The camp walls rose like dark claws over the dusty expanse of an ancient clearing, in the heart of a desert of arid forests where life itself seemed to struggle to survive. Palisades of stunted wood and rusted iron, built on the foundations of a forgotten witch village, imprisoned the silent grief of its captives. Alice, fifteen springs old and marked by deprivation—her blue eyes desperately seeking an oasis in this aridity and her golden hair matted by sand and despair—had never known any horizon other than this enclosure of suffering. She had grown up amidst heavy silences, resigned glances, and the constant threat that burned like the merciless sun above them.
Life in the camp was a slow erosion of spirit and body. The guards and soldiers, faces weathered by the climate and hardened by their task, exercised their power with methodical brutality. The witches, their runic iron bracelets sealing any manifestation of their art, were reduced to obedient automatons. Any mention of magic was strictly forbidden—a whispered taboo in the shadows, a painful memory of what had been stolen. Speaking of spells, incantations, or the weaving of energies was punishable by severe penalties, rekindling fear and silence.
Alice had seen venerable women, whose hands had once shaped the elements, treated with contemptuous condescension. She had witnessed young girls, whose magic had not yet had time to bloom, undergo silent humiliations. The bracelet on her own wrist was a constant shackle, a dry burn reminding her of her helplessness. It cut her off from the murmur of the wind, the subtle vibration of the earth all connection with the source of her being.
The days flowed by, marked by sweltering heat and backbreaking work: extracting rare water from dried-up wells, preparing the guards' bland food, maintaining the camp's dilapidated structures. Nights brought an illusory respite, haunted by dreams of freedom and the echoes of endured suffering. Solidarity among the captives was a fragile thread, strained by thirst, fatigue, and the throbbing memory of their lost power. Yet, in the exchange of fleeting glances and discreet gestures of support, a spark of rebellion continued to smolder.
During these three days of silent observation, Alice would memorize the routine of the guards under the burning sun and the weak points of surveillance in the rare shade. She would observe the elders, those whose eyes still carried the flame of a magical past, and try to decipher the scraps of wisdom they dared to share without ever mentioning the forbidden word. She would see the cruelty of men, but also the moments of inattention or weariness that could turn into opportunity.
On the fourth day, the arid silence would be broken by sudden, targeted violence. An intruder, emerging from the nothingness of this hostile desert, would fall upon the camp with implacable fury. The cries of guards and soldiers would fill the dry air as they were cruelly mown down, their bodies collapsing into the dust without a single captive being directly touched by the attack. The speed and savagery of the assault would sow confusion among the surviving jailers. Amidst this bloody chaos, while the soldiers' gazes were diverted and panic gripped their ranks, a gleam of hope would light up Alice's blue eyes. The bracelet on her wrist would suddenly seem lighter, the tumult offering an unhoped-for chance to break her bonds and free the other witches from their prison of dust and sorrow.
The air, vibrating with the desert heat, suddenly tore under a shrill cry a howl of pure terror that did not belong to the captives. The guards, slumped under the meager shade of the palisades, straightened their torsos with a grunt. One of them, Sergeant Borin a whitish scar slashing his weathered cheek cursed upon seeing a solitary silhouette emerge from the undulating dunes.
The intruder moved with supernatural speed, a dark spot gliding over the ocher sand. Borin had only a brief moment to register striking details: long black hair floating like ink in the wind, and eyes… deep red eyes, glowing with a strange light, with strangely vertical pupils, almost feline… no, sharper… like those of a fox.
Then, chaos erupted. Without a word, without a visible weapon, the intruder threw himself at the nearest guards. Muffled screams, gasps of surprise and pain filled the air. Borin saw Corporal Kael collapse, eyes rolled back, an expression of terror frozen on his face. Another soldier fell, his spear half-raised, as if an invisible force had struck him down. There was no visible blood, no apparent wounds, but life left their bodies with frightening speed.
Panic spread like wildfire among the guards. Some tried to raise their weapons; others recoiled staggering, their faces distorted by incomprehension and fear. The intruder moved like a specter, reaping men with terrifying efficiency. His red eyes scanned the camp but seemed to pay not the slightest attention to the witches, huddled in their pens, petrified by the spectacle.
In a few moments, it was over. Silence fell back over the camp, heavy with the presence of death. The bodies of the guards and soldiers lay inert in the sand, their faces contorted by inexplicable terror. The intruder, after accomplishing his silent and deadly work, turned briefly toward the witches' pens. His red eyes briefly met Alice's, an enigmatic light shining within them, before he turned and vanished as quickly as he had appeared, blending into the desolate landscape.
The silence that followed his departure was deafening. The witches, incredulous, dared to look up. The bracelets on their wrists seemed strangely less heavy in the atmosphere charged with death. Alice, her heart pounding, was the first to react. Her sharp gaze analyzed the situation: the dead guards, the gate of their pen strangely open, the unhoped-for freedom within reach.
Without a word, she stood up, her blue eyes shining with a new determination. The other prisoners followed her, their faces carrying a mixture of shock and hope. Alice, through her youth and presence of mind, instinctively became their guide.
A week passed in the harshness of the desert. Alice, relying on the meager survival knowledge gleaned over the years and the nascent solidarity of the group, led them through the dunes and sparse rock formations. The fear of being caught was constant, but their rediscovered freedom, even in this hostile environment, gave them new energy.
The specialized corps for tracking witches, the "Boars of the Inquisition," soon discovered the carnage at the camp. Launched in pursuit, they were relentless and methodical. The witches, aware of the imminent danger, did everything in their power to protect Alice. The eldest placed themselves on the front line, offering their tired bodies as shields, while the younger ones helped Alice move faster, their whispers of encouragement breaking the silence of the desert. They saw in her a spark, a glimmer of hope for a future they might never see.
The Boars of the Inquisition were a formidable force, forged in hatred and efficiency. Their reputation preceded them like the burning desert wind. Equipped with blessed weapons and trained to track the slightest trace of magic, they were the hunting dogs of the human coalition, unleashed without mercy on anyone bearing the mark of witchcraft. The discovery of the massacre at the camp put them on maximum alert. The savagery of the attack, the absence of conventional wounds on the victims—everything spoke of an abnormal power, rekindling their darkest fears regarding the nature of witches and their allies.
Their leader, Captain Elias Thorne, an austere man with a face marked by countless hunts, examined the scene with a cold and methodical gaze. He noted the absence of any witch among the dead, the unusual silence that reigned. "They fled," he grumbled to his lieutenants. "And something powerful helped them. Something... different."
The tracks in the sand were easy to follow at first—a multitude of footprints moving away from the camp. But as they sank into the rocky desert, the witches, guided by survival instinct and the meager knowledge of the elders, tried to blur their trail, walking on stone, moving at night, using rudimentary illusions to mask their numbers.
Yet, the Boars were patient and expert. They read the desert like an open book, detecting the slightest deviations, displaced stones, trampled blades of grass. The fear of reprisals for the death of their comrades made them even more determined.
Within the group of fugitives, the week in the desert had forged fragile bonds. Alice, despite her youth, showed unexpected resilience. Her blue eyes, once filled with sadness, shone with a gleam of determination. She listened carefully to the advice of the elders, shared the meager provisions, and offered words of encouragement to those who faltered. Without knowing it, she was already exercising a form of leadership based on her courage and tenacious hope.
The elders, those who had seen generations of persecuted witches, recognized a special spark in Alice. They remembered whispered legends, forgotten prophecies speaking of a fair-eyed child who would lead their people toward a new future. Without ever expressing these hopes out loud, they instinctively protected her.
When the Boars closed in, the trap slowly shut. The witches were cornered in a narrow canyon, the rock walls offering little escape. Fatigue was written on their faces, but a fierce resolution shone in their eyes. They placed themselves around Alice, a protective circle of women determined not to let her fall back into the hands of their tormentors.
"You shall not pass," spat an old witch, her trembling hands clutching a sharp piece of wood. Others stood by her side, their gazes defying the dark silhouettes approaching at the canyon entrance. They no longer had magic, but their will remained intact—a final rampart against extinction.
The young man with red eyes slowly turned his gaze toward the Boars of the Inquisition. A palpable aura emanated from him, a wave of raw power that hit the soldiers like an invisible wall. Instinctively, their bodies refused to obey them. One by one, the Boars knelt in the burning sand, their faces contorted by an invisible force that constrained them. Even Captain Thorne, whose iron will had never wavered, found himself helpless, knees bent against his will.
The young man's gaze then landed on Alice, a strange intensity shining in his fox-like pupils. "You, young witch," he said, his voice surprisingly soft despite the power it conveyed, "hold out your hands to me."
Alice, still in shock from the revelation, obeyed mechanically. Her small hands trembled as he took them in his. His long, pale fingers touched the runic iron bracelet. A glowing red light emanated from his eyes, and the metal twisted, broke, and fell to the ground, releasing Alice's long-dormant magic. A familiar and intoxicating warmth surged through her veins.
The young man turned again toward the kneeling Boars, his expression becoming cold and pitiless. "I have freed my own," he said, his voice charged with contained anger. "And you continue to hunt them, to imprison them, to kill them before my eyes. I have been patient with you humans. I believed in your potential. But you persist in your blind hatred, persecuting the people of my mother. Before me, you shall find no mercy."
Alice then realized, with sudden clarity, that this man was not just the one who had slaughtered the guards. The aura he gave off, the power he manifested, the involuntary deference of the Boars... it was him. The Witch King.
The initial stupor of the soldiers gave way to panic and rage. Hateful whispers rose, then insults and threats. "Monster!" spat one Boar. "You will pay for what you have done! We will hunt every witch down to the last!" Another threatened, "Your little protégées in the camps will suffer for this!"
The Witch King looked at them with icy detachment. "I," he said, his voice rising with a thundering power that made the ground tremble, "I, Litch Grymoir, King of the Witches and Guardian of the World Tree... I put an end to your miserable existence."
A flash of red light burst from his eyes, sweeping across the kneeling Boars. A deadly silence followed. The bodies of the soldiers collapsed into the sand, reduced to piles of dust and ash—their empty armor the only testimony to their instantaneous annihilation.
At the same moment, far away, in a dark and imposing fortress, a woman of cold beauty and calculating gaze stood before a window overlooking a desolate landscape. Her black hair was braided with bone ornaments, and an aura of dark power enveloped her.
A soldier entered in haste, kneeling before her. "Queen Yza," he said in a panting voice, "our reconnaissance troops have sighted a silhouette matching the description of Merlin... of the Witch King."
A cruel smile stretched Queen Yza's lips. "Merlin... finally. Our traps are beginning to close. Where did they locate him?"
The soldier hesitated a moment, visibly troubled. "Near the old detention camp, Your Majesty. And... he was not alone. A group of escaped witches was with him."
Queen Yza's eyes narrowed, a dangerous gleam shining within them. "Interesting. He is finally showing himself as a protector. Let them hunt him relentlessly. I want his head, and those of all these abominations."