As twilight settles over the dense forest, Yan Sen leads the way along a narrow, root-strewn path toward the distant lights of the village—their destination for the new Exorcist mission. Aleksander and Luda follow close, their boots crunching softly on the damp earth, shadows flickering across their faces from the sway of the lantern Yan Sen carries.
He glances back, voice low but clear. "This task is meant for the two of you. I'll be here to support, but you'll take the lead."
Curiosity flickers between Aleksander and Luda. Aleksander asks, "What exactly is this mission you've chosen for us?"
Yan Sen slows his pace, letting the others draw even. "You're to deal with the Spirit of a Witch who haunts these woods. They call her the 'fallen witch.' Centuries ago, she was kind—she traveled between the villages, healing the sick and the elderly. But everything changed when a man tried to harm her. She defended herself with magic, let him go instead of punishing him. He spread lies, gathered a mob, and they captured her. The same villagers she once healed cursed her and burned her alive."
They walk in silence as Yan's voice grows steadier. "Dying in agony, she became a vengeful spirit. Now, she lures people into the woods and curses them—some with slow, wasting deaths, others drained to old age in a night. The villagers started offering her a young girl or boy every forty years, hoping it would appease her. But to her, it was just a game. People still disappear."
Aleksander's jaw tightens; Luda's expression darkens. Yan Sen continues, "The witch prefers girls or boys with magical abilities. Those labeled as 'priestess' or Priest are simply sacrifices—their families forced to give them up. Titles aside, there's nothing noble in it."
As they approach the woodland's edge, Luda breaks the silence. "Master, is it the family of the next girl to be sacrificed who sent for us?"
Yan Sen nods, face illuminated for a moment by the swinging lantern. The group presses on, the forest quiet except for their measured footsteps.
Waiting for them at the edge of the village was a middle-aged man, his hair touched with grey and a short beard framing his lined face. As Yan Sen and his group approached, the man's gaze lingered on the Exorcists' unfamiliar attire, and realization quickly dawned—these must be the ones he had contacted.
His name was Ivan. A widower, he raised two daughters on his own while making a modest living as a trader. The weight in his posture betrayed months of anxiety and desperation. Ivan's eldest daughter had been chosen as the next "priestess"—the village's word for sacrifice—and though he'd tried everything to resist, the villagers had pressed him relentlessly, using guilt and threats masked by tradition.
Ivan's holding onto the last embers of hope. An old acquaintance from his trading routes had mentioned the Exorcists' reputation in handling unnatural threats and injustices. Reaching out to them had been his final attempt, the only option left before surrendering his daughter to the fate the village demanded.
Not wasting time, Ivan led them through winding streets to his modest home. He spoke quietly but urgently as they settled inside. "It was the old village leaders," he explained, "who started the practice of sacrificing children. Even after all these years, with little change, they keep the ritual alive—saying it's cut down the deaths caused by the witch." His voice tightened. "At first, it was just any child. But as time passed, only those with magic were picked. It's become some twisted tradition."
Ivan's frustration and heartache were plain as he added, "My daughter… she started showing signs—small things, little bursts of magic. I did everything I could to keep it a secret. But someone found out. That's how she was chosen as the next sacrifice." He clenched his fists, his despair barely held back. "I had no one in the village willing to help. Contacting you was the only hope I had left."
As Ivan led Yan Sen and his group through the narrow, uneven streets, the quiet murmur of the village shifted. Faces turned toward them—some with suspicion, others with unease. The sight of strangers walking alongside Ivan, who was already whispered about for resisting the "priestess" ritual, drew quick, darting glances.
A few older women paused in their work, leaning on baskets and muttering to one another. A pair of young men near the well exchanged wary looks before one of them jerked his head toward the main square. Without a word, they broke into a brisk jog, disappearing around a corner. The other villagers resumed their conversations in low tones, their eyes following the group until it passed from sight.
The two boys rushed breathlessly into the village head's modest home, barely pausing to catch their breath. Startled by their abrupt entrance, Village Head Ferid looked up from his seat, irritation flickering across his weathered, bald features. Before he could speak, one of the boys, still panting, blurted out, "Ivan's brought outsiders into the village—we think he's trying to stop the ritual!"
Ferid's annoyance quickly shifted to anger. He was more invested in the ritual than most would ever realize. Years ago, when his own son began to exhibit signs of magical talent, Ferid had moved quickly. He'd recognized the risks—if anyone found out about his son's abilities, the boy could be marked as the next sacrifice. That's why, when he noticed Ivan's daughter showing those same signs, he hadn't hesitated to cast suspicion her way, ensuring his own family stayed safe.
He stood, eyes hard. "We cannot let this happen. The safety of our village depends on it. If we stop the ritual, the witch's curse could return tenfold."
Word of the commotion and Ivan's actions quickly reached the others gathered in or near Ferid's home. Soon, a small crowd of villagers had gathered, the anxiety in their voices echoing his own fears. "Yes," one agreed, "we can't let Ivan put us all in danger."
The mood in the room grew tense and urgent, as Ferid began to plot his next move—determined to prevent Ivan and his guests from interfering, and to maintain the false peace the village had clung to for generations.