A blinding white light erupted from her palms. It wasn't a bolt of fire, but a wave of pure, stubborn life. Where it touched the Lich’s shadow, the darkness dissolved like ink in water. The Lich let out a hollow, metallic shriek before vanishing back into the depths of the forest.
They weren't alone for long. Out of the shadows stepped Willow Ufgood. He looked older than the legends said—tired, his robes frayed at the edges. In his hand, he gripped a carved wooden wand, its tip pulsing with a faint, uncertain amber glow. A blinding white light erupted from her palms
The mist over the Wildwood didn’t just sit; it breathed. It clung to the boots of the ragtag fellowship like a physical weight, smelling of damp earth and something older—something rotting. The Lich let out a hollow, metallic shriek
"Magic isn't a sword, Elora," Willow said, his eyes scanning the treeline. "You don't just swing it. You have to want the world to change. You have to command the air to be fire, the earth to be a shield." He looked older than the legends said—tired, his
The road to the was still long, and the Crones were still watching, but for the first time, the girl who was a kitchen maid felt like a queen.
Beside her, Silas, the loyal squire, gripped his sword. He wasn't a hero of legend, just a man who believed in a promise. "Then we move faster," he countered, though the sweat on his brow told a different story.