Thunder cracked across the Scottish moors. Lightning carved the sky into silver paths. Brave Macbeth and his friend Banquo rode home from battle, their armor wet with rain and victory. But amid the mist, something ancient stirred.

Far across the bog, three shadowy figures stood upon the ancient stones. One croaked, “When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?” Another whispered, “When the hurly-burly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won.” And the third murmured, “That will be ere the set of sun.” Their voices tangled with the wind like ghostly music.

As Macbeth and Banquo approached, the fog thickened. The three witches appeared before them, their faces wrinkled and wise as stone. “So foul and fair a day I have not seen,” said Macbeth softly, gazing at the storm and sunlight mingling on the land.

The first witch raised her hand, pointing at Macbeth. “All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!” Macbeth started. That title he already held.

The second witch’s eyes gleamed. “All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!” At this, Macbeth frowned. He was no Thane of Cawdor—the traitor still lived.

Then the third witch whispered, her voice soft as falling ash: “All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!” The moor fell silent. Even the thunder waited. Banquo looked at his friend in wonder.

“Stay, you imperfect speakers!” cried Macbeth. “Tell me more!” But the witches turned to Banquo and spoke in riddles: “Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. Not so happy, yet much happier. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none.” Then they smiled, their eyes full of stars and secrets.

Before Macbeth could ask again, a flash of lightning struck. When the smoke cleared, the witches were gone. “Were such things here as we do speak about?” Banquo whispered. “Or have we eaten on the insane root that takes the reason prisoner?”

Two royal messengers arrived on horseback. “Hail, Macbeth!” they shouted. “The King has named thee Thane of Cawdor!” Macbeth’s heart leapt. The prophecy had already begun.

That night, by the fire, Banquo said softly, “The instruments of darkness tell us truths, to win us with honest trifles—to betray us in deepest consequence.” But Macbeth’s eyes were fixed on the flames, where he saw a shadow shaped like a crown.

Sleep would not come. In the flicker of his torchlight, Macbeth thought he saw three shapes dancing in the smoke, whispering, “All hail… hereafter…” He pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the tremor of a destiny not yet chosen.

When morning came, the mist rolled back, and the world was quiet again. But inside Macbeth, the witches’ voices lingered—like wind that never truly stops. He rode on, toward the rising sun, not knowing that he had already begun to follow the path they foretold.