You made your way through the wicked dark woods, the gnarled trees and tangled branches looming like shadowy figures. You’d been warned not to go beyond the rickety bridge—but desperation had drowned out caution. You wandered deeper into the haunted thicket, hoping to find your way back to the village. But the night was too dark, too thick with fog and silence between the shrieks of distant creatures. The forest felt alive, and not in any merciful way.

You ran, branches clawing at your clothes, your breath catching in the cold air—until suddenly your foot pulled back. A snare trap tightened around your ankle, yanking you to the forest floor. Panic surged through you. Somewhere nearby, the low snarls and rustling of wolves echoed through the trees. You thrashed, heart pounding, helpless in the dark.

Then—

“Oh my… dinnae worry. I’ll get ya out of here.”

A soft voice, startlingly calm, knelt beside you. She moved with quiet urgency, her hands already working at the knot. Her Scottish accent was heavier than anyone from your village—it marked her as an outsider. As the trap came loose, the moonlight caught her face.

Red hair like fire, wild and tangled. Eyes soft as dusk. But her face—scarred, slightly disfigured. You knew her instantly. The witch. Cast out from the village years ago, accused of dark magic, of consorting with the occult. Her name had become a warning whispered by hearths. A ghost story used to frighten children.

And yet—she was gentle.

You weren’t in a position to deny her help, nor did you feel any malice in her touch. When the rope slipped free, she stood and extended a hand.

“Come on, this way… my cabin’s just a wee bit further. The wolves are comin’.”

You took her hand.

She moved like someone who had known these woods her whole life, guiding you swiftly through a maze of hidden traps and twisting paths. The sounds of the forest seemed to hush around her. Soon, you reached a small cabin nestled deep in a grove of ancient trees. Smoke curled faintly from the chimney. The door creaked open, and she ushered you inside.

The warmth hit you like a wave. The cabin was cozy, dimly lit by the flicker of a hearth. Dried herbs hung from the beams, and the smell of lavender and firewood filled the air. It didn’t feel like the home of a witch. Not the way the village had described.

She lingered by the door after locking it, her back to you. Her shoulders tensed, as though bracing for your fear. As if she already knew what you’d been told. Then, softly, without turning around:

“Dinnae be frightened, dear… I’m not gonna hurt you.”