The air smelled of pine and burning herbs. Sixteen figures stood at the edge of the dense forest, their breaths fogging in the crisp morning air. The Witch's Festival had begun.
Menma cracked his knuckles, scanning the trees ahead. The terrain looked peaceful, even serene—but he knew better.
Traps lurked everywhere—bear jaws hidden under innocent piles of leaves, tripwires rigged to launch arrows, cleverly disguised nets waiting to snatch the careless.
He'd fallen for most of them as a kid, back when his limbs were too uncoordinated and his ego too big. Not today.
Beside him, Lunara adjusted the straps of her bandolier, each slot filled with potions of various colors—vibrant blues, angry reds, glowing greens. The glass clinked softly as she moved, but her steps remained sure.
"Try not to embarrass yourself," she said, lips tugging into a smirk. Her golden eyes sparkled with challenge.
Menma rolled his eyes and cracked his neck. "Says the one who's about to lose her crown."
A low rumble of anticipation rolled through the crowd of witches behind them, a restless energy vibrating in the air.
Then Annie raised her arm, her silver and white robes fluttering slightly with the breeze. Her voice cut clean through the chatter. "START!"
The witches scattered like startled birds, kicking up leaves and dirt as they vanished into the wild maze.
A scrawny kid—barely fourteen, with tufts of black hair and eyes too wide for someone pretending to be brave—dashed into the underbrush, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.
It was his first tournament. He'd trained for months. Dodging traps in the training yard, brewing potions under candlelight until his fingers stained blue and red.
He was ready.
Then the ground gave way beneath him.
A net snapped tight around his ankles, yanking him upward into the canopy with a loud whip! His breath caught in his throat as he dangled, flailing like a caught fish. Blood rushed to his head.
Below him, a shadow stepped into view. A lean figure with braided silver hair and narrowed eyes.
"Ncncnc," she tutted, hands on her hips. "No wonder you fell for that. Beginners."
Without breaking stride, she uncorked a damage potion with her teeth and lobbed it upward.
The glass shattered against his chest in an explosion of sizzling green liquid.
The boy screamed—sharp and high-pitched—as his skin began to blister, the pain like molten lead pouring into his veins. Every nerve lit up in protest, and then—darkness.
A pulse of golden light wrapped around his limp body—Annie's safeguard—and with a hum, he vanished, whisked back to the village infirmary.
The silver-haired witch knelt, picked through his fallen satchel, pocketed a few potions, and then melted back into the forest as if she were never there.
15 left.
High in an oak, a witch with thick arms and a braid down her back gulped down a strength potion. The fluid glowed as it slid down her throat. Her muscles bulged, tendons snapping with the sudden rush of power.
She grinned, feeling invincible. No one could touch her now—
A boot slammed into her temple.
The world spun.
She dropped like a sack of bricks, unconscious before she even hit the branch. The attacker—a wiry girl with scars like lightning across her knuckles—barely paused.
She stole a handful of potions from the fallen witch's belt, shoved them into her pouch, and leapt nimbly to the next tree, moving like wind.
14 left.
Sybil blocked another kick, arms trembling with effort. Her forearms burned. Every strike she blocked from Sylvara sent sharp jolts up her bones. Sylvara was a blur, a phantom darting between trees with inhuman speed and grace.
"Stand still!" Sybil snarled, frustration bleeding through as she hurled a damage potion with all her strength.
Saphyra sidestepped effortlessly, the glass crashing against bark in a flash of green sparks. "Too slow."
She lunged. A punch to Sybil's gut forced the air from her lungs. Before she could react, a spinning kick slammed into her temple, sending her sprawling.
Dirt and leaves filled her mouth. Blood sprayed from her lip, but her fingers clawed at the earth, desperate to stay conscious.
Sylvara landed in front of her, not hesitating.
She leapt from the branch above, aiming to finish it—
Sybil, dizzy and bleeding, grabbed her opponent's wrist with a grunt and yanked. The damage potion in her other hand swung toward Sylvara's face—
Missed.
Sylvara twisted mid-air like a ribbon caught in wind and drove an elbow into Sybil's spine. The crack echoed like thunder.
A flash of golden light swallowed Sybil.
13 left.
Sylvara landed, panting, sweat glistening on her forehead. Her eyes darted, scanning for other threats. That had been too close. One slip and she would've been out. She wiped her brow and pressed onward.
In the shadows between the trees, Vayne watched.
Pathetic.
These witches thought they were warriors. He could smell the fear beneath their cocky banter and flashy potions. They played at battle, at glory, while the real predators lurked in silence.
His fingers twitched. The illusion holding his disguise—blond hair, smooth skin, youthful charm—was fraying at the seams. The itch under his flesh had grown unbearable.
No more waiting.
He stepped into a sunlit clearing and let the glamour unravel.
His hair grayed. His jaw thickened, coarse beard sprouting across his chin. His shoulders widened, back arching as muscle and bone shifted. His body swelled, transforming into the grizzled bulk of a man who had known nothing but war and wilderness.
Garrick.
He scratched his beard, savoring the sting of calloused fingers against skin. "Ahhh. Good to be home."
The witches had welcomed him. Let him sit beside their fires. Trusted him with secrets and smiles.
Fools.
He hefted his twin axes—real steel, not fragile potions—and grinned. It was time to repay their kindness.
Far away, castle doors creaked open with a thunderous groan.
Zayne strode inside, his boots echoing on polished marble. The survivors followed behind him, eyes wide at the opulence—the scent of roses and wood polish was overwhelming after weeks soaked in blood and smoke.
"Zira!"
His sister—long red hair, emerald eyes, curves that made grown knights stammer—barreled into him and nearly knocked him over.
"Where've you been? Training with that kid?"
"Menma's your age," Zayne muttered, trying to peel her off without dropping his sword. "Maybe older."
Zira snorted. "No way. He looks twelve."
"Where's Dad?"
"Office. But Zayne—" She grabbed his sleeve, eyes wide. "My expedition's in two months. You'll see me off, right?"
He sighed, softening despite himself. "Wouldn't miss it."
In the king's chamber, a broad-shouldered man with Zayne's sharp eyes steepled his fingers, unmoved by the urgency in his son's voice.
"No troops. The Purgatorists are a ghost story."
Zayne's jaw clenched. "Tell that to the butchered villages."
"The answer's final."
So be it. He'd go alone.
Back in the forest, Garrick licked the edge of one of his axes, tasting the faint copper tang of old blood.
The woods were quiet now—but the tension clung to the branches like mist. The witches had finally realized something was wrong.
Good.
Let them panic. Let them scatter like deer before the hunt.
He'd start with the champion—Lunara. Then the demon boy. Then he'd burn the rest to ash.
Somewhere ahead, a twig snapped.
He smiled.