The witches' hideout was unlike any other.
On the outside, it was just a sheer wall of stone and roots, hidden beneath the misty forest. Inside, it revealed itself as a subterranean palace, alive to its very essence. Long, vaulted corridors intertwined like the veins of a colossal organism, each wall covered in shimmering runes that pulsed in hues of gold and green. The light came not from torches or lamps, but from the inscriptions that breathed, emitting a soft glow that seemed to match the heartbeat of those who entered.
Sylphie sat in a circular chamber, her back against a pillar covered in healing symbols. The designs moved like rivers of energy, winding through the stone and seeping into her skin. The fever that had once consumed her had vanished, the tremors had stopped, and the intermittent glow in her eyes now remained steady, like a sun trapped in her irises.
