The forest was steeped in a hush that did not belong to ordinary silence. Branches twisted overhead like blackened ribs, their leaves whispering in tones the wind did not own. Even the soil seemed to hold its breath, reluctant to stir beneath the wheels of the carriage cutting through its path.
For four days, the carriage had devoured the miles—crossing rivers that slowed their flow until it passed, valleys where birds stilled mid-flight, unwilling to stir its shadow. Nothing lingered in its path.
It was no mortal carriage. Its iron frame, darkened by ash, gleamed faintly with runes that pulsed like embers. The wheels turned without sound, though the earth bent beneath them and left no track behind. Curtains of smoke-colored velvet veiled the Witch within.
The horses that drew it were pale as bone, their breath cold as frost. They did not tire, did not falter. Witchland's craft bound them to the road, pulling them forward through night and day.
