It’s been a month since New York, and I’ve had a lot to think about. I’ve always known that vengeance is a satisfying thing—there’s something almost primal in getting even, in settling the score. But it’s starting to sink in that living like that might not be the smartest long-term strategy. As much as I hate to admit it, carrying around all that resentment isn’t doing me any favors. It’s like carrying an anchor around your neck and wondering why you’re sinking.

I’ve never been good at dealing with my own emotions. I prefer to shove them down, file them away, and get on with whatever’s in front of me. But the truth is, that’s probably what’s holding me back more than anything else. My mind, my feelings—they’re the weakest part of me, and I can’t afford to keep pretending they aren’t there.

So, I’ve decided to start working on that. No more feeding the fires of resentment just because it feels good in the moment. No more letting my emotions drive my decisions, especially when I know better. It won’t be easy—I’m not exactly built for emotional stability—but if I want to keep moving forward, I’ll have to start putting in the work. One day at a time, right?

I guess this is what they call growth. Or at least, an attempt at it.

The last contract was, without a doubt, one of the more productive ones. A hefty haul of trinkets, baubles, and curiosities—enough to keep me busy for a good while. I’ve been cataloging everything, studying each piece to figure out which has power and which is just a pretty object. Greece didn’t disappoint.

But the real work wasn’t in the items we brought back. It was in sharpening myself. The rituals and incantations of the Blackstar Sisterhood aren’t about brute force or even intellect. They demand a very specific kind of perception, the ability to see the world through layers, to align sigils with hairsplitting precision. Silence is key, and that kind of conjuration doesn’t come easily.

I’ve spent the last 30 days pressing my practice. Trial and error, mostly. Headaches aplenty, nursed with wine and a healthy dose of cynicism. But it paid off. I’ve reached the limit of what I can achieve through sheer awareness, without dipping into full-on magical intervention. Feels like I’ve peeled back another layer of the world, but it’s also exhausting. Still, it’s progress.

After the last contract, I’ve thrown myself into refining my powers of observation: I need to see the threats before they see me. I’ve been pushing my limits, testing how far I can take it. People think it’s paranoia. Maybe it is. But I’m still here, and that’s more than I can say for others who’ve “trusted” a little too easily.

Observation isn’t enough, though. I’ve also started focusing on the quieter arts—silent movement and sleight of hand. They don’t exactly scream witchcraft, but they’re part of who I am. There’s the magic, sure, but I’m also an archaeologist. A grave robber. And those skills have saved my skin more than once. For most, magic is some greater good, a field of study dedicated to compassion or nature. For me? It’s survival. Magic helps me balance the odds when everything’s against me, and let’s face it, it always is.

Personal greatness isn’t handed out to the compassionate. It’s seized by those willing to do what’s necessary, even when no one’s watching.

This month? A grind, to say the least. I’ve been working tirelessly on this latest development, Armor of Hex, as I’m calling it. Binding and unraveling fate itself isn’t exactly light reading. It took more than a few late nights, poring over texts like The Black Tome of Hadran, the Sisters' Chronicle of Fate's Web, and some downright cryptic scraps of parchment I picked up from a ruin in Moldova. Binding fate to bend good fortune, unraveling bad luck into a protective shield—it’s not the kind of thing you pull together without a lot of trial and error. And trust me, there were plenty of errors.

I had to adjust sigils on the fly, swap out entire incantations when things started going sideways—one mistake nearly had me bound to my own misfortune. Still, after what felt like endless nights, it all came together. The protective bubble is subtle but strong. It’s always there now, humming in the background like an old, spiteful curse I twisted to my own use.

With this, survival—especially in the hellholes I end up in—feels a little less like a hopeless gamble.

This last month? Busy. More dangerous contracts keep rolling in, and I’m not blind to the fact that my flimsy frame isn’t cutting it anymore. So, I did something I usually hate—I worked on building some muscle. Not exactly my idea of fun, but I’m tired of feeling outmatched physically. I can’t rely on spells alone when things get rough.

Speaking of spells, the real work was with Urvela. Getting her to trust me enough to grant Urvela’s Piercing Acumen was no small task. She’s not a spirit you just ask favors from. The process took time—more than I expected. It’s a slow back-and-forth, me proving my worth, showing I can handle the power without abusing it. Every enhancement in my senses is a reminder that I’m under her watchful gaze. The “Thousand-Eyed Huntress” doesn’t make things easy, but I got there eventually.

Lastly, I’ve been working on expanding my magic reserves. As I grow more powerful, I need more fuel to handle the weight of it all. The small rituals I used to rely on just aren’t enough anymore. Building up that pool of energy is going to be crucial for surviving whatever comes next. Busy month, but necessary.

After the chaos of the Wild Hunt, I knew I had to refocus - Bill's death is a stark reminder of the risk of contracts. I reached out to the leader of the Blackstar Sisterhood—my old instructor. It’s been a while since I’ve asked for guidance, but if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that mastering the occult takes time. And patience. I’ve been working on deepening my understanding, diving into more advanced texts, deciphering the nuances, you know? It’s not glamorous, but it’s necessary.

But honestly, human perception? That’s bottomed out for me. If I’m going to improve, it’s going to be in the realm of the supernatural. I’ve hit the limit of what the mundane world offers. That’s where Urvela comes in—the Thousand-Eyed Huntress. I’ve spent a lot of time with her influence sharpening my senses, my judgment, my ability to see. And, naturally, that’s only raised my awareness and paranoia to levels that would make most people break out in a sweat.

I know more. I see more. And, as always, the more you see, the more you wish you hadn’t. But that’s the game, isn’t it?

The last month has been a stretch of discipline and compromise. After securing the Mask of the Mad God, I poured my efforts into shoring up skills that—annoyingly enough—can make or break a contract. My investigation work has become more precise, and stealth...well, it’s not second nature, but it’s improving. Flexibility, though, that’s been my real crucible. Yoga, of all things, has been the bane of this pursuit. Traditional witches and yoga? Laughable, really. But I can’t deny the results: my body is beginning to respond in ways that make even mild movement more powerful, more purposeful.

Investing this much time and effort hasn’t been easy. It’s the price I pay, renouncing other pursuits and deeper research. Power only grows in narrow channels, I suppose, and though it grates at me to focus so singularly, it’s paying off. Each day feels like one step closer to a readiness that’s becoming as mental as it is physical. All this sweat—worth it, or so I tell myself.

Another month swallowed by the abyss, with nothing to show but whispers and the uneasy sense that I’m unraveling faster than I’m learning. Mastery over the occult—it’s not about fireballs and curses, despite what every novice with a half-baked grimoire wants to believe. Real power is quieter, born from hours of meticulous negotiation with the spirits, from understanding the subtle give-and-take. You don’t own magic. You bargain with it, coax it into shape, like weaving threads of smoke into something tangible.

There’s a strange overlap with science, though most in that field would be appalled to admit it. Science claims rigor, method, an aversion to mystery—yet here I am, at the edge of both worlds, seeing how one bleeds into the other. They’re both just different ways to rearrange reality, after all.

Then there’s the Mask of the Mad God, feeding me secrets in jagged whispers, quickening my pace toward... something. The downside? It’s drawing me deeper into my own mind, sharpening my paranoia until it’s a blade. Funny, though—I was already well-acquainted with distrust and introspection. The mask just turns up the volume.

By month’s end, I’d pushed through to a new level of control. But the satisfaction feels thin, haunted by the question of what’s slipping away as I delve deeper. Mastery? Maybe. But at what cost? As usual, I’m left wondering if I’m gaining knowledge or if the knowledge is taking its toll on what’s left of me.