Caelen stared out the window in silent awe. His breath caught in his chest as he took in the view beyond the walls. The vibrant life of the witch's village sprawled beneath the sun, with gardens springing to life with the mere flick of a hand. He could see the large and small creatures—familiars—darting through the air or meandering through the streets, each carrying out their own tasks with a strange yet graceful fluidity. The air was thick with the sound of friendly chatter and laughter from the villagers. It felt... wrong. In a way that both unsettled and enthralled him. He couldn't help but murmur aloud to himself. "This… this can't be real. I must have been bewitched."
The whole place seemed like something out of a dream. Every detail was too perfect, too harmonious, a stark contrast to everything he had ever heard about witches. Stories from across the land painted them as vile, ugly, and heartless creatures—hunched over, green-skinned monsters with no empathy. The children's storybooks spoke of them in harsher terms—creatures of darkness, bent on destruction. But here, in this strange village, there was life, beauty, and calm. It was as if the very fabric of reality had been shifted. "Perhaps," he mused aloud, "I've fallen under some spell of sorts." He shook his head in disbelief, glancing down at the village once more. "But… why does it feel so different? It's not like the witches I've been taught about." He turned back toward the room and was greeted by Fileyele, who, with an air of practiced ease, pulled a wooden chair to the center of the room. A gesture so simple, yet so commanding. "Sit," she said coldly, though there was no malice in her tone—just a matter-of-factness. Caelen's gaze darkened. "What are you—"
Before he could react, Fileyele's fingers twitched, and the chair suddenly sprang to life, twisting beneath him and forcing him down into the seat. It was like being pressed into the earth itself. His muscles strained in resistance, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't rise. His legs burned with frustration, but the chair was unyielding, unbending to his will. "What kind of magic is this?" Caelen grunted, his breath coming in short bursts. "What is this sorcery?" Fileyele crossed her arms, her eyes narrowed. "Stop making complications. I've only postponed your death, not prevented it. Be thankful." Caelen's face flushed red with a mixture of anger and confusion. "Then why can't I just leave? The door is right there! You don't have to keep me here." His voice was sharp, the words slipping from him as if his frustration had broken through his carefully kept composure. At this, Fileyele's patience cracked, her features hardening. She stalked toward him, her eyes flashing with an intensity that made him shrink back, even if only slightly. "If I were to do that," she spat, "it would be not only your death, but mine as well. Do you understand?"
Caelen blinked in confusion, the words not making sense. "Why? What do you mean? Why would it be both of our deaths?" She took a deep breath, and her gaze softened ever so slightly, though her words remained sharp. "Because that's how things are done here, airhead. You cannot leave the way you think. It's not that simple." Before he could press further, a faint shimmer caught Fileyele's attention. Her hand moved gracefully through the air, and she cast a spell, pulling a cloth from the nearby table and wrapping it around his mouth, silencing him. He made a muffled noise in protest, but it did nothing to stop her. Fileyele walked to the mirror on the wall, her fingers tracing the surface as if weaving the very threads of fate itself.
With a flick of her wrist, the image in the mirror shifted, and a new figure came into focus—her cousin, another witch. Caelen's strained eyes widened as he saw the other witch's face, her cold eyes staring back at him with a knowing smile. "Fileyele," the cousin's voice echoed through the room. "The High Witch calls for a gathering. All covens are to meet at the Hut on the Hill. The call is neither short nor friendly. You'd best hurry." Fileyele's expression hardened. Without missing a beat, she replied, "I will be there. Is there anything else?" The cousin's eyes flickered with a trace of amusement before she simply said, "Remember your place, Fileyele. The High Witch does not tolerate weakness." The mirror faded, and Fileyele turned back to Caelen, her eyes darkening once again. "Stay quiet. Do not touch anything—especially my stuff," she warned, her voice low, almost predatory. "If you make one more sound, I will come back and kill you."
With a swift motion, she locked the door behind her and was gone. The silence in the room settled like a heavy fog. Caelen was left to his own devices, bound to the accursed chair. His muscles screamed in protest as he pulled against the bindings, trying once more to break free. But the chair was too strong. Too well-crafted. He wondered, in a dazed haze, if he was still recovering from the exhaustion of his last battle. As his body began to tire, something caught his eye. A small, gleaming object sat across the room—something sharp, something he could use. His breath hitched in anticipation. Slowly, carefully, he began to shift his weight in the chair, inching his way toward the object. The scalpel. It was so close now, within reach. But just as his fingers brushed the edge of it, a low growl echoed through the room. Caelen froze.
A pair of glowing eyes met his gaze from atop the table. The Fox of Smoke and Flame, its teeth bared and its smokey-fur shimmering in the dim light. It snarled, stepping closer, its fiery gaze locked on him. Caelen slowly leaned back in the chair, his breath steady but his heart racing. "I'm not here for trouble, little one," he whispered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just let me reach that scalpel, and we can both go about our business." But the fox only growled louder, its form shifting in the flickering light, daring him to make a move. Caelen, wisely, did not. Meanwhile, at the Hut on the Hill, the air was thick with tension. Fifteen witches sat in a circle, the High Witch among them. Her age was reflected in the deep lines of her face, but her eyes burned with a youthful fire as she spoke.
"The Crown of Thorns seeks a meeting of all covens," she began, her voice low but commanding. "This meeting is set for three moons from now. We will all gather, every last one of us. There will be no exceptions." A murmur rippled through the witches. Fileyele, seated toward the back, raised a hand. "Why summon us all? What could be so important that it requires every coven to come together?" Her cousin's voice cut through the air like a knife. "Remember the last time all covens were called together, Fileyele? It was when your mother was burned at the crucifix. And perhaps another foolish witch has gone astray, mingling with humans again. Does that sound like something you'd do?"
Fileyele's eyes flashed with anger, but she was silenced before she could speak further. The High Witch, her voice cold and unforgiving, addressed the room. "Be quiet. No more distractions." Her eyes turned back to Fileyele, sharp as knives. "You are a disgrace to your own circle, Fileyele. You should not even have the confidence to speak in front of me." Without another word, the High Witch stood and stormed from the room, her daughter following close behind. The other witches stood in quiet acknowledgment of her departure. Fileyele's gaze remained fixed to the floor, the weight of her mother's legacy pressing down upon her once more.
Back in the 2nd Kingdom, Princess Ivelle Valmore stood at a window, gazing out over the kingdom. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the land. Below, she could hear the sounds of the market, children's laughter echoing through the streets, and the clatter of trade. But her mind wasn't on these peaceful sights. She was distracted, lost in her thoughts. Her father, King Edric Valmore, entered the room just as she was lost in contemplation. His eyes narrowed as he saw her posture—her arms crossed, a bored expression on her face. "Ivelle," he said, his tone stern yet loving. "You cannot overlook your royal duties like this. Even now, the battle rages between the 3rd and 4th Kingdoms. They need people like you."
Ivelle rolled her eyes, not looking at him. "I'm not overlooking anything," she replied, her voice tinged with impatience. Her father raised an eyebrow. "Then tell me, daughter, what have you been told about the situation since the briefing started?" Ivelle fell silent. She didn't want to play his game. Edric sighed. "Fighting is not always what's important. One day, you will understand that when you are queen. Until then, pay attention." With that, he left the room, though not before sharing a tender moment, reminding her of the weight of her future role. Ivelle was left to stare out the window, picking up a dagger from the sill. She let it spin in her fingers absentmindedly. Her gaze wandered to the people below, then beyond, where smoke from a distant rose into the air. A shadow of something darker lingered at the edge of the horizon.
The battlefield echoed with the clash of steel, the roar of the wind, and the anguished cries of soldiers on both sides. The war had raged on far longer than anyone anticipated, and with each passing moment, the tension in the air grew thicker. The knight hero impersonator, armored in heavy steel, stood his ground. But it was evident—he was tired, the wear and tear of the battle creeping into every swing of his sword. His breaths came in ragged gasps as he struggled to keep up with his foe.
Across from him, Krannoch, the Juggernaut hero, towered like a mountain, his massive frame an immovable force of nature. With each swing of his massive axe, the knight hero impersonator was pushed back, his footing faltering under the sheer might of his adversary. He had already been forced into a defensive stance, and now, with every blow, his resistance crumbled bit by bit. Krannoch's deep voice boomed across the battlefield. "Is this really all you've got? I was expecting more of a challenge."
With a cruel smirk, Krannoch kicked the knight hero impersonator in the chest, sending him sprawling backward. The impact reverberated through the knight's body, and he skidded across the dirt and blood-soaked earth, coming to a halt some distance away. "Pathetic," Krannoch muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow as he surveyed the battlefield. Around him, the bodies of mages and fallen soldiers lay scattered like broken dolls. His eyes flicked to the corner of his vision, where a few survivors were being pulled away, retreating for safety. The 4th Kingdom's forces were clearly losing. Even from a distance, it was obvious. The mages of the 4th seemed to be doing everything they could, but it wasn't enough to stop the juggernaut that was Krannoch.
The knight hero impersonator, bruised and battered, struggled to get back on his feet. His armor clanked as he crawled on his back, dragging himself toward what he hoped was safety—perhaps to regroup, perhaps to escape the overwhelming tide of defeat.
"Farewell," Krannoch said coldly, his voice carrying the finality of a death sentence. With a powerful leap, he propelled himself into the air, preparing to land a devastating finishing blow. The knight hero impersonator could do little more than brace for the impact. But then, in an instant, the knight hero impersonator cried out loudly, his voice cutting through the din of battle. A sudden invisible force gripped him, pulling him back swiftly, just out of Krannoch's reach. The juggernaut hero's blow landed on empty air as he crashed into the ground with a bone-shaking thud. His rage was immediate and brutal.
"What trickery is this?" Krannoch snarled, his eyes searching wildly for his opponent. When he realized the knight hero was nowhere to be found, he turned, his face twisted with fury. "You coward!" he roared, charging forward, but as he ran, he noticed something strange. His feet felt heavy—slower. He tried to pick up his pace, but with every step, the ground seemed to pull him down. The realization struck him too late. His feet were sinking into something—quicksand, created by the mages of the 4th Kingdom. It was a trap. His massive form struggled, but it was futile. "Clever," Krannoch grunted through clenched teeth, his voice laced with begrudging admiration. "Very clever. But it won't hold me for long."
He braced himself, digging his heels into the ground, his muscles straining as he fought against the sinking earth. Just as he thought he might break free, something unexpected happened. Above him, magical chains appeared in the air, glowing with an ethereal light. They hovered for a moment, as if waiting, before they snaked around him, wrapping themselves tightly, constricting like a serpent around its prey. Krannoch roared in frustration as chains tightened, binding him in place. "Honor?" Krannoch spat, his voice laced with disdain. "This is not honor. This is cowardice!"
A voice echoed in the distance, and for the first time, Krannoch heard the words of the knight hero. "Honor doesn't win wars like this. I'll take victory however I can." The knight hero's voice held a strange calmness now, almost cold in its resolve. "I've bought us time," he continued. "And now, we will press the advantage." The soldiers of the 3rd Kingdom, who had been struggling in the face of overwhelming odds, began to rally. With the juggernaut hero momentarily restrained, they found their courage. Their blows became more precise, their movements more deliberate. The tide of the battle was shifting. The knight hero turned to his army, his voice ringing out with confidence. "Push forward! Press the advantage! The 3rd's hero is contained for now!"
The battlelines shifted. The 3rd's soldiers, bolstered by the new momentum, fought back with renewed ferocity. The once-crumbling ranks began to gain ground. With each passing moment, the momentum swung further in their favor, and the air was filled with the sound of clashing steel and battle cries. They had a chance, a real chance, to turn the tide. A horn sounded in the distance, echoing across the battlefield. The knight hero's eyes flickered toward it, but he remained calm, unfazed. "What does the horn signal?" Krannoch growled, his rage barely contained as he struggled against the chains. The knight hero turned to him with a smirk. "Patience, Krannoch. You don't need to hurry our defeat."
As the 3rd Kingdom's forces began to gain the upper hand, Krannoch, still trapped in the magical chains, realized that the battle was slipping from his grasp. He could only watch helplessly as the forces of the 4th Kingdom started to falter under the relentless push of the 3rd's soldiers. But even as the battlefield changed, there was another battle still to be fought. The Juggernaut hero, Krannoch, was held captive by magic. And back in the realm of witches, Caelen, the true knight hero, remained trapped, far from the battlefield. His own struggle was just beginning, and with it, more was yet to come.