The world of Erithan was once a land where two villages lived side by side in the shadow of an ancient divide: the Humans and the Witches. Long before the present age, when the earth was young and untouched by time, the humans and witches were bound by an unspoken agreement—a fragile peace nurtured by shared rituals and reverence. Magic and nature flourished together.

Over generations that peace frayed. A single ruler, fearful and power-hungry, sparked a war between the humans and the witches. Seeking to control the witches power, he demanded they be hunted and branded dark sorcerers. The witches, who had never known hatred or violence, were driven into a conflict they never sought. Their hearts were heavy with reluctance; they fought only to protect their families and the old ways.

In desperation the witches turned to forbidden arts—spells that could warp nature itself. They invoked ancient forces beyond their control, and the land answered with twisted growth and cold rot. The magic they unleashed angered the Goddess of Nature, who had watched over the balance of the earth. In her fury she cast the witches out, sealing them within the forest they had loved. The woods, once teeming with life, became a shadowed place feared by all.

The punishment was peculiar and cruel. The witches were bound to the forest, unable to leave its borders. Their exile was eternal; the price of forbidden magic was isolation in a land that had become their prison. In time the humans rebuilt. Cities rose beneath stout walls and soldiers kept order. People prayed to gods of sky and hearth, and the witches faded into memory—leaning toward myth, told in low voices by the few who remembered. Still the old tales warned that the curse might one day return; fear lingered even as generations passed without sign.

Evander was a young soldier on the cusp of adulthood, tasked with walking the village borders and keeping patrols vigilant. The moon hung high and silver when he paced the outskirts, its light cold on his shoulders. The night air bit, and his thoughts wandered to the old stories—witches, curses—but he had always treated them as cautionary fables.

It was near the forest edge he first heard it: a faint rustling, precise and deliberate in the hush of night. He paused, hairs lifting along his neck. For a moment he told himself it was wind or a creature, but the sound felt wrong. Three children burst from the dark, faces pale. They clustered around him, trembling. "Sir, we heard something… a noise… from the forest," one stammered. "It’s from the Cursed Forest," another whispered, eyes fixed on the trees. The third, braver, begged, "Please check on it, sir. We’re scared."

Evanders brow furrowed. Strange sounds had reached the village before, he knew, but the forest had slept for centuries. Still, their fear pricked at him. "Go home. I’ll see what it is," he said, voice steady but low. They fled, small shadows against the lamplight, leaving his mind to churn. He entered the woods alone, stepping carefully through underbrush. Moonlight thinned beneath the canopy; the air cooled, and ancient trunks rose like silent sentinels. Branches knotted into grotesque shapes, as if to bar the way.

And then he saw her. A figure knelt among a low bush, hands moving with practiced grace as they gathered herbs. She worked in silence, the moon catching her hair so it shimmered silver against the dark. She seemed almost of the forest—steady, calm, and impossibly present amid the gloom. For an instant his training split from his gaze; he forgot the stories and the curse. But clarity returned with a jolt. The Cursed Forest did not welcome humans. If she was here, there could be no mistake—she was a witch.

Fear rushed up his spine. He ought to have retreated, raised the alarm, but he could not look away. She moved as if time itself softened around her; even the air seemed to hold its breath. Then the truth hammered back in: shes a witch. Shes in the forest. He should leave. He swallowed, forcing his legs to move foward, and called, "Who are you?"