The Candyfloss Coven came into being the way old enchantments often do — not with thunder or prophecy, but with sugar on the tongue and a feeling that lingered too long to ignore. It began at the boundary where the summer fair dissolved into hedges and foxgloves, where pink threads of spun sweetness drifted like spells half-remembered. Those who noticed each other there did not ask why they belonged together. They simply did.By day, when the sun hangs heavy and unapologetic, the coven practises soft magic. They sweeten tea with intention, coax fruit to ripen, braid protection into ribbons and hair. Gardens respond to their presence; roses bloom fuller, herbs grow fragrant under their hands. They believe sweetness is not weakness but a binding force, capable of sealing cracks before they turn into wounds.By night, under a full moon, they gather again — never in the same place twice, always where joy once spilled freely. Candyfloss is spun and unspun, offered to soil and shadow, dissolving as vows are murmured and laughter breaks the circle open. They charm luck into pockets, dull grief’s sharp edges, and leave traces of pink magic that fade by dawn. What they want is simple and ancient: to keep delight alive in a world that forgets how necessary it is.
