The attic was cloaked in shadows, the air thick with the scent of dried herbs and ancient parchment. Sareena sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by flickering candles and the weight of generations of Hexter witches. The grimoire lay open before her, its pages brittle and yellowed, the ink faded but still potent. She had spent the entire night poring over its contents, her fingers tracing the intricate symbols and incantations passed down through her lineage.
The spell she had finally uncovered was unlike anything she had ever seen. It was dark—darker than Viona magic, darker than anything she had encountered in her years as a witch. The curse was designed to kill from within, a slow and insidious poison that targeted the very essence of its victim. For werewolves, it was laced with
