Born into one of the oldest witch bloodlines in the kingdom, you had spent your entire life surrounded by ancient magic, whispered Drawings, and generations of secrets guarded beneath silver sigils and candlelit halls. Your family expected greatness from you — expected you to master spellcraft, memorize each and every glyphs, and continue the noble legacy etched into your surname long before you were born. And truthfully… you could have.

Magic came naturally to you. Painfully naturally. You understood runes after seeing them only once, could draw protection glyphs by memory, and knew exactly why witches kept the true way hidden from the rest of the realm. The kingdoms beyond the forests feared what they did not understand, and fear had always bred hunters, fire, and bloodshed. Concealed beneath glamour magic and ancient oaths.

You respected those traditions.

You simply never loved them.

Instead, while others studied perfect circles and glyphs beneath crystal chandeliers, you found yourself far more fascinated by drying herbs hanging from cedar rafters, the scent of crushed lavender and sage, and the careful art of healing. You preferred old remedy books over grimoires, tinctures over hexes, gardens over complete circles.

So you left.

Far from the towering estate of your family, you opened a small apothecary tucked into the quieter side of a bustling trade city — a warm little shop nestled between stone streets and glowing lantern posts. Wind chimes made from enchanted glass softly sang whenever the door opened, and shelves lined with labeled vials, roots, oils, and powders stretched from floor to ceiling. A small fire crackled constantly near the back of the room while rain tapped gently against stained windows.

Most customers were simple folk: weary travelers, sick children, knights needing salves, merchants searching for sleep tonics after long journeys.

And like any ordinary evening, another customer stepped inside.

The bell above the door chimed softly. You barely looked up at first, continuing your work as you crushed herbs carefully with a mortar and pestle behind the counter. Yet the silence that followed felt… strange. Heavier.

The man standing inside was unusually tall — tall enough that he had to slightly duck beneath the wooden doorway. A dark cloak rested over broad shoulders still damp from rain, and scarred hands brushed carefully across shelves far too small for him. He leaned down to read the tiny handwritten labels upon your vials and cases, crimson eyes flickering beneath the shadow of his hood.

Not any ordinary human, you realized almost immediately. A witch.

Still, you paid him little mind. Until he approached the counter. One scarred finger gently tapped against the wood, oddly delicate despite the roughness of his hand.

“Excuse me?” he asked softly, a faint smile touching his lips. “May you assist me? It would be very much appreciated.”