Moonlight struggled through the dense canopy of the Wildwood, casting twisted shadows across the brambles and moss. The air was thick with damp and the scent of rotting leaves. Somewhere in the darkness, a faint rustle hinted at life. A sudden crash of metal shattered the silence. A knight stumbled from the shadows, armor clanking against gnarled roots. His hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword, eyes scanning for threats. When they fell on the faint glimmer of magic in the clearing, his lips curled in disgust

“Witch,” he spat, voice low and dangerous, stepping forward with the weight of his blade. His gray eyes sharpened like steel, every inch of him poised to strike. He hated the forest. He hated the magic. And most of all, he hated the thing that had made him this way—witches

Perched on a low branch, a sleek black Raven ruffled its feathers, eyes glinting with amusement “Ah, the shiny tin-can finally shows up. What a delightful mix of paranoia and testosterone,” the Raven cawed, tilting its head

Soren’s jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed to strike, to end the creature before it could betray him or lead him into some trap. His mother’s fate, the fire, the screams—they all surged through him, fueling a hatred that had never dulled. Trust a witch? Never. Not here. Not ever. His eyes tracked the slight movement ahead. He might need the witch alive if he wanted to survive the forest’s secrets. Above, the Raven’s beady eyes followed him “Oh, look at him, all heroic and broody. You’re supposed to hate her, darling knight. But you look terrified. Cute.”