"No! Please! Wake up!" I scream, shaking the cat gently. He doesn't open his eyes. His leg wound bleeds profusely, drenching my clothes in blood. He's dead, I think. He's dead, and it's my fault. Blinking away tears that blur my vision, I search for the man who did this, but he's nowhere to be found. Am I really safe?

The world around me seems oblivious to my pain. Birds chirp above, and the sky is a brilliant blue. The scent of flowers fills the air, while water babbles in a nearby fountain. My heart aches as I take a step away from the cherry tree behind me.

Before me lies a stone path, but I see no openings in the honey-coloured wall. In the distance, however, I can see the numerous towers of a great castle. There must be a way in. He can't die because of me.

"Stay with me," I whisper to the cat, cradling him close to my chest. "You can't leave me like this."

My body trembles, each breath coming in ragged gasps as I fight to stay calm. As I shiver, I notice a parasol, chairs, and a table adorned with sandwiches and teacups not far from me. A woman strides towards the table, her dazzling golden gown shimmering in the sunlight. She's carrying a cake carefully in her arms.

"Help! Please!" I cry out, my voice quavering with desperation.

The woman freezes, fear contorting her face as the cake slips from her grasp and crashes to the ground. She hoists her skirt, rushing over to me. "Nyx!" she exclaims, placing one hand on the cat's head and another on my shoulder.

"He's not waking up..." I inform her.

Her clear eyes lock onto mine. "Are you hurt?"

"No, but his leg..." I trail off, unable to tear my gaze away from Nyx's still form.

The woman's eyes narrow as she examines Nyx's wound, her eyebrows knitting together with concern. She cradles him gently yet securely in her arms, like a mother holding her sick child. "Follow me," she says, determination lacing her voice, soothing my panicked heart.

Her worry for the injured cat is palpable, and I can't help but feel an odd sense of camaraderie towards this stranger. There's something about her that feels familiar, comforting even. But how could that be? We've only just met.

I trail behind her through the castle's inner garden, marvelling at the vibrant colours and fragrances that envelop us. It feels almost surreal, given the circumstances. We approach the castle's wall, where a small gate is half-hidden by cascading vines.

With a swift, powerful kick, she sends the door flying open, revealing a dimly-lit corridor beyond. Oil lamps flicker, casting eerie shadows on the walls as we hurry down the passageway. My heart races, but I trust this mysterious woman; she's the only hope for saving Nyx.

We come to a halt in front of a cloth banner hanging on the wall. The coat of arms depicted on it catches my eye: a shield adorned with flowers and held by two cats, with a blossoming cherry tree taking centre stage. Below, the words "Ver Aeternum" are inscribed. Shame I don't know Latin.

The woman pushes the banner aside, revealing a wooden door. She opens it and we step inside a small room. The space feels intimate, filled with an assortment of old furniture and hanging flowers.

"Open the chest. Give me the leaves and the mortar," the woman commands, her voice firm yet gentle. I don't hesitate to obey her, my heart still pounding from earlier events.

The room is a quaint, mysterious space filled with all sorts of trinkets and plants that give off an eerie, whimsical aura. As I approach the large wooden chest by the unlit fireplace, a sense of urgency washes over me. Inside it, amongst various belongings such as books, a coat, and a peculiar mirror, I find the bag of dried leaves and the mortar she asked for.

With the items in hand, I turn to see the woman has placed Nyx on the sofa near the fireplace. His body lies completely still, making me question if he's even breathing. I hand her the leaves and mortar, watching as she quickly grinds the leaves into a paste and applies it to his wound. She then acknowledges my help with a nod and a faint smile, which brings me a small sense of relief.

"Is he going to be okay?" I ask, my fingers twisting with worry. God, he looks awful. I can barely tell if he's alive or not.

The woman simply observes me with a sad smile. "Sit down, dear," she gestures towards the carpet by the unlit fireplace, offering me a blanket. "Rest and watch over him."

I shake my head, refusing the blanket. My muscles are tense; there's no way I can rest now. "We have to wait," she says, her voice cracking. "There's nothing else we can do."

As the adrenaline wears off, I finally take a closer look at the woman who's helping me. Her golden dress is stained with blood, but she doesn't seem to mind. She's slim, her face beautiful, with pale blue eyes that glint with wisdom. Long, honey-blonde hair falls in waves down her back. There's something familiar about her, as if... Yes, I've seen her before, in the photographs Dad used to show me. Fuck.

"What happened?" she asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Someone... A man... He came to my house and... he attacked me." Fear rises in my throat as I remember the strange, horrible man – the twitching hands, the empty expression, the horrific dark eyes. The biting cold that paralysed me... I don't want to remember. Goosebumps spread across my arms and a lonely tear runs down my cheek. "He saved me," I say, nodding at the cat. "The man... He was not normal. He was very pale and... his arms extended and he had a weird dagger..."

The woman claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream, her beautiful eyes wide and red-rimmed with tears. She stares at me, absolutely horrified. Her fingers sink into her chest as if her heart aches. Her head slowly shakes from side to side before, without warning, she wraps me up in an embrace, tears cascading down both our faces. Her hair smells of flowers and freshly cut grass.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You should have come sooner... We didn't expect a warlock to find you so quickly," she whispers into my hair. Her apology and concern fill me with an odd sense of comfort.

"None of this is your fault," I manage to say, although I don't even know if that's true. So many questions still need answers, but right now, all I want is to cling onto this feeling of solace.

She pulls back, grasping my face gently with her warm hands. The awkwardness I might have felt under different circumstances is replaced with gratitude. She offers me the blanket again, and I accept it this time. Wrapped up in its soft embrace, we sit together by the fireplace, our gazes focused on the unconscious cat lying on the sofa.

As the woman lights the fire, she throws a couple of logs on it and I listen to the crackling flames, letting their warmth soothe my frayed nerves. Her hands rub my shoulders, her smile not one of happiness but of reassurance. It feels good, and a part of me wishes I could stay like this forever. But I know I can't avoid the inevitable. I need answers.

"Alright, so why did this warlock attack me?" I demand, rubbing my temples as I try to make sense of everything. "And what's the deal with Nyx? He can talk and transform into a beast?"

The woman sighs, her sympathetic gaze meeting mine. "Nyx is my familiar," she explains. "Many witches have one. They're our companions and protectors."

A familiar? What the hell is she talking about? My mind races trying to comprehend what's happening to me. A terrifying man broke into my home to kill me. Then there was that weird visit from the handsome stranger. Could it be related? Not to mention the talking cat and the magic tree, and...

Shit.

This is too much.

“With all due respect, I don't understand what the fuck is going on.” I feel kind of bad for swearing but I'm having a terrible fucking day.

The woman stares at me, as if uncertain about her next move. She exhales heavily, then continues. “I even prepared a speech for you… Doesn’t matter now, I guess. Anyway. You're a witch, Eileen.”

Yeah, no... What's she talking about? The cat also said something like that... “It's not the first time I’ve heard that today,” I reply.

“It sounds like the man who chased you was a warlock,” she says softly.

Okay, this is just getting better. “And that warlock or whatever wanted to kill me because...?”

“Warlocks hunt witches for their wood," she says, her voice grave, her eyes holding mine.

The more she talks, the less I understand.

"Wood?" I scoff, completely bewildered. "You're telling me that maniac tried to kill me for some wood?"

"Unfortunately, yes. The wood of a witch holds powerful magic. Warlocks use it to craft potent artefacts and enhance their own power."

I shake my head, bewildered. She puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. "I understand this is a lot to take in."

I'm lost for words.

"Wait a minute," the woman says, getting up. She walks over to a corner of the room where a desk and shelves stand, their dark wood contrasting with the warm colours of the room. As she runs her fingers over the spines of the books, I can't help but feel a sense of anticipation.

She selects a volume, old and seemingly handmade, with the title "Anatomy of the Witch" embossed on the cover. She sits next to me again and shows me the book. With a soft creaking sound, she opens it to the corresponding page, revealing various antique illustrations: a baby, a girl, a young woman, an old woman, and finally... a tree.

"Externally, there is nothing that distinguishes a witch from a human," she explains, her voice gentle. "However, when a witch reaches the end of her existence as a woman, she becomes a tree." My mind races as I try to process this information. A tree? I glance at the illustrations again, taking in the details.

"Warlocks use witch wood to create magical artefacts," she continues. "Today, there are almost no witches left in the outside world, so when a warlock finds a witch he executes her so she'll transform into a tree."

I look between the illustrations and the woman's face, trying to gauge whether she's lying or not. She seems sincere, but how can she be so sure that I'm a witch? I'm just a regular girl, with a regular dad and a regular...well, I don't know my mum. I don't even have a single memory of her, and I don't want to know anything about the woman who broke my father's heart. Did he... know about this?

"Are there male witches?" I ask, desperate for a distraction from the unsettling information I've just learned.

"None. We witches can only have daughters," the woman answers, her voice soft and melodic. My stomach twists with anticipation, but I force myself to change the subject. "So if I die... will I turn into a tree?"

"Dying is not the proper term. After all, the tree lives too. But yes, you would." Her delicate voice vibrates with frustration. "Humans who uncover the secret of our existence murder us in cold blood to create their artefacts. They kill us in exchange for power, riches, so they can extend their miserable lifespans." Her lips twitch with contempt for an instant. "An encounter with a warlock is almost always lethal. You were very lucky to escape."

The woman casts a troubled look at Nyx, who has yet to show any signs of improvement. I'm afraid to hear the answer, but the question burns on my tongue. The blonde woman with blue eyes bears the same face I've seen countless times in the photographs Dad treasured.

"How do you know I'm a witch?" I ask hesitantly.

"Only witches can enter Witchwood. You're safe here," she replies, her gaze never leaving mine.

"How did you find me?" I press on, my curiosity mounting.

"I was looking for you," she admits, her tone gentle but firm.

"Are you my mum?" The words spill out before I can stop them, and I hold my breath. I almost can't believe I dared to ask, and part of me isn't sure I want to know the truth. I just want to escape—run far, far away and forget everything.