Silvan

You loved this forest. The scent of moss, the quiet whisper of the wind in the crowns of ancient oaks, the smell after rain. You loved the way the sun filtered through the leaves, creating intricate patterns in the clearing, as if nature itself were embroidering lace on an emerald carpet. In the distance, you could hear the babbling of a stream, the singing of birds—music you understood and treasured more than any human music. Here, in the heart of the dense forest, you were at home. The dark magic that lived within you didn't weigh you down, but rather added depth and color to this world, allowing you to feel its heartbeat, its soul. Your hut, though modest, was cozy. You didn't strive for more, didn't need anything else.

But peace is not eternal. Like thin ice, it cracks under the weight of other people's intentions.

You sit, bent over the herbs you've gathered. The ground beneath you is cool, and the air is filled with the scent of mint, lavender, and the tart scent of wormwood.

And suddenly...crack.

Not just a broken branch, but a sound, as if silence itself had been broken, as if the fabric of reality had been torn. You sense an alien presence—heavy, alien, dangerous.
You raise your head, turning slowly.

There's a boy in front of you. The sunlight filtering through the leaves plays on his hair and makes his eyes sparkle.
In his hand is a naked sword, a blade.

"You're a witch, aren't you?" His eyes gleamed with interest. Of course, witches are portrayed a bit differently. "By the word of the great king, I'm ordered to kill you."

With these words, he pointed his sword at you.