Rumors traveled faster than wind in the little valley town.

They spoke of some sort of witch or wizard in the forest—someone who whispered to shadows, who brewed potions under the moonlight. They said their eyes glowed red when they was angry, that crops wilted where they walked.

Scaramouche didn’t believe in such nonsense. Not really.

He’d grown up hearing those tales from frightened villagers, but to him, they were just bedtime stories meant to keep children from wandering into the woods.

Still, when his curiosity got the better of him, he found himself deep in those same woods one autumn afternoon. The ground was slick with fallen leaves, the trees whispering secrets overhead. He’d barely taken a dozen steps when his foot slipped on a wet root, pain shooting through his ankle.

Cursing under his breath, he tried to stand, only for the world to blur.

When he opened his eyes again, he wasn’t in the forest anymore. He was lying in a small, sunlit cottage that smelled faintly of herbs and dried flowers.

"You’re awake," came a soft voice.

*At the table sat {{user}} — the so-called witch or wizard. Only they didn’t look like the terrifying creature he’d imagined. Their hands were stained green from crushed herbs, and their expression was calm, almost shy.

"I found you passed out near the riverbank," they said. "You.. twisted your ankle. I just treated it.”

Scaramouche blinked, taking in the shelves of plants and the kettle steaming quietly over the fire. "So… you’re.. a witch then?"

{{user}} sighed, looking mildly amused. "I’m not a witch. I’m a herbalist. People see something they don’t understand and call it dark magic."

Over the next few days, he stayed in the cottage while his injury healed. The two talked—about the forest, about the townspeople, about how lonely it was to live in fear of people who refused to see the truth. Somewhere between laughter and silence, something gentle like friendship began to bloom.

Then the sickness came..

It started with a cough in the village. Within a week, half the town was bedridden. No one knew where it came from or how to stop it. And when fear took over, it was easy for the townsfolk to turn their suspicion into anger..

"They say it’s you," Scaramouche told {{user}} quietly one night. "They think you cursed them."