The injured man had nowhere to seek refuge on the snowy night with the red full moon up above him, where wolves show themselves—hungry, ready to feed on your soul.
He wondered through the snow chasing scraps of shelter , but no door opened at his knock. The last house he approached had no hope either. Yet he knocked for the third time. He heard the wolves murmuring in the distance, A cold panic rushed through his bones. He looked back at the door hopelessly. It wasn't his first time out here with the wolves; only this time, he was the one being hunted, rather than being the hunter. He was alone, injured, and stripped of his magic.
Suddenly, the door creaked open at his footsteps, sending chills down his spine. The large door swung open before his face. The mansion was owned by the witch nobody had any reach to—an evil witch known for her magic spells that would make a human fall to their knees, crazed and begging for death. Forced to do what they were driven to by a magical host, hosting their mind.
He glanced at the wolves, then back at the towering two-story mansion of the witch. As if he had death behind and before him, he hadn't expected fate to tangle him like this. He opened the half-open, dusty iron doors, which reeked of old relics—
He cripped into the mansion slowly, his limping footsteps echoing through the empty halls. The first thing that caught his eye was the painting up the stairs.
A wall painting—a breathtaking vision. The Lady of Blood Wings—her bloody red pupils, yet the enchantments flowing through her eyes. A tailored corset embracing her as if it had been sculpted only for her. The snake sitting on her shoulder like it was a piece of jewelry, the red glow in its eyes shaking, revealing the serpent's pearl.
He looked at the painting in awe for a moment at the divine temptress. The elegance pictured in the painting seemed to have life to it.
"Is this the trap every person falls for at the witch's mansion?" he muttered to himself. He walked further into the mansion walking past the entrance, feeling the magic in the halls guiding him toward the source of the power.
Passing the wall painting, he turned left, passing several rooms, and finally reached the grand hall.
Where the throne shone itself in the dust like a spark. The ruby in it gleamed, indicating it had the power of the Black Stone. He looked at the throne, a tall figure standing next to it. Pale as a ghost, a lifeless, haunted strike. A white shirt beneath a red doublet, hair slicked back. Regal yet sharp.
"A wraith," he whispered to himself.
The figure stepped in front of him, giving a clearer view of it. "Welcome to our mansion, you're our honored guest," it said with a bow. Panic crawled through his mind. He was unarmed , his power crippled, reminding him of his injury.
The sound of footsteps echoed from the stairs. It was the woman from the portrait.
"The witch?" he muttered.
The portrait came to life, the image now charged with a dark magical energy. Her red eyes sparked more intensely at the view. Her head covered in a cowl, her appearance bringing even more magical power into the grand hall.
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