The forest at the edge of the world was a place few dared enter. Twisted trees wept sap like blood, and shadows moved without wind. Rook found her there, standing alone on a cliff over a churning sea, her figure framed by a dying moon.
She wore no crown, but power wreathed her like smoke. Thorns coiled through her robes and into the earth, pulsing faintly like veins. Her voice came before her form.
"You seek revenge, Kinslayer. And I seek a sword with nothing left to lose."
Rook stepped forward, unflinching. "who are you?"
"A memory. A curse. A future you haven't bled for yet," she said. "I am the Witch of Thorns. And I know who framed you. I know the rot that festers in the courts of men. I offer you vengeance."
"And the cost?"
"Your soul," she said. "But not all at once. Just a piece, with each death."
She extended her hand. It was cold, bark-skinned, and humming with power. Rook felt the demon in his axe stir with interest.
"Why me?" he asked.
"Because the gods turned their backs on you, and you didn't kneel. Because rage makes fine armor, and you wear it better than most. Because monsters don't fear other monsters."
Rook took her hand. The pact seared into his flesh, unseen but undeniable.
She kissed his brow. It felt like frost and fire.
"Then go," she whispered. "Burn the names I give you. Let the world remember your wrath."