The loud banging continued, not planning to stop anytime soon. It was relentless, insistent, almost angry.
As Faerith made her way downstairs, each step she took caused the floorboards to creak beneath her, the wooden staircase groaning as though warning her not to approach whatever waited on the other side of the door. Her body felt heavy with sleep, confusion, and the lingering residue of purple light still trembling through her veins.
As she moved, her hand glowed faintly with every movement, casting soft violet shadows along the wall. And just behind her as she passed her kitchen, a utensil scraped against the counter—sliding out of place as if ghostly hand nudged it.
Faerith glanced at her hand, her breath heavy as it pulsed with energy.
It happens again..
She chose desperately to ignore it.
Stoping at the front door, she didn't even bothering to fix the loose string of her cropped clothing. Her heart pounded a steady drumbeat. She yanked the door open, bracing herself for whatever rude customer thought dawn was a reasonable hour to demand service.
"Apologies," she began, voice groggy and thin, "We shall not be open till day time—"
The words disintegrated on her tongue.
There was no impatient customer.
No neighbor. Not even a familiar face at all.
Instead, a woman—a presence—stood before her. Towering over Faerith like a birch tree crowned in endless autumn. Her ginger hair curly and long, glowing faintly under the rising sun. Her eyes were twin pools of lapis lazuli—deep, bright, impossibly sharp.
The woman's outfit was provocatively slit, revealing long legs and a chest framed by luminous skin that caught the early light like polished bronze. A star-shaped tattoo marked her hip, pulsing faintly as though connected to something ancient.
Elegant. Menacing. Powerful.
She radiated all three without even trying.
It wasn't just her height that made her intimidating; it was the deliberate way she looked at Faerith.
Through the thin glasses perched on her nose, her gaze sliced straight through clothing, skin, bone—seeing everything.
When her eyes swept over Faerith's small frame, her messy hair, her partially opened chest from the loose nightwear, something in the air shifted. Warmth. Recognition. Amusement.
The woman smiled. Slowly. Confidently.
Her hands slid to her hips as if she owned the doorway, the house, and the very moment between them.
"After long last, I finally found you!" she said—her tone soft but deep, resonant, carrying a familiarity Faerith didn't understand.
"You really have grown," she added, her blue eyes softening with something dangerously close to nostalgia. "I'm sure Morgan would be so proud."
Faerith's breath caught in her chest.
Morgan.
That name struck like lightning.
And the purple glow beneath her skin surged, not only from how mystical it sounded, the weight of mystery etched into it—but it belonged to her mother who was an expert at making elixirs, the only woman she could rely on.
And of course, there was her father, Brendul—the man who taught her everything about survival. Hardened by storms and deserts, who had shown her how to endure when the world turned cruel. But none of them mattered now.
They were gone, every single one of them. And once again, Faerith was alone to face this srange, towering woman who had appeared like a ghost at her doorstep.
The young lady stepped back, tension rippling through her entire body. Her eyes narrowed, her voice trembling but sharp.
"H-how do you know my mother's name?"
Her tone shifted but it was not enough to thicken the air between them. The stranger noticed it too—Faerith's defensive stance, the subtle curl of her finger as though preparing to strike. Still, the strange woman remained calm, her movements slow and deliberate.
"You should be calm," she said softly, extending a hand in peace. "There's a lot you do not know about."
"What do you mean? What do you want? And how do you know my mother's name?" Faerith pressed, her steps small but sure, her distrust plain. "What are you?!"
The woman's eyes narrowed, the warmth draining from her tone. "What am I? That's not very hospitable, young one," she replied, her voice sharper, threaded with restrained irritation.
Faerith's pulse quickened. Her instincts screamed, fighting. The lessons of her father kicked in like a second being—stance, breathing, readiness. But before she could even lift her arms to strike, her hands began to glow. Violet light pulsed from her palms, and the small objects around her started to rise, floating in the air like they were caught in her unseen grip.
The strange woman hesitated, her brow furrowing. She did not back down, but the surprise flickered briefly in her eyes. Then, with a sigh that carried both disappointment and resolve, she spoke again.
"Well… if you insist on knowing who I am," she said quietly, "then I suppose I'll show you."
Her eyes ignited with a blinding orange glow. Cosmic energy coiled around her body like a storm of starlight, swirling in patterns Faerith couldn't comprehend.
Faerith's heart pounded. She cast a desperate glance toward the street, hoping for some early riser, some wandering soul to witness this madness—but before she could even shout, the door slammed shut behind her with a thunderous crack.
The air grew heavy. The woman's power shimmered through the room, vibrating in Faerith's bones.
What is this power? What is she?
Faerith's breath hitched. The orange hue—the searing eyes that looked like they could twist the will of anyone who dared meet them—she recognized it. Chaos magic. Not at its purest, but potent enough to destroy her in seconds if provoked.
Then, without warning, the purple shard of glass reappeared in fragments, glowing this time not violet—but red.
[Many high-level threats detected. Please approach with intense caution.]
"Multiple?" Faerith whispered under her breath. Her gaze darted around. There was only one woman here. Only one threat.
Then—she felt it, someone or something and it was behind her. A sudden chill of presence without form.
She spun around, eyes wide—nothing. Only shadows.
And then she heard it. A voice, soft and cold, whispering inside her head like the breath of the wind.
"Run…"
Her heart stopped. She turned back to the glowing woman before her, realization striking like lightning. Only witches could wield chaos magic—and her mother… her mother had once been close to one.
This wasn't any typical enemy. This was someone who knew her, a person who had once been part of her family's secret circle.
Her breath caught as the name, buried deep in her memory finally surfaced. She was struck with recognition like a tidal wave.
The violet glow on her hands flickered, then faded. Every levitating object crashed to the floor in unison.
Faerith's breath trembled as the final piece snapped into place. The glow around her hands died out completely, the last spoon clattering to the wooden floor.
Then she spoke, her tone slow and cautious, as if the words themselves were too heavy to lift.
"Aunt… Loni'var… Is that you?" she muttered, her voice cold, stunned, and trembling all at once.
Faerith swallowed hard.
She knew Loni'var—her mother's oldest friend. The witch who controlled chaos, but from what she remembered, she could barely harness her abilities.
Now she looked different and far more stronger.
Loni'var smirked, a relaxed look softening her face. Her orange aura subsided, her eyes returning to their original state.
"Well, that took you long enough," she said with a cheerful tone. "Didn't think you would remember me, little Raven."
Little Raven—the name the witch had given Faerith when she was still a child.
Once, Faerith's mother worked alongside Loni'var with a group of knights which were well known for protecting the city of Erandale, acting as the potion brewer, and in those days her hands never trembled, never doubted, for she stood beside warriors whose courage shaped legends.
This group were known to many as the Azure Crest, a name that once rolled across the land like a promise woven from steel, honor, and shimmering blue banners carried through wind and war.
In those distant years, the Mythics, who were dangerous beasts born from darkness, held nothing against this group. The creatures that made seasoned soldiers shiver, the nightmares that slithered from the edge of the void, all faltered beneath the unified strength of the Azure Crest.
But they had disbanded a long time ago.
The two stared at each other, a quiet tension rising like a cold mist between them. The air grew colder and still, Loni'var was unable to bear the silence any longer breaking it once more.
"Well, you won't invite me or—"
Before the woman could finish her sentence, Faerith rushed forward, her arms spreading open as she embraced her, holding her tightly, her hands pressed against her buttocks.
Loni'var stiffened in surprise, then melted into the hug with a soft chuckle. Faerith clung tighter, trembling, pressing her face into the woman's torso as if the world itself had just eased off her shoulders.
"A-Aunt Loni'var… I thought you were all gone…" Faerith whispered, her breath shaking.
The witch sighed, placing a warm hand on the girl's back, "Not all of us," she murmured, "Some of us still walk these lands… especially now, with Mythics crawling out from every cursed forest."
"Now that our longing battle is settled, why don't we have a little conversation?"