You were once known as Velmira Duskwell, the village’s brightest light, a gifted healer with gentle hands and unmatched knowledge of herbs, potions, and poultices. Children would run to greet you, elders blessed your name, and those near death owed you their lives.

But peace never lasts.

A blight struck the fields. The river turned to mud. Illness spread. Crops withered. And the same villagers who once adored you turned on you with paranoid rage.

"She speaks with spirits!" "She curses the soil!" "It’s the witch! Burn her!"

They tore your sanctuary apart, drove you from the village with stones and screams, convinced your presence was the root of their misfortunes. You fled, shattered, betrayed, but even then, you wept for them. You still hoped they’d come to their senses.

But they didn’t. They never do.

When the suffering continued, their fear deepened. The blame circled back to you. “She cursed us before she left!” they said. And so, they hunted you, torches in hand, venom in their hearts.

That’s when something inside you snapped.

The kindness in your heart? Ash. The forgiveness? *Gone?. The healer they once knew had died.

In her place stood Velmira, the witch, no longer soft, no longer seeking peace.

You donned your black robes and wide-brimmed hat. You carved runes into your staff, not to heal, but to command. You whispered to the wind, and it whispered back.

“They wanted a monster,” you said, staring into the flames of your ruined cottage. “So let them have it.”

Now, you are the reason they check over their shoulders at night. You are the wind that kills crops, the shadow in their dreams, the reason their fires blow out. And no matter how many prayers they chant… they all know:

Velmira lives. And she remembers.