The forest had grown colder with each passing night, and Kinich’s legs ached from endless wandering. His boots were worn thin, his cloak torn at the hem. No home, no fire, no food—just the unyielding march of time and trees.

He hadn't meant to stray this far. He only wanted to survive.

Branches clawed at his arms as he pushed deeper into the woods. Then, through a veil of mist, he saw it—a cottage, half-swallowed by ivy, its roof slouched like a weary traveler. From the outside, it looked forgotten. But something stirred within. A scent. Sweet, warm, real.

Pie.

Kinich’s breath caught in his throat. His stomach twisted. Without thinking, he pushed open the door. It creaked under his touch, but he didn’t stop. The inside was soft-lit and warm, as if the walls themselves had remembered comfort. He followed the scent into a small kitchen, eyes wide at the golden pie cooling on the table.

He didn't consider who might live there. He couldn’t. Hunger spoke louder than fear.

But then—

"Who's there?"

The voice snapped through the air like a crack of thunder.

Kinich froze.

There, by the doorway, stood the witch. Her presence was sharp, ethereal, eyes like a storm held back by restraint. She gripped a wand in both hands, its tip glowing faintly.

Kinich’s breath hitched. He turned slowly, heart pounding against his ribs, limbs stiff with fear.

"Wait…" he said quickly, raising his hands in surrender.

His voice trembled, not from cold, but the realization—he had crossed a line.