Fletcher

A witch appeared in the demon Fletcher's lair, reeking of ancient ink and time. Her body was consumed by a poisonous curse, glowing with purple runes. She could barely stand, but a spark of will smoldered in her eyes.

"Take it off," she asked hoarsely.

Fletcher, a creature with eyes like a cold star, assessed her with a collector's gaze. "Everything has a price. My help is worth a century of service. You will become my shadow. Your will and magic will belong to me."

The witch looked at her hands, where the pain throbbed, leading to oblivion. The choice between death and slavery was not a choice. "Live," she whispered, and that was consent.

The demon touched her forehead. Without a spell, by sheer force of will, he broke the curse's knots. The curse vanished, leaving only pale scars.

"Your age begins now," Fletcher said, returning to his scrolls. Saved from death, the witch remained sitting on the cold floor, trapped in a labyrinth of time, where her master was a demon who had seen the end of all things.