Rael Valmont

Deep in the forest, where the sun barely pierced through the dense canopy of trees, stood an ancient castle. Its walls were covered in moss and ivy, as if nature itself was trying to hide it from prying eyes. Few knew the way to it, and even fewer dared to approach. In this castle lived four witches—three elder sisters and their adopted daughter, the youngest among them.

The three sisters—Mairisa, Gwenlora, and Evelda—were a rarity in their empire. Witches were scarce, and though the people feared them, they did not dare to openly oppose them. All three were widows, having lost their husbands in their youth. Fate had made them outcasts, for after forty, no man in the village looked at them, and they had never been able to bear children.

They found their youngest sister many years ago, when she was just an infant, abandoned by a waterfall. Fate had led them there at just the right moment, and seeing that the child was doomed, the witches decided to take her in. It was forbidden—witches were not allowed to raise children. But their loneliness was too heavy to bear. They raised her as their own, teaching her the ancient arts of magic, potion-making, and dance—for dance was not merely entertainment, but a ritual through which witches felt the magic of the world.

Every year, on the Night of the Dance Festival, the youngest sister went to the city to lose herself in the music, dancing among ordinary mortals. She was young, full of life, and her heart longed for celebration, for people, for joy.

But this time, the moment she disappeared among the trees, the three elder witches felt a deep unease. Mairisa clenched her trembling fingers, Gwenlora stared intently into the night sky, and Evelda cautiously brought her hands to the flame of a candle. The light flickered, darkened, and began to drip down like a shadow.

— She will not return the same as before, — Gwenlora whispered, her voice filled with fear.

They knew: disaster was coming. Something ancient, powerful, and dark was approaching their castle. They were witches, but even their magic might not be enough to stand against what was coming.

---

Lorensvale was a prosperous medieval city nestled among rolling hills and rivers, surrounded by sturdy stone walls with massive towers. Narrow cobbled streets bustled with merchants, artisans, and peasants hurrying to the marketplace, where the air was filled with the scents of fresh bread, spices, and roasted meat. In the city center stood the grand town hall with its tall stained-glass windows, and beside it lay the spacious square, the heart of the Great Dance Festival held every year.

This time, it had gathered guests from all corners of the world. From early morning, the square was adorned with garlands of ribbons and lanterns, while master musicians tuned their instruments—bagpipes, lutes, drums, and gusli. Merchants displayed their finest goods—exquisite fabrics, jewelry, and exotic sweets from distant lands.

As the sun set, thousands of candles and torches illuminated the streets. Wandering musicians took the stage, and the first chords of lively melodies filled the air. Ladies in elegant lace-trimmed gowns and gentlemen in embroidered doublets stepped into the dance circle, moving in rhythm with the music. Soon, the entire city was dancing! From nobles to common folk, everyone joined in, weaving the culture of their homelands into the steps of the dance.

By nightfall, the festival had turned into a true spectacle of joy. Wine flowed freely, street performers put on dazzling fire shows, and elders gathered by the bonfires to share ancient legends. Even the king, watching from the palace balcony, raised his goblet in honor of the rejoicing crowd below.

It continued until dawn, when the first rays of sunlight bathed the weary yet exhilarated dancers. The Great Dance Festival had once again been a success, and the people of Lorensvale were already looking forward to the next year, eager to lose themselves once more in a night of boundless celebration.

---

The younger sister twirled in the whirlwind of dance, her graceful movements blending seamlessly with the rhythm of the night’s music. The villagers laughed, clapped their hands, exchanged jokes, and indulged in wine and sweets. The night was perfect. The blazing torches, the melodies of lutes and drums, the warmth of human smiles—what could be better?

Yet, beneath all this joy, an unshakable sense of unease stirred. She felt an unfamiliar presence—watchful, cold, and distant, so unlike the carefree villagers. The guards. They were hidden within the crowd, unseen but unmistakably there. They did not celebrate, did not dance, only observed. Trying not to reveal her growing suspicion, the witch dismissed her unease. "I’m just tired," she reassured herself. "It’s just my imagination."

When the festival came to an end, the night fell silent. The city slept, with only the occasional flickering light glowing from a window. The young woman made her way along the old path leading to the forest. Moonlight filtered through the thick canopy, casting shifting shadows on the ground.

But as she neared the castle, terror gripped her heart.

Dark energy. She saw no blood, yet she felt the weight of death. A chilling emptiness wrapped around her, and her body instinctively lunged forward, abandoning her basket on the path. She rushed into the castle, the deafening silence pressing against her ears.

And then—a sound. Weak, labored, barely audible.

She ran to the great hall, and there they lay.

Her three sisters. Lifeless on the cold stone floor, their eyes open but void of life.

She collapsed before them, her breath catching, the world tilting around her. This couldn't be real.

And then, one of them moved. Mayrisa, the eldest. With great effort, through unimaginable pain, she parted her lips and whispered:

— Run...

But before the younger sister could even process the warning, a hand seized her wrist.

A sharp yank. Darkness behind her. She struggled, but before she could react, a cloth was pressed against her face, soaked in a numbing, intoxicating scent.

Her mind slowed. Her vision blurred. Her body weakened.

And then—she fell into a deep slumber.

---

Cold. Thick, sticky, seeping into every cell of her body. It crept under her skin, into her bones, wrapping around her consciousness.

She woke up slowly. First—deep darkness, then—a faint light filtering through iron bars. The scent of damp stone and blood filled her lungs, making her cough. Stone walls, shackles biting into her wrists, rough floor beneath her.

A dungeon.

Her head spun, memories blurred, but the horror seeped into her mind before she could fully grasp what had happened. Her sisters... They were gone.

— Darkness... — she whispered hoarsely, her voice trembling.

But before she could say anything else, a voice cut through the silence.

— Fuck

His voice was low, filled with restrained fury. She lifted her head and, through the dim flickering torchlight, she saw him.

A tall figure stood at the entrance to her cell. Pale hair, crimson eyes, a face twisted in disdain. He looked at her, but his gaze seemed to pierce through her—as if she was not who he had expected.

— You took the weakest of the witches.

He spat the words like venom, his fingers curling into fists.

— How the hell did you manage to kill three powerful witches and only after their deaths remember that you needed them alive?!

There was no regret in his voice, only frustration. He was angry. Not at her—but at those who had made the mistake.

She didn’t understand what he had wanted from her sisters. But one thing was clear: she was here by mistake.