The Elven Slave And The Great Witch’s Curse [ Plus ]

They say the Wychwood estate is still haunted. Travelers whisper of a silver-haired elf and a one-eyed witch who walk the overgrown gardens at dusk. They say the witch’s curse was never lifted—only shared . And that if you listen closely, you can hear them arguing over the proper way to prune a rose bush.

Kaelen touched his throat where the collar had been. “I’ve worn chains I didn’t choose. I’d rather wear one I do.” At midnight, they stood in the center of the tower. The curse came like a storm—black wind, screaming faces, the weight of a hundred years of loneliness pressing down. Morwen’s knees buckled. Kaelen caught her.

Inside, the tower chamber was no dark lair. It smelled of rosemary and rain. Bookshelves climbed to a ceiling painted with stars that moved. And seated in a chair woven from living willow was .

And sometimes, that’s the same thing.

Kaelen had heard the whispers: decades ago, Lord Vane’s father had broken a pact with Morwen. In return, she cursed the family’s bloodline—every firstborn son would die on his twenty-first birthday. Vane’s own son was turning twenty-one in three days.