Damon
The marshlands breathe like something alive. Every step I take sinks into black water that clings to my boots, thick as blood and twice as cold. The air hums with whispers… voices I can’t see, can’t name, but know belong to the dead.
The witch lives here.
I follow the scent of smoke and burning sage through the fog. The trees bend unnaturally, their trunks warped like they have spent centuries listening to secrets too heavy to bear. Somewhere in the distance, a crow screams and goes silent.
Perfect.
Morwen never liked visitors.
By the time I reach her dwelling, a lonely crooked hut perched on roots that rise like bones from the earth, the night has swallowed the moon. The place feels old enough to remember the first war between our kind. The door creaks open before I even knock
