematic. Or it would be, if it were true. Bar talk with a fellow Wiccan over several shots of tequila can’t really be trusted. But gods, they take themselves seriously.

One night—after a long introductory spellcraft session with The Circle, where we brewed rosewood and black salt under a waning moon (the hell is even that?!)—I wandered too close to the Continuum’s meeting chamber. I could feel the testosterone from a block away. They were arguing, loudly, about whether to interfere in a growing political crisis. One wizard—Callister, I know now—wanted to “cleanse the aetheric corruption” influencing world leaders. Already being performed in the other direction, I assure you, buddy. Another, bald and beet-faced, accused him of “playing sorcerer-king.” It was like watching a supernatural senate hearing, minus the C-SPAN filter. Simply put: POLITICS.

I listened. Took notes. Filed some of it away for The Circle—again, politics, but they don’t generally care about what The Continuum does. Unless it messes with the Earth-Mother’s own individual schemes, that is. But a few of the Mothers (read: elders, priestesses, and my Aunt Lila) find it amusing when I spy. Helping to keep the supposed balance of all things.

“You’re too nosy,” the coven-sister Mariel says. “I’m well-informed,” I reply blandly.

My relationship with The Circle is… nuanced. They don’t trust The Continuum—or me, for that matter. Never have. They knew my mother. Wizards hoard power like dragons, whereas we Wiccans share it like water. That difference in worldview? It matters. The Rede teaches us to harm none and walk in rhythm with nature. The Continuum? They bend nature to their will and then charge it rent.

Once, I fell into conversation with one of them. A younger one—the Callister guy—maybe late twenties. Dark hair, pretentious eyes that looked like they’d stared too long into the mouths of old lies. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, flatly. “I get that a lot,” I replied. “Do all your meetings include dramatic gesturing, or is that just the warm-up?”

He stared, eyes narrowing.

“You’re not a wizard,” he finally said. “Nope.” I smiled. “I’m part of something predating your kind.”

That seemed to disrupt his ego-system. I left before he could report me to their High Council—or whatever they call their leadership board. (It’s actually called the Pillar of Twelve. See? Prime numbers again.)

But here’s the thing. As much as I mock them—and I do—I can’t deny they’ve done some good. Prevented a rupture in the spirit membrane over Prague. Contained a fire elemental in Texas without burning down the oil fields (which I’m still conflicted about). They hold back tides most people don’t even know are lapping at their feet. Still, I’ve also seen what their rituals do to the land when unchecked. Scarred ley lines. Tainted soil. We once had to plant over a hundred moonflowers just to cleanse a hillside they “re-tuned.”

So, we observe from a distance. I meddle sometimes—within reason. The last thing I need is both sides coming after me for breaking the Compromised Law of Reckoning, keeping the peace in the magical community. They see everything, yet somehow notice nothing—too busy arguing over whether dragons are extinct or merely dormant. They’d never admit that, of course.

The Circle—the Rede—doesn’t flaunt its power, but they’re just as pretentious. They don’t wear velvet robes or hurl lightning bolts for drama, though. They sing to rivers and whisper to stars. They move the world like a breeze through reeds. Quiet. Subtle. Intentional. But political whenever it benefits matters at hand. But make no mistake: they watch The Continuum as closely as they try to watch the Veil. Some of the Mothers believe a reckoning is coming. That the Fractured Veil is thinning. That someone—likely The Continuum—will push too far. And when they do, it won’t be their precious council that saves the balance.

It’ll be the witches who still remember how to listen. I’m not saying I’m a spy. Or an agent. Or a double agent. That would be dramatic, and again—that’s their thing. I’m just a girl with a journal and a knack for being where I’m not supposed to be. But if you find yourself near the Old Amphitheater on a blue moon, and you hear chanting in a language your bones recognize, stay quiet. You might catch a glimpse of the last real wizards holding the edge of reality together with sheer force of will—and zero sense of humor.

And somewhere in the shadows, sipping peppermint tea and probably judging their rune alignment, will be me and the Wiccan crew saving the day.

You’re welcome.

With mild regret and minty breath,

—Amethyst Black

Filed Under: Observations, Unsanctioned

Signed: Amethyst E. Black