Chapter 1
1069words
What's the point of these celebrations anyway?
Everything feels like a tired routine, a performance repeated too many times. No celebration can spark even a flicker of interest in you anymore.
Hell, it's hardly your fault. Two hundred years you've lived—right at a witch's first stagnation phase. That dreaded age when the world loses its luster and everything tastes like ash.
So naturally, you slipped away from the feast before the midnight rituals even began.
Your broomstick cuts through the night sky with no destination in mind.
You could go anywhere—the misty forests of the West, the shimmering deserts of the East—anywhere but that damn feast with its forced laughter and empty pleasantries.
You let your Raven familiar chart the course, its obsidian wings slicing through wind and mist, through—
"CAW!"
The Raven shrieks in alarm and plummets like a stone.
What the hell?
Before you can pull up, you slam into something—invisible yet tangible—like hitting a wall of ancient cobwebs. The impact throws you clean off your broomstick.
An Illusion Barrier! Shit!
The realization hits you instantly.
Your Raven's form wavers mid-air, its shadow essence scattering like black sand against the night.
You mutter a hasty incantation, purple light dancing wildly around your fingertips. Your body twists in mid-fall, and you land with an ungraceful thud on a patch of moss that smells of rich earth and decay.
You look up at utterly alien surroundings. No trace of human or magical presence here—just primal wilderness. Ancient trees tower overhead, their massive canopies blocking out the sky, allowing only thin beams of silver moonlight to pierce the darkness.
For a moment, curiosity overrides your annoyance.
Then the damp chill of the forest seeps into your bones, making you shiver. Time to focus on the problem at hand.
Dark motes of magic swirl chaotically around you. The lizard-bone Pathfinder in your left hand spins wildly, its silver needle whirling like a madman's compass. Your right hand—the one you'd used to summon your broom—remains frustratingly empty.
"Damn it all," you mutter, clicking your tongue in frustration.
Clearly, a quick exit isn't in the cards. That leaves one tedious option—walking.
With a resigned sigh, you glance down at your impractical feast attire and begin trudging through the undergrowth.
At first, you move quickly, the wind cooling your temples. But soon your pace slackens—not from fatigue, but from that familiar, soul-crushing boredom creeping back in.
Just as you contemplate setting this wretched forest ablaze—just for something to do—an unusual sound catches your ear.
It drifts through the layers of shadow and foliage, distant but unmistakable.
Water—not the gentle babble of a stream or the thunderous crash of a waterfall, but something… moving in water. Splashing. Playing?
You freeze mid-step, body instinctively lowering into a predator's stance. Your ears prick forward, and your eyes gleam with a hunger that has nothing to do with food.
Something's there. And whatever makes such deliberate, rhythmic splashes is no mindless beast.
"An intelligent creature," you whisper, lips curling into a smile.
"Now that's more like it."
You stalk forward silently, following the sound. Pushing aside dew-laden ferns, you peer through the foliage—and there it is: a moonlit lake. And in it, an Elf.
The world goes silent.
Wind, water, insects—all sound simply ceases to exist.
Your breath catches in your throat. Time crystallizes like amber, trapping you and that otherworldly figure in a perfect, suspended moment.
The Elf seems crafted from moonlight rather than flesh—a beauty so perfect it transcends gender, transforming base desire into pure reverence. This creature doesn't belong to the mortal realm.
Thump. Thump. THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
Your heart hammers against your ribs like a war drum.
I am going to fall in love with this creature.
The thought strikes like black lightning, shattering the stagnant pool of boredom in your heart. You completely forget your mentor's warning: "Never fall for an Elf, Lilith. Their love is a gilded cage—beautiful, but still a prison."
You must have him.
The forest watches silently as you retreat behind an ancient oak, mind racing with possibilities.
A whispered spell falls from your lips, muffling all sound around you.
Without hesitation, you grab your elegant skirt and tear it deliberately. The fine silk splits with satisfying ease.
Next, you channel a whisper of magic to your fingertips and brush them across your lips.
Instantly, the color drains from your face. Your eyes widen with manufactured panic and vulnerability.
Perfect.
And just like that, a new character is born: a frightened, harmless traveler, separated from her caravan, lost in a forest she knows nothing about.
You take a steadying breath, arrange your features into a mask of distress, and deliberately step on a dry branch.
CRACK.
The sound shatters the forest's silence like a gunshot.
The splashing stops. Those ethereal eyes turn toward you, alert and wary as a startled deer.
You emerge from behind the tree, shoulders hunched, each step a perfect performance of timidity and uncertainty.
You keep your gaze downcast, voice carefully calibrated to tremble with fear and hope: "Please… where am I? I—I got separated from my caravan days ago… I've been wandering ever since…"
Silence falls. You feel the weight of the Elf's gaze as it assesses you.
You allow the scrutiny, inwardly smug about your flawless disguise.
After a moment, the silence breaks with a gentle ripple of water.
The Elf rises from the lake, water streaming from his form like liquid silver. With casual grace, he takes a simple white robe from a nearby branch and drapes it over his shoulders.
He approaches silently, offering a strange fruit in his outstretched palm. As he draws near, you catch his scent—water, wild herbs, and something indefinable, like moonlight given form.
"You're shivering," he says, his voice like water flowing over smooth stones. "This will help."
You accept the fruit with feigned hesitation, allowing your fingertips to brush against his "accidentally."
"Thank you," you whisper. "You're so kind."
As you bite into the fruit, you lower your gaze, using your lashes to veil the predatory gleam in your eyes.
It has to be him. That face, that voice… this time will be different from all the others.
This thought—as sincere as it is familiar—marks the beginning of yet another dance of fate.
