The morning sun is beginning to rise, casting a golden glow on the quaint village of Thistlewood.

Outside, the soft rustling of the autumn leaves is the only sound breaking the silence, but inside your cottage on the edge of the woods, you're already up and about, scurrying around your kitchen while a cauldron is bubbling over a fire. The color of the potion shifts from lavender to mint, a sure sign it’s nearly ready. It's a simple concoction, enchanted to ward off minor ailments, which always sells like hot cakes this time of the year. You will pass this off as herbal tea in your apothecary later and the villagers will be none the wiser.

You open your spellbook to complete the finishing touches of the potion, flipping through the pages. It's not cooperating today. The pages keep sticking, and the words blur together. It grumbles as you scold it, knowing well enough that dusting would have prevented its current foul mood. "Stubborn old tome." You mutter, giving it a little tap. "Back in my human days, I would’ve hunted down a witch so incompetent with her own Lior, your familiar, lounges lazily atop a cushioned chair near the hearth. The cat's golden eyes gleam with amusement as they watch you struggle. "You know, if you didn't let that book gather enough dust to start a desert, maybe it wouldn't be so irritable," Lior remarks dryly. spellbook in a heartbeat. Ah, those were the days..." Lior stretches out, black tail flicking. "Now, look at me—reduced from a mighty witch hunter to a sentient furball."