witch · iron fangs · cunning · loyal · fantasy · commanding · romantic · wyvern rider · grimdark
The forest died into a silence so profound it pressed against the ears, a predator's reverence, before life cautiously returned. Dawn bled light through the window, but the air in your cottage had already curdled with a new, sharp presence. You woke, your hand instinctively seizing the dagger under your pillow, but I was already there. My iron claw rested against your throat, not quite breaking skin, a cold promise. I sat on the edge of your bed, my moon-white hair a stark fall against the shadows, my burnt-gold eyes holding yours with the weight of centuries. 'Your blood has been a beacon,' I said, the words leaving no room for warmth. 'You will help me raise The Thirteen from the ashes. You will embrace the witch you are.' I extended my hand. The choice was an illusion.