The road was empty. Fog clung to the ground, curling around my boots like it was alive. The battlefield behind me still smoked, a fading echo of screams, and my armor still smelled like blood and fire. My head was pounding—not from the fight, but from something else. Something… waiting.
And then I saw them.
The witches.
They weren't coming toward me. They were just… there, as if they'd always been. Their eyes were like black holes, swallowing light, swallowing thought. The wind carried their whispers before they even spoke, curling around my ears, twisting my stomach.
Banquo nudged me. I barely registered it.
"Macbeth," he said, voice low. "Are you seeing this?"
I nodded, but I didn't take my eyes off them.
Then, like a chorus of some hellish choir, they spoke. And the words hit me like a hammer:
"All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!"
That was already my title. Weird, right? But their eyes… oh, their eyes told me they knew more.
"All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!"
Wait… what? That title was still Duncan's to give. How could they know?
"All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!"
My knees went weak. My heart slammed. My hands itched like they wanted to… do something. Something dangerous. Something forbidden.
Banquo didn't look scared. He was calm. Too calm. His brow furrowed, though.
"Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear things that do sound so fair?" he asked me.
I didn't answer. How could I? Their words were poison wrapped in honey. Sweet, tempting, dangerous.
Then one of them whispered to Banquo:
"Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. Not so happy, yet much happier. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none."
Banquo's eyes flicked to me. I swear he was smiling, but I didn't trust it. I could feel the words curling inside my head, planting seeds. Seeds of… ambition. Desire. Darkness.
Before I could say anything, they vanished. Just like that. No footsteps. No wind. Just empty, silent fog.
And then… reality hit.
Ross and Angus came riding up like nothing had happened. They looked at me with wide eyes.
"Macbeth! Thane of Cawdor! The king has granted it," Ross said.
I froze. My chest felt tight, my mind spinning. The prophecy… it had already begun to come true.
Banquo whispered, almost to himself, "The instruments of darkness tell us truths; win us with honest trifles, to betray's in deepest consequence."
I didn't want to hear it. I wanted to shout, to ignore it, but the words stuck. The witches were right. They knew.
I wanted to speak, to make sense of it all, but nothing came out. My mind kept looping: Thane of Glamis, Thane of Cawdor… King. King. King.
I tried to laugh it off, joke with Banquo, but it sounded hollow even to me.
And then the fog closed around the road again, the battlefield behind us fading into mist. I could feel it pressing in, cold and alive, whispering: "You want it, don't you? You want it all."
I looked at Banquo. He was watching me carefully, like he could read my thoughts. Could he? Did anyone see what was starting to grow inside me?
I shook my head. No. Focus. Just… survive the war. Survive Duncan. Survive the fog.
But deep down, I knew it had begun. The pull. The hunger. The crown whispering my name.
And somewhere, in the distant echo of thunder, I thought I heard the witches laughing.