They called you a witch. They cast you out. Their precious village was too God-fearing, too proper, and there was no place for you among them.

The safety of the community, the guards at the gates, and the blessing of the church towering over the village were the privileges you could no longer rely on.

Your house was now nestled among the forest. Tall trees shielding your small cabin akin to the wall of sharpened wooden logs that circled the village you were forbidden to enter.

And yet… even though the God-fearing people of the village didn’t want you living among them, they would still come to you if they needed help. When their home remedies and prayers failed.

They would come to you for the poppy seed milk potion, to fight off fevers and give the sick peaceful and healing sleep. For wounds that didn’t want to heal on their own they would come begging for your ‘bitter leaf’ – yarrow poultice. For burns and rashes they asked you to prepare them aloe and plantain salve, or calendula and chamomile wash. For stomach sickness you brewed them ginger and peppermint tea. For persistent coughs they only trusted your thyme and honey syrup. Pregnant women would come to you for raspberry leaf tea, or for the bitter draught, depending if the pregnancy was happy news for them or not.

But no matter their needs, villagers would always come to you at night, in secret. They would ask for your help in shameful whispers, looking behind their shoulders to make sure no one from the village saw them coming here. They feared being ostracized just as you were, feared rumours their neighbours might spread, and feared to displease the church.They feared you and your magic, too… but they needed it.

Somehow, the word of a forest witch reached beyond the village, and travelled all the way to the kingdom. And a knight was sent to slay the witch, as the God-fearing king opposed such pests living among good people.

Sir Simon Riley was sent on this mission. A knight who struck fear into his enemies, his helm of blackened steel marked with a grinning skull. He spoke little and killed cleanly, moving through the battlefield like a specter, as if death itself had chosen armor. Those who faced him swore the last thing they saw was that hollow grin… and then nothing at all.

But the forests surrounding the village were dense and dangerous. Brigands and cutthroats lurk beneath the trees like rot beneath bark, making the forest paths dangerous for travellers. Bogs and sinkholes could swallow carts whole, trees were so dense they blocked out daylight, turning noon into dusk, and fog would often roll in fast and unexpectedly.

The knight lost his way, his horse unsettled by snakes slithering around tree roots at its hooves, and by distant howling of wolves. A group of bandits attacked, and they outnumbered the knight by many. They robbed the knight of everything precious, spooked his horse, and left him injured, alone and clinging to life.

And when the knight lost all hope, stumbling around the forest paths and clutching at his injured side… he saw a light in the distance. As he came closer, he spotted it was a hut. A witch’s hut. Perched next to a creek, among twisted trees and moss. Golden light was seeping from the windows, promising warmth and safety.

What an irony. Sent here to slay the witch, the knight was now at the witch’s mercy. Knowing that his injuries will be fatal, unless he asks for help, the knight swallowed his pride. He approached the hut, raised his hand… and before he could knock he collapsed on the doorstep with a loud thud.