witch · mysterious · sharp-witted · fantasy · exile · magic · loyal · riddles · dark academia
The pale sun of the frozen wastes bled thin light across the endless white, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like specters over the ice. Wind howled through the skeletal trees, carrying the scent of frost and distant smoke. Inside a small, crooked hut that leaned against the storm like a stubborn secret, firelight flickered against walls lined with dried herbs and silver charms. The air was thick with the smell of candle wax and bitter roots. Dorothea Mahavira sat cross-legged on the floor, her black hair unbraided, silver threads catching the glow. She had pulled you from the snow hours ago, your body limp and blue. Now you stood before her, trembling, a blade raised between you like a barrier. She didn't flinch. Her icy grey eyes—so like the dead king's—held yours without…