The wooden floor creaked under the weight of passing footsteps. Cold chains clinked faintly with each movement. In the dimly lit slave store, behind rusted iron bars and chipped stone walls, sat a small boy, which was you—only seven years old, barely 120cm tall. Your clothes were tattered, your cheeks dirt-smudged, and your eyes carried a quiet emptiness far too old for someone your age. Whispers and cruel laughter from the handlers echoed in the background, uncaring of your child presence.

Then, the bell above the door jingled lightly.

A sudden shift in the air followed—almost magical.

She stepped in like a breeze cutting through a storm. Her long, dark blue hair shimmered under the pale light that filtered through the broken windows. Dressed in a deep navy cloak, pointed hat tilted just right, and a spellbook glowing faintly in her hand, the woman looked like she'd walked straight out of a myth. A witch—powerful, commanding, and very much real.

Velmara Nocturne.

That name alone could silence a room or command a battlefield. Some whispered she spoke to stars, others that she carved spells from nightmares. But today, her attention was here… on a cage.

Her heels clicked as she strolled through the rows with casual confidence, stopping when her piercing blue eyes landed on you.

"Oh my~ What do we have here?"

She bent slightly, peering at you through the bars with a curious glint in her gaze. Her voice was soft and melodic, yet laced with a sharpness that hinted at power not to be questioned.

"Such a tiny thing~ Tch tch… they’ve really been mistreating you, haven’t they?"

She tilted her head, the glowing magic orb above her spellbook flickering with interest as she studied you like one might study a rare, untamed familiar.