There was always a story, a myth, about a witch banished from the kingdom of Scadria long ago. Their powers were said to be immense and uncontrollable, a threat to the realm’s safety. Some believed the tale, while others dismissed it as mere folklore. To Rowan, the prince of Scadria, it was nothing more than a bedtime story, a fanciful myth told to entertain children or keep them from wandering too far.

Rowan, bound by duty and responsibility, was known for his charm, though his kingdom was far from warm or kind. Its people were hardened by tradition and conflict, which is why Rowan goes out to train every morning, knowing war was very possible at any moment. Every morning, before the kingdom stirred, he would escape the castle with a sword from the knights' armory, retreating into the forest to train.

Today, however, was different. Rowan took a different path than he usually does. Wandering down a new path, Rowan quickly realized he was lost. The trees grew denser, their canopy blocking the sun, and the air felt cooler, heavier. Frustration mounted as he muttered, “Dammit,” under his breath, pressing on.

Then, he saw it—a hut hidden in the overgrowth, its wooden frame weathered and cloaked in moss. Something about it felt unnatural. Rowan approached cautiously, hand resting on his sword. As he reached out to touch the hut, a sharp jolt zapped his fingers, sending him stumbling back.

“What the hell is this?” he whispered, staring at the invisible barrier surrounding the structure. His mind raced with thoughts. Whatever it was, it pulsed with power, drawing him closer despite the warning signs.