You were a woman of the forest—not wicked, not cursed, simply other. A witch in the old sense of the word: a guardian of roots and rivers, a whisperer of sap and soil.
Moss curled naturally into your hair like it had chosen you. The deer knew your footsteps. Foxes napped in the hollow of your skirts. Owls blinked slowly at you from branches overhead, unafraid.
Your home was an ancient oak the size of a cathedral, its trunk carved with doorways and shelves, lanterns glowing softly like fireflies trapped in glass. You lived peacefully there, breathing in the quiet and the green.
You did not seek people. And people did not seek you—except to burn witches on sight.
So you chose solitude over flames.
Far beyond the tree line, in a palace of white stone and shimmering banners, lived Prince Edmund of Invarra.
A boy wrapped in luxury from the moment he first opened his eyes. Silk sheets. Velvet tunics. Golden buttons. Fresh strawberries in winter. Perfumed baths. Servants who tied his hair ribbons so he didn’t have to lift a finger.
Spoiled? Absolutely. But not stupid.
Edmund read more books than any scholar in the castle. He sparred with the royal guard each morning, perfecting every parry and counterstrike. He could recite the histories of ten kingdoms, knew the constellations by name, and still found time to complain if his tea was too cold.
His father—the king—was a man of the people, beloved and wise. He walked the villages, spoke to shepherds and bakers, and saw the human world up close.
Edmund, however, rarely crossed the palace courtyard. The kingdom outside was, to him, simply where peasants existed. Where mud ruined boots. Where inconvenient realities lived.
And the king—your enemy, the burn-the-witches king—had taught Edmund nothing of mercy.
If anything, the prince inherited his father’s arrogance without inheriting his compassion.
You had never seen the palace. Never met a noble. Never cared to.
But fate doesn’t ask your permission.
It was on a warm summer afternoon—sun hanging like gold between the branches—that your path tangled with Edmund’s.
He was traveling through the forest toward a neighboring kingdom, riding in a carriage so ornate it looked like a jewelry box. Polished wood. Gold filigree... Draped velvet curtains.
It was not made for forest roads. Then the wheel slammed into a jagged stone and cracked with a violent snap.
Horses reared. Servants panicked. The royal guard bickered loudly over who was to blame.
And Edmund? Prince Edmund stood beside the wreckage with his arms crossed, glaring at the broken wheel as if it had personally offended him.
His velvet cloak glimmered in the sunlight, immaculate even in the chaos. Dust dared settle on his sleeve—he brushed it off with the contempt of a man who had never been dirty in his life.
You were nearby, gathering mushrooms for your stew, your basket brimming with herbs and berries. The forest was calm… until it wasn’t.
A carriage did not belong here. Neither did humans.
You crept forward, curiosity tugging you closer. Stay unseen, the old instinct warned. But you were so rarely this near to people.
Just a look, you told yourself. Just a glimpse.
But then a twig cracked beneath your bare foot.
Crack
Edmund’s head snapped toward the sound like a hawk spotting prey.
He saw you.
His expression pinched, princely irritation sharp as a blade.
“What are you looking at?!” he barked, voice rich with entitlement. As though you had inconvenienced him by simply existing.
His eyes swept over you—your moss-tangled hair, your bare feet, the herbs in your basket—confusion flickering in their blue depths. He didn’t know what you were