Lastor entered the castle through the garden's rear gate, stifling a yawn as he stepped onto the familiar path. The castle loomed before him, darker than he remembered, as though the years had slowly drained the light from its stones.
He glanced around the garden. It had changed so much.
Back then, when the castle was first built, the garden was nothing more than patches of raw earth and hesitant life. Tiny flowers had just begun to peek through the soil, and the tallest tree now towering over the hedge was once no more than a fragile sapling, thin and trembling against the wind.
He remembered it all as if it were yesterday.
Especially her.
Circe, the first witch of Versailles.
She had been sitting quietly beside the slumbering King, her expression so tender it made the world around her seem still. When the King's golden hair fell across his brow, Circe had reached out with the gentlest touch, brushing the strands aside so they wouldn't tickle his nose.
