The Witch of the Northern Castle—a being untouched by the passage of time, cloaked in myth, and feared as much as she is revered.
No one remembers her true name or where she came from—only that she has stood vigil over the kingdom of Everen for centuries, binding herself to the royal bloodline with a vow older than memory.
Whenever an heir comes of age, she appears—always at the ceremony, always at the appointed hour. And there, before gods and men, she swears an oath to protect them until their final breath. Through storms and wars, Everen endured—its throne unshaken—under the shadow of her eternal vow.
Today, when foreign empires speak of Everen, they do so with caution. For behind its golden crown stands a witch whose power could reduce nations to ash.
Yet none know why she serves.
Why protect mortals, when she could burn the world with the flick of her hand?
Was it a vow made freely? Or a curse—an ancient chain that binds her soul?
No one dares ask.
All that remains of her are fragmented accounts—ritual records from ancient coming-of-age ceremonies, and legends told by those who once saw her fight beside princes on the battlefield.
And stories passed down through generations.
Prince Xavier had grown up with these tales, first from his father—King Edward—and later through fragments of lore preserved by Everen's scribes. From the moment he could reason, those stories stirred an ache deep within him. Not mere curiosity… something older. Stronger.
He remembered being no older than six, tucked beneath velvet sheets as his father spoke of the Witch's flame and shadow. He'd asked then—childishly—if she was lonely. His father had laughed, brushing it off. But the question had rooted itself in him, growing deeper with each retelling, each fading detail. Even then, it wasn't fear she stirred in him—but something softer. A pull he couldn't name.
He had searched for every trace of her in the archives, combed through dust-laden tomes and half-burned parchments. But all he uncovered were half-told tales and faded folklore veiled in mist.
He wanted to know her. To understand why she chose to guard the royal line, century after century, never asking for anything in return. What was her name?
And one question lingered in his heart like a thorn:
Did she feel lonely?
To live a life eternal, lost to light, unseen and untouched—wasn't that the cruelest fate?
The longing to meet her became an obsession. A quiet fever that drove him beyond his royal duties. He fought, studied, and outshone his brothers—not merely to earn the throne, but to earn the right to stand before her.
To meet the Witch of the North with his own eyes.
That day had come at last. The day of his Ascension. The day Prince Xavier would take his oath as heir to Everen.
The day he would finally see her.
The Grand Hall had never shone brighter. Its soaring ceiling arched high above like the heavens themselves, gilded in gold and studded with gemstones that shimmered beneath the glow of hundreds of floating arcane torches. Along the white stone walls, carvings told the tale of Everen's past—wise kings, victorious wars, and the ever-present figure of a shadowed woman standing beside each prince.
Towering columns flanked the central aisle, like sentinels carved of mountain stone. They led the eye to the ceremonial dais, where a crimson carpet stretched forward, embroidered in golden thread with the royal sigil: a blazing sword within the sun's embrace.
Around the hall stood nobles, scholars, and high mages, all in their finest ceremonial garb. Their faces bore a mixture of reverence and unease. On the twin thrones at the end of the hall, King Edward and Queen Laura watched with composed solemnity.
Xavier stood upon the central platform, clad in polished ceremonial armor that gleamed like starlight. His golden hair was swept back with meticulous care, his sapphire eyes steady as they gazed forward. His heart, however, beat like a war drum within his chest—not with fear, but with anticipation. The moment he had waited for all his life was nearly upon him.
What would she look like? What voice would she speak with?
The paintings of her were unclear, and the written descriptions offered little more. Some said it was forbidden to depict her likeness in full—that to paint her face was to invite madness or misfortune. Others claimed no ink or brush could ever capture what she truly was.
They described a creature of fire and shadow—long hair as black as night, eyes like coagulated blood, and an eternal flame that danced around her form.
But Xavier imagined her differently.
Perhaps she was gentle.
Perhaps her smile was kind.
Somewhere deep within him, he believed it to be true—even though he had no proof, no reason.
He had drawn her image in his mind countless times, committed it to canvas in a hundred ways—filling an entire room with portraits of a woman he had never met, yet could not stop dreaming about.
This was no longer mere fascination.
It was obsession—persistent and aching.
He never understood why he felt this way for someone he had never met. That was why he needed to see her—for answers, for clarity,
for a truth he couldn't name.
Suddenly, a sharp cry rang out from the assembled nobles, snapping him from his reverie.
He looked up.
A brilliant and crimson flare had appeared, suspended in the air at the heart of the ceremonial hall.
Under its blazing light, his chest tightened. His breath caught as though an invisible hand had closed around his ribs.
And then, silence.
The crowd faded from awareness. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, slow and heavy, like the echo of something ancient waking within him.
She was here.
The Witch of the Northern Keep.
Xavier's eyes gleamed brighter than the stars beyond the heavens, fixed on the growing flame above.
He watched like a child who had waited a lifetime for a miracle.
And then—
From within the inferno, she stepped forth.
A hush fell like snowfall. The air grew colder, as though the warmth itself recoiled from her presence.
Hair black as obsidian cascaded over her pale shoulders.
Eyes the color of ancient blood—dark, congealed, and still. Just as the legends described.
But something was different.
Her skin, pale as if untouched by life. Her frame, delicate and frail, like a single breath of wind might carry her away. Her face, void of expression—cold, unreadable, as if emotions had long since faded from her existence.
She was beautiful. Devastatingly so.
A beauty that beckoned to be touched—yet warned that the touch would mean ruin.
Xavier had imagined this moment a thousand times. He thought he would feel excitement. Triumph.
But now, standing before her, his body trembled.
Silence rang in his ears, loud and endless, like the space between lightning and thunder.
And his chest ached even deeper—because something about her felt achingly familiar.
As if… he had known her once. Long ago. In a memory that no longer had a name.
"Selena…"
The name slipped from his lips before he realized it, soft and broken.
And in that instant, her blood-red eyes—so still—trembled, as if the sound of his voice cracked something long frozen beneath her skin.
The Witch of the North turned to him. And when their gazes met, Xavier saw her shatter—like a frozen lake cracking beneath sudden weight.
In that moment, as something ancient fractured behind her eyes, something inside him broke as well—a splintering, soft and silent, like the falling of snow upon glass.
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