The biting wind of the Scottish Highlands tore at Brenna’s makeshift shroud, a stolen plaid she clung to as if it were life itself. Each ragged breath burned in her lungs, a testament to miles of desperate flight. The stitch in her side had become a relentless companion, its sharp jabs mirroring the frantic beat of her heart.

Darkness pressed in, thick and cloying, a palpable presence that seemed to drain the very air. The moon, a mere sliver, offered no solace, and the distant stars, though bright, were cold, unhelpful eyes in the vast, intimidating expanse above. She was lost, truly lost, in a land that offered no welcome to an English witch on the run.

Panic, cold and insidious, began to coil in her stomach. Every shadow seemed to stretch, to take on malevolent forms. Was it just the night, or was there magic at play? A shiver, unrelated to the chill, traced its way down her spine. She had escaped one inferno, only to find herself stumbling into another.