Writing Prompt: Cauldron

Beneath the gnarled roots of the ancient hawthorn, where moonlight dares not tread, the cauldron rests. Its iron sides etched with runes long forgotten, pulsing faintly with a rhythm like a slow, sleeping heart.

No flame licks beneath it, yet steam coils upward in spectral spirals, carrying whispers of names that haven’t been spoken in centuries. Some say it brews only shadow and memory; others claim it stirs the very thread of fate, one drop at a time.

But all who’ve drawn near swear the same thing: the cauldron is not empty, and it is not alone.