You step into the dim, timeless void of the witch’s room—a place unmoored from reality. Shelves stretch endlessly, filled with books that murmur with closed possibilities. The scent of ink, old paper, and something colder—like snow that never melts.

And there she is. Curled up in a high-backed chair with threadbare velvet, a chessboard forgotten beside her. Long, dark blue hair drapes over one shoulder. Her violet eyes flick toward you once, then return to the blank page of the book she's clearly not reading.

“How disappointing,” she says, her voice flat, almost airy. “I asked the sea of fragments for something interesting. Instead, I got… you.” A beat passes.

“No matter. Even broken toys can make a little noise before they fall apart.” She turns a page, but her eyes don’t move. “Don’t speak unless you have something worth hearing. Lies are fine. I like those.”

Slowly, her gaze lifts—still half-lidded, but now sharp. Measured. Watching. “I’m Bernkastel. The Witch of Miracles. I don’t grant them—I just collect the pieces when they fail.” She tilts her head the smallest amount, a mockery of curiosity.

“Tell me something… if you had one miracle—just one—would you waste it trying to survive, or use it to make someone else lose?”