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"Pray tell, Veyr Thalric, how come you to my doorstep at this darkened hour?"

It was a simple question. One Veyr should have easily found an answer to, but standing in the doorway of the old witch's cabin gave him enough pause that the answer was lost to the wind like a whisper.

There was a low, guttural cackle and an gnarled finger stretched from the darkness within to point a chipped nail at his chest. "Perhaps you seek an answer. A diverging path lies at your feet, and you're unsure which road to take. Is that it, young wolf?"

Something turned in the back of Veyr's mind, a raw determination that compelled him forward. He was already here. There was no turning back. "I seek answers, witch. The kind of answers only you can give. Bid me entry, so I may determine which fate to pursue."

The finger withdrew into the darkness, and the old creaky door stretched wider. It was silent for a long time. The hair on the back of his neck began to rise as he felt the uncanny sense of being watched. Was she staring at him from just beyond the door? It was so dark within her cabin, he couldn't see even two inches inside.

A candle flickered to life far within the cabin.

He breath caught on his throat.

"Come in, Veyr son of Lykos. Come and see what story the cards weave." Her voice carried from within the house, but he could have sworn he felt bony fingers poking into his back as he stepped foot inside.

Guided by the light of the candle, he picked his footing carefully as he approached. He didn't bump into a single thing on his way, and he mildly wondered just how empty or big the space was. His stomach turned on itself. What else was in here that he couldn't see?

Set within the middle of an empty table, the candle flickered and swayed in a breeze he couldn't feel.

"Sit," the witch said, and her voice scraped against his ear.

As if on command, his knees hit the edge of a chair. "How..." He decided the question was left unfinished, and slid into the chair.

Two hands, blotched and wrinkled, appeared from the opposite side of the table as they entered the light offered by the candle. "Son of the late Lykos Thalric, slain in battle by Jameson Ashwood. Your mother fled with you, isn't that so?"

Veyr glared into the darkness, trying to sketch out the witch's face. "How do you know so much?"

"It is my duty," she said, and a breathy laugh spilled hot air onto his face. From her hands, a deck of tarot cards appeared. Dirty, bent on odd corners, the deck had seen better days. "Do you or do you not seek the answers I can provide, young wolf?"

"Yes." The word came in a growl as irritation chased a line up his spine. "The Ashwood's still carry my father's pelt. I want it back."

"The Ashwood girl carries his pelt, does she not?" The tone was mocking. Cruel, almost, as if she found amusement in his family's dishonor.

He was growing tired of her questions. "Will you or will you not tell me?" 

The witch laughed. Not the soft chuckle of amusement, nor the cackle of mischief, but something deeper—something that rattled her frail body as if she were made of dry branches. It was a sound that sent a shiver down Veyr's spine, as if the very air around him trembled in its wake.

"Oh, my boy," she rasped, laying the deck on the table. "You come seeking answers, but are you ready for the truth?"

She shuffled the cards, her gnarled fingers moving with uncanny precision. The deck whispered against itself, and the candle's flame flickered higher, casting shifting shadows along the walls.

"Let us see what the fates have in store for you."

She drew the first card and laid it between them. The image of a lone figure stealing away with swords stared back at him.

The Seven of Swords. Upright.

"A thief and a deceiver," the witch mused. "But is it you, or is it the one you hunt? An old enemy waits on the road ahead." Her lips curled. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Veyr's hands curled into fists.

Another card slipped from her fingers, landing beside the first.

The Devil. Upright.

"Oh, now this is interesting." The witch leaned forward, and for the first time, Veyr caught a glimpse of her grin—yellowed teeth peeking from behind cracked lips. "Temptation. Obsession. Chains of your own making." She tapped the card with a sharp nail. "Tell me, wolf, which master do you serve? Revenge? Or something darker still?"

He swallowed but said nothing.

The third card joined the spread.

The Lovers. Reversed.

The witch clicked her tongue in mock sympathy. "A union doomed before it can even begin. Love lost, or perhaps love never fully realized." She lifted her gaze to him, eyes gleaming from the dark. "A pity. But tell me, will you mourn, or will you let it drive you further into the abyss?"

A cold weight settled in Veyr's gut.

The next card fell with a finality that made the candle gutter.

The Tower. Upright.

A jagged bolt of lightning split the stone tower on the card's face.

"Destruction," the witch breathed. "Chaos. The world as you know it, crumbling beneath your feet." She tilted her head. "Tell me, son of Lykos, do you have the strength to stand when the ground itself betrays you?"

Veyr exhaled slowly, steadying himself. "And the last?"

The witch's fingers hovered over the deck before plucking the final card and placing it atop the others.

The skeletal figure of Death stared up at him.

Silence stretched between them. The air had gone still, the flickering candle frozen in time.

Finally, the witch smiled.

"A transformation." Her voice was almost tender now, but her eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "An end, yes—but also a beginning. You came seeking answers, Veyr Thalric, but I wonder... will you survive what you find?"

The old witch let out a laugh—grating, raw, as if the sound had been clawed from her throat. The candle's light flickered, stretching shadows long across the table as her withered hands moved with unnerving grace, flipping over each card in turn.

The first card: Seven of Swords, upright. A clash of past and present, of an old enemy yet to be confronted.

The second: The Devil, upright. Shackles unseen, a fate entwined with obsession, temptation, and ruin.

The third: The Lovers, reversed. A love doomed to wither before it could bloom.

The fourth: The Tower, upright. Destruction. Upheaval. A world shattered beyond repair.

And the final card: Death. The end of all things.

Veyr's fingers curled into fists as he stared at the spread before him. His pulse thundered in his ears. He had come for answers, but these felt like warnings—like a road already paved in blood and grief.

But then, just as quickly as she had laid them down, the witch gathered the cards with spindly fingers, shuffling them into the deck with a deliberate slowness, as if stirring the threads of fate itself. The battered cards whispered against each other, a soft, rustling sound like dead leaves in the wind.

She extended the deck toward him, her lips curling into a knowing smile.

"Fate has spoken," she rasped, "but tell me, young wolf—which path will you choose?"

Veyr hesitated only for a moment before reaching forward, his breath shallow, his hand steady. The cards felt worn beneath his fingertips, their edges softened by time and use. He drew one, slow and deliberate, flipping it over in the candlelight.

Death.

The candlelight pooled across its surface, illuminating the faded edges, worn by countless hands before his. The card was old—ancient, even—the ink faded to deep umber, the corners frayed like a relic passed through generations of fate-touched souls. The illustration, though cracked with age, was eerily vivid.

At its center stood a skeletal figure clad in tattered black robes, its hollow eyes staring out from beneath a heavy iron helm. In one bony hand, it clutched a great scythe, the blade streaked with crimson as if it had only just reaped its last harvest. The skeletal fingers of its other hand stretched outward, offering neither mercy nor cruelty—only inevitability.

Behind the figure, a dying sun hung low on the horizon, bleeding gold and crimson into a storm-dark sky. Silhouettes of crumbling towers and smoldering ruins lined the background, civilization brought to ruin beneath Death's unyielding march. At the figure's feet, a crown lay discarded, half-buried in the cracked earth, a stark reminder that even kings were not exempt from the card's decree.

But it was the eyes—if they could be called that—that unsettled him most. Twin pinpricks of cold fire smoldered deep within the skull's sockets, as if something within still lived, watching, waiting.

At the bottom of the card, in delicate, spidery script, was the inscription:

Mortem non est finis.

Death is not the end.

The candle's flame flickered wildly, as if whispering secrets through the shadows. Veyr's grip tightened around the card, a chill slithering down his spine. He could feel it—something shifting, something unseen stirring in the wake of his choice.

The witch exhaled a slow, satisfied breath.

"Well now," she murmured, her voice curling like smoke. "Isn't that fitting?"

The candle's flame shuddered violently, as if exhaling a final breath. The cabin darkened, shadows pressing in from the corners. The witch inhaled sharply, her smile widening into something far too knowing, far too satisfied.

"So it is chosen," she whispered. "Not an ending, but a transformation. You will burn the past to cinders, and from its ashes, you will rise anew. But be warned, young wolf—you cannot become something new without first destroying what you were."

Veyr's fingers curled tight around the Death card, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The witch's satisfaction slithered beneath his skin like a burrowing parasite, her knowing smirk a needle against his pride.

Isn't that fitting?

Her words echoed in his skull, gnawed at him, mocked him.

"No," he snarled, shoving the card back across the table. "No riddles. No fate woven in ink and paper. Give me real answers, witch. If you know so much, then tell me how to win."

The candle's flame guttered, its light shrinking as the room seemed to exhale. The air thickened, pressing against his lungs, and the shadows in the corners of the cabin stretched—hungry, listening.

The witch stilled. For a moment, she was silent, and then she laughed—a dry, rasping thing, like wind rattling through dead branches.

"Oh, you foolish boy," she crooned, her voice syrup-slow. "You dare challenge me?"

"I dare," he growled, slamming his hands on the table. "Your cards mean nothing. I'll carve my own path, just as my father would have."

The laughter stopped.

The air turned frigid.

The witch inhaled, long and deep, as if tasting his defiance on her tongue. Then she leaned forward, and at last, the candlelight unveiled her face.

It was worse than he expected.

Her skin clung to her skull like aged parchment, veins dark and twisting beneath the surface. Her eyes were black pits, gleaming wet and empty, and her mouth—too wide, too full of jagged teeth—curled into a grin that was nothing human.

She spoke, and the words coiled around him like a noose.

"Then so be it, Veyr Thalric."

The candle's flame roared to life, turning a sickly green. The deck of cards on the table lifted on their own, spinning into a whirlwind of paper and ink, each one flashing glimpses of terrible fates.

Her voice thundered, shaking the walls.

"By your own arrogance, I bind you to this path. You shall not rest, nor breathe your final breath, until your father's blood is avenged. Until every last Ashwood lies dead, the hand of fate shall grip your throat. Fail to finish what you have started, and death will not come as mercy—it will be ruin. Your body will rot, your soul will wander, and you will never find peace."

A terrible force struck Veyr in the chest. He staggered back, gasping as an invisible brand seared into his ribs, deep beneath the skin. It burned, coiling hot and unholy, embedding itself in his very marrow.

The cabin around him shuddered. The wind howled through unseen cracks.

The witch sat back, her teeth glinting like a wolf's in the dark. "Now, boy," she purred, "let us see how well you carve your own path."

Veyr clutched his chest, his breath ragged. The weight of the curse settled upon him, a cold certainty in his bones.

The game had begun. And there was no turning back.

The candle's glow pulsed, and for a brief, shuddering moment, Veyr swore he saw something move in the darkness behind her.

He swallowed hard. He would not waver.

"I was never meant to remain as I was," he said, voice low, resolute.

The witch let out another laugh, hollow and rasping, as if it had scraped its way up from the grave.

"Then go forth, son of Lykos," she said, and her tone dripped with ire. "And let Death lead you home."

WC: 2156