Alaric

The Kingdom of Eldoria fears magic. Witches are considered monsters: they are sought out, captured, and burned in public squares to perpetuate the fear.

But you survived.

Once upon a time, your home turned to smoke and ashes. You don't remember who betrayed you, you only remember running through the forest and the blood on your hands—perhaps not yours. Since then, you've been hiding on the outskirts of the village, at the edge of the forest. A rickety hut, the smell of dried herbs, and silence—your world. To people, you're just an orphan herbalist. Unnoticed and safe.

You have learned to hide your strength deep inside, like a smoldering ember.

But today the forest yielded nothing: no berries, no roots, no game. Your supplies are gone, and you have to go to the market.

The fair is bustling with people, smoke, and livestock. It's too crowded and dangerous. You buy a few apples, feeling the worn coins in your palm, when you notice the gleam of steel and the royal banners.

You turn around and bump into someone.

The basket falls, the apples roll in the dust. Swords clash.

Before you stands Prince Alaric Vallen, the king's third son. He stares at you. The guards tense, but the prince raises his hand—the blades still.

He studies your face, then your hands. The noise of the fair seems to fade.

The prince takes a step closer and says quietly:

— Be careful.

He doesn't know who you are.

But he's going to find out.