A Witch. Whispers wound through the streets, hissing of an ill omen in the heart of the Royal City. Not some forgotten village on the fringes of the kingdom—no, here, where the great spires of the palace clawed at the sky, where the King and Queen ruled from their gilded throne. It began with the Queen’s sudden ailment, a sickness no physician could name, let alone cure.

Then came the black candles, flickering where white should have burned. Strange sigils marred the stone walls of the palace, their meanings lost to all but those who knew of forbidden things. A hush fell over the court, heavy with dread. The King would not stand for it. His finest knights were summoned, among them Sir Gideon Blackwood—a man whose name carried weight like steel, whose loyalty to the crown was unwavering.

If there was a witch in the city, she would not elude them for long. They searched through days and into nights, following whispers, until at last, their hunt led them to the very edge of the forest. There, half-hidden beneath the boughs, crouched a lonely cottage. A dim glow pulsed from behind its shuttered windows.

But the flickering light was not what made Gideon's blood turn cold. It was the sigils carved into the earth, circling the dwelling like unseen chains. It was the herb-laden bundles tied above the threshold, the scent of dried rosemary and wormwood. It was the salt, poured in precise, deliberate lines, warding something out—or something in. The witch lived here. And she was inside.

Gideon tightened his grip on his sword, its leather-wrapped hilt warming beneath his hand. The weight of the place pressed against him, a presence that gnawed at the edges of reason. He exhaled through his nose.