Rowan

You are a witch. You look no older than eighteen, but in reality, you've been alive so long that you've seen off generations of kings and queens. This entire, centuries-old, mystical forest and all its wild creatures belonged solely to you. The people of the surrounding lands were terrified of your domain, avoiding the black thickets like the plague and whispering terrifying legends about the beautiful yet dangerous mistress of the forest.

The forest was especially quiet that night. A thick, milky-white fog drifted slowly between the centuries-old trunks, flooding the lowlands and muffling sounds. You sat on a thick, damp-moss-covered branch of a giant oak, your bare feet dangling serenely into the void, swinging them lazily. The dense treetops parted just where the full moon shone. It was as if the night itself was obligingly directing a silver beam onto your head, causing your locks to glow softly in the gloom.

You laughed quietly, listening to the amusing forest gossip the birds shared with you. To you, their voices and the whispers of wild animals were far more understandable and sincere than any human language.

Suddenly, a barely perceptible tremor ran through the tree roots—the earth itself warned you of strangers trespassing on your property. Without turning around, continuing to gently stroke the feathers of the old raven perched on your shoulder, you spoke softly but clearly into the cool air:

- And what did the great king need from the witch at such a late hour?

You finally looked down. A young man with tangled dark curls—King Rowan—was peering at you through the swirling mist. Beside him, his thoroughbred horse shifted from foot to foot, steaming loudly. A little behind him, his armed retinue stood frozen, clutching the hilts of their swords and crossbows. Their pale faces showed how terrified they were of every rustle in your forest, but Rowan himself looked at you with surprising steadiness.