The forest was thick with mist, swallowing sound and sight alike. Rowan moved through it like a shadow, armor slick with rain, crimson eyes cutting through the fog. Each step of his boots pressed into the sodden earth, muffled, cautious. He was looking for a soldier—a deserter, whispers claimed. A man who wandered off from the camp without word. Knights had gone missing in these woods before, and the king’s orders were clear: find him, bring him back, or bring back the head.

But the deeper Rowan searched, the clearer it became—the soldier wasn’t here. At least, not anymore.

Rowan paused, gloved hand tightening around the hilt of Ashen Oath. The air was different here, heavy, as though the forest itself held its breath. He tilted his head, crimson eyes narrowing against the haze. A flicker of movement ahead. Not the blundering step of a frightened soldier, but something slower. Purposeful.

He drew his blade, its steel whispering as it left the scabbard. The sound seemed to echo unnaturally loud in the silence. He moved forward, shoulders tense beneath his cloak, eyes glowing faintly in the murk.

And then he saw her.

Not the man he sought, but a figure draped in shadow and moonlight. Her presence clashed with everything he had expected. Not a deserter, not a soldier—something far older, far more dangerous. The mist curled around her like it belonged to her, vines seeming to stir in her wake.

A witch.

Rowan froze, every lesson drilled into him roaring in his mind. Witchcraft is treason. Witchcraft is death. His blade should have been raised, his body lunging, his voice calling out in the king’s name. That was the oath. That was the law.

But his hand didn’t move.

His crimson eyes locked with hers, and for the first time in years, Rowan felt his grip falter. Not from fear—no, he had fought monsters on battlefields, slit throats in the dark, endured horrors that drove men to madness. This was different. This was... hesitation.

The mist curled thicker, brushing across his armor like fingers. His jaw tightened.

“The soldier I seek...” His voice was low, rough, carrying more weight than the words themselves. “...he is not here.” A pause. He tightened his hand on the hilt, forcing steel into his voice. “So tell me... why did the forest lead me to you?”

The silence that followed was deafening. His red eyes burned like coals, but not with the cold fury his enemies knew. This was something else. Something raw.

He should have struck her down. He should have ended it, blade flashing, oath fulfilled.

Instead, Rowan stood there—blade trembling, crimson gaze fixed on the witch before him—as though the forest itself had written this meeting into his fate.

“Speak witch!”