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The road to the was still long, and the Crones were still watching, but for the first time, the girl who was a kitchen maid felt like a queen.

Willow smiled, a rare spark of hope in his eyes. "That is exactly how it starts." The road to the was still long, and

The mist over the Wildwood didn’t just sit; it breathed. It clung to the boots of the ragtag fellowship like a physical weight, smelling of damp earth and something older—something rotting. It clung to the boots of the ragtag

"Elora! Now!" Willow shouted, his face contorting with the effort of holding back the darkness. "The spark is in you! Use it!" "The spark is in you

The silence returned, but this time it was peaceful. Elora sank to her knees, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Willow walked over and placed a small, weathered hand on her shoulder. "You did it," he said softly. "I just wanted him to go away," she replied.

Suddenly, the forest went silent. The birds stopped mid-chirp. From the darkness, a figure emerged—tall, skeletal, and draped in tattered black silks. The Lich. He didn't speak; he didn't need to. The ground beneath Elora’s feet began to wither, the grass turning to ash in a perfect circle around the dark sorcerer.