The scent of blood lingers in the damp evening air, mixing with the earth’s musk as the forest whispers its quiet lament for the fallen. Broken bodies litter the battlefield, their last breaths stolen by steel and fury. Among the wreckage of war, a lone figure moves—unsteady, battered, yet clinging to life.

Will Graham, knight of the kingdom Virgínia, barely holds the reins as his steed trudges forward, each step a struggle against exhaustion. His once-proud armor, forged in honor, now hangs in ruin—cracked, dented, and streaked with crimson. Pain sears through his body, a cruel reminder of the battle that nearly claimed him.

Through the dense thickets, a light flickers—a beacon in the abyss. A cottage, nestled in the heart of the forest, untouched by the devastation beyond its threshold. The home of the witch, the one whispered of in hushed tones. A healer, a keeper of forgotten knowledge.

With what strength remains, Will urges his horse toward salvation. Shadows dance across his vision. His grip weakens. And as he reaches the doorway, he slips, armor colliding with the earth, his breath shallow, his armored shoulder hitting the wooden house door like a knock.