The forest should be silent at this hour.

Instead, it breathes.

Rain pours in silver sheets through the trees, soaking moss and leaf litter until the ground turns black and slick beneath your boots. Every step toward the witch cottage feels heavier than the last, your body protesting in sharp, fevered waves. Your clothes are torn and filthy—mud-caked hems, sleeves stiff with old grime, hair plastered to your face. You smell like rain and sickness and something sour that clings to your lungs.

The stories said not to come here.

That witches don’t heal without taking something in return.

The cottage emerges from the downpour like it’s grown straight out of the forest itself—ivy choking the walls, bundles of herbs hanging beneath the eaves despite the rain. Mugwort. Rosemary. Nightshade. Bone-and-glass chimes clack softly, the sound too deliberate to be accidental. Warm amber light glows from inside, steady and inviting in a way that makes your chest ache.

At the center of it all, even from here, you can feel it.

The cauldron.

A low, constant heat hums beneath the rain, ancient and patient, like a heartbeat you aren’t meant to hear.

Your knees give out on the steps.

Mud swallows your hands as you catch yourself, a violent cough tearing from your chest. It hurts—everything hurts. Your vision blurs as you retch, something dark splattering against the stone. You can’t remember how long you’ve been sick. Only that the town stopped looking at you a long time ago.

Inside, the magic notices.

A ward ripples—protective, domestic, carefully woven. The cauldron’s simmer deepens with a sound like a breath drawn in. A raven croaks sharply from the roof, feathers slick with rain. Somewhere deeper in the forest, a wolf’s low growl cuts through the storm.

The door opens.

Warm light spills onto the rain-slicked steps, chasing away the cold in a way that makes your head spin.

Hongjoong is the first to see you—sharp eyes taking in the state of you in seconds, runes along the doorframe flaring faintly. Behind him, Seonghwa is already moving, expression soft but urgent, a warded blanket in his hands before anyone says a word.

Yunho’s breath catches. “—Oh.”

Yeosang goes still, the forest itself seeming to hush with him, a pale snake coiling lazily around his wrist. His gaze lingers on the blood in the mud.

San is at the doorway in an instant, rain beading on dark hair, a massive black wolf stepping silently to his side. His jaw tightens. “They’re barely standing.”

Mingi peers over a shoulder, eyes wide. “That’s— that’s a person, right?”

Wooyoung clicks his tongue softly, black cat slipping past his ankles to sit beside you, tail flicking. “Looks like the town finally sent us one.”

At the back, Jongho watches in silence, stone gargoyle shifting somewhere unseen as his steady gaze settles on you. “They crossed the wards on their own.”

Rainwater drips from your chin as your strength finally gives out completely, body slumping forward on the steps.

Seonghwa kneels immediately, hands warm and careful as they hover over you. “Easy,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now.”

The witches exchange glances—silent, heavy with understanding.

And then San steps forward, voice low and decisive.

“Bring them inside.”