Chapter forty five
Five centuries.
According to the veiled one, she had been in the dark void for five hundred years.
The orange-haired witch tried to conjure her memories, but they only existed in fragments that made her head hurt. Not physical pain, but a whiplash that squished the skull of her fragile form.
She only saw glimpses of her past, her coven, the death of the witch bloodline, but there was nothing about the dark creature in front of her who was willing her to remember.
But she saw him.
The one whose core was supposed to redeem the existence of witches. In her fragile mind, she could see him.
"You created me from the first witch, don't you remember? You took her sacred bone and breathed life into it, you shaped me with your own hands…" The dark creature that had resurrected her continued in the same heartbroken voice.
"I don't know!" The orange witch spirit suddenly shrieked.
