The forest breathed smoke and silence. Charred leaves curled in ash beneath Caelen's feet as he staggered, still swaying from the battle that had raged for what felt like days. His armor hung in tatters; the red on his chest wasn't just the glow of magic — it was blood. Not fresh, but not fully healed either. His legs trembled under him, the cost of pushing divine strength beyond mortal limits. She stood no taller than him, wrapped in gray robes that shimmered like embers. Her dark hair drifted in the wind as though underwater, and her eyes—luminous green, ancient and youn. The legends had said witches were extinct. Yet here she was. A myth, breathing, watching him with the caution of a deer and the weight of something older than time. He opened his mouth, a question half-formed.
Chains of flame erupted from the air, slithering like serpents around his limbs. They pulled tight. He hit the ground with a grunt, face pressed to scorched moss. "No," she muttered, voice laced with panic. "Not now. Not like this." Caelen struggled, but his strength was gone. He could only speak. "Witches were wiped out in the Red Purge. What are you?"
The woman didn't answer. Instead, she waved a hand, summoning a burst of orange fire that glowed against her pale skin. With a soft chant, the flames condensed into a symbol and burst forward. His vision darkened. Sleep claimed him before he could protest. He awoke to teeth. A fox-shaped creature made entirely of smoke crouched above his chest, fangs dripping with heatless flame, eyes glowing from within its billowing form. "Varin! Off." The voice was stern but musical. The fox dissipated with a growl. He groaned and sat up, blinking into a place unlike any he'd seen.
The ground beneath him shimmered like polished obsidian. Trees bent at impossible angles, and floating stones hovered mid-air like they'd forgotten gravity. Magic seeped from the walls. Fileyele Crimson stood a few paces away, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed. "How did you find me?" He stared, dazed. "I didn't. I was barely standing. You found me. Or maybe we found each other." "This isn't funny. No one crosses the woodline. No one should." He pulled himself to a sitting position. "Believe me, if I had a say, I'd be somewhere else."
"You can't be," she snapped, beginning to pace. "You saw me. That alone is a crime punishable by fire." He tilted his head. "Then why haven't you burned me yet?" She stopped. He gave a weary smile. "You don't want to. You would've already." She turned away, murmuring to herself. "It's too early. No one was supposed to see us. Not until the pact..." He leaned forward. "Us? There are more of you?" Her eyes went wide. Realizing her slip, she scowled. "You're fishing." "You're talking."
She summoned a flame the size of a melon. It danced between her hands, growing. "You know too much. I can't let you leave." Caelen's expression shifted. Panic now. His wounds hadn't healed, and this magic—he wouldn't survive it. "Listen to me. You don't have to do this. I won't speak of what I've seen. You have my word." The fire surged. Her hands rose.
And then— Knock! knock! knock! A chill fell over her face. "Damn it," she hissed. With a sharp gesture, the floor beneath Caelen shimmered and vanished. He dropped into a shallow crawlspace, silent but cramped. The wood reformed above him. "Don't. Breathe. Loudly," she muttered. The door burst open.
"Well, well," came a snide voice. "Caught you talking to yourself again, cousin? Or is one of your little pets whispering secrets today?" Fileyele forced a laugh. "Odella. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Odella Darkmore strode in like a storm. Midnight-blue robes swirled behind her, silver clasps shaped like crescent moons. Her eyes swept the room. "I heard voices. Who were you talking to?" "Familiars. Training them to speak."
Odella raised an eyebrow. "Odd. Sounded more like pleading. Unless your fox has suddenly developed a very masculine voice." Fileyele turned, pacing. "You didn't come to lecture me, Odella. Spit it out." "Mother wants you. Immediately." Silence. Fileyele paled. "Summons from the High Witch aren't optional, you know. Or ever good news. What did you do?" From below, Caelen heard every word. He dared not shift.
Odella paused, sniffed. "And clean your floorboards, will you? Smells like rodents live in your walls. Or perhaps you're raising them now? Fitting, for a rodent like you." She turned on her heel and left, slamming the door. The floor shimmered again. Fileyele sighed. "Still alive?" Caelen coughed softly. "Barely." "Stay hidden. Make a sound, and the next flame won't be stopped." She pulled her cloak tighter and disappeared into the portal.
Far from the witch's domain, another realm stirred. The Queen paced her marble hall, banners fluttering behind her. The court sorcerers stood silent. She looked toward the eastern horizon, where war drums beat and the sky dimmed with smoke. "Any word from the Knight Hero?" A guard knelt. "None, Your Grace. It's been two days."
"Two days," she echoed, as though the words were blades. "And the legions of Arkael's chosen draw closer." Her fists clenched. "We are a nation of faith and flame. But without our sword, without our Caelen... what nation stands?" Outside the gates, thunder boomed. And the war moved forward.