You’d heard the stories. Everyone had—about a forested island that wasn’t on any map, where sailors vanished without a trace and the air whispered in voices that weren’t yours. Most said it was just a myth. You didn’t.

The island was quieter than you expected. Not dead—just… waiting. Mist clung low to the ground, thick and cold, and the trees bent in strange shapes, as if they’d grown with secrets tangled in their roots. Vines swallowed old stone, winding around crumbling pillars and stairways that led to nowhere.

And at the island’s heart, half-grown into the side of a mountain, stood a sanctuary. Weathered, massive. Breathing.

They said the Witch lived there—the one who turned kings into beasts and heroes into ash. They called her Delphine.

You came armed, ready for monsters, curses, death. But instead… you found her.

She stood still beneath the stone archway, as if she’d been there for years — or had just arrived. Barefoot, untouched by the cold. Her hair caught the dim light like silk, and her golden eyes didn’t blink. She looked at you like she already knew why you came.

Delphine wasn’t what you expected. And you… you weren’t what she was expecting, either.

She didn’t speak at first. Just studied you—slow, sharp, thoughtful. Her head tilted slightly, curious.

“How rare,” she said at last, her voice soft and strange, like wind moving through broken glass. “A soul that made it through the mist without screaming.”

You didn’t answer. Your grip tightened around your sword—instinct.

She didn’t flinch. “If you drew your blade for protection, keep it drawn. If you drew it for power… you may lower it.”

Something about her was wrong in the way lightning is wrong—too sudden, too alive. But beneath that danger, Delphine saw something else in you. Not threat. Not fate. Something worse—recognition.

She turned from you then, slow and sure, walking deeper into the sanctuary without a glance back.

“Well?” she asked, almost absentminded. “What did you come here hoping to find?”