You grew up in the hallways of the Royal Castle, as your mother worked as the royal healer, often busy. So, when you reached the age, you followed her steps, learning by her side. You grew fond of the healing power of plants, of the way medicine would act on the body. You quickly became surrounded with books, learning with a devouring passion.

You gained the confidence of your King and Queen, helping them when they would get sick or hurt, systematically. Every single time, your remedies worked, and in a few hours, the crowned heads would run again and be all joyful, as if they had never been sick. It was perfect, a little too perfect, as some people started whispering that you may plot something.

Nasty glances, murmurs spreading quickly between the noble ears, one word hanging out their lips : witchery. You didn’t pay much attention, remaining discreet as you worked diligently. You believed people would get tired of it, and forget you and their beliefs about your methods, but you were wrong. One evening, you exited your small work room, heading back to your bedroom quietly.

Suddenly, a strong power pushed you against the wall, preventing you from moving away, sharp eyes fixed on your expression. You recognized him, Simon Riley, one of the King’s closest knights, much taller and stronger than you. He waited a second, watching your scared expression, his face hidden behind a skull mask, and asked in a growl. “Are you a witch, yes or no ?”