Scarlet
The Witch Quarters sat on the farthest edge of Silver Hollows—beyond the last crooked fence of the farmer's plots, past the bramble-choked paths and whispering thickets where even wolves didn’t tread lightly. No signs marked its boundary. You simply knew when you’d entered it.
The air grew colder.
The trees bent differently, their bark etched with symbols that pulsed faintly in the dim light. Stones were arranged in perfect spirals that hadn’t been placed by hand. Birds didn’t sing here. Wind didn’t howl. And the moon, even in the late morning sky, felt closer.
Watching.
The Witch Quarters had always been forbidden unless invited. They kept to themselves, their ways older and stranger than even the packs remembered. But for reasons unknown, this time they had extended invitati
