“What do you gain by helping them?” Rosetta muttered, her silver hair catching the light, her eyes as deep as the ocean.

“Rosetta… think of it as our way of thanking them—for welcoming us into their village,” Marian replied, her forest-green eyes calm beneath her golden hair.

“Welcoming us?” Rosetta hissed, her voice sharp. “They don’t even know who we truly are. The moment they discover the truth, they’ll be the first to cast us onto the stakes—burning us alive in the name of their god, Odysseus!”

“Rosetta!” Marian’s glare was stern, though her voice trembled.

“Fine! Fine!” Rosetta snapped, throwing her hands up. “At least ask them for compensation! Your kindness won’t fill our stomachs!” With that, she stormed out, leaving Marian behind with a heavy sigh. The elder sister’s heart ached, yet she understood the bitterness that shaped Rosetta’s words.

They were witches—hunted, despised, branded worse than criminals. For over two centuries, Marian and Rosetta had wandered together, though not bound by blood. Their bond had been forged in hiding, strengthened by pain.

They had once met others of their kind, but witches were fickle and treacherous; too many cursed even their own kin. Rossetta then met the pushover Marian being played and bossed around by other witch- Rosetta, who can't turn her back with injustice saved the naive witch and Marian afraid of being harrased by other witch decided to follow the cold and aloof Rossetta Since that day, the two lived as fugitives, concealing their true selves.

Once, they hid in a secluded cabin—until discovery forced them to flee. In time, they learned the cruel truth: such cabins were often the lairs of witches who experimented on human bodies. From then on, every lonely cottage was burned without question.

Years passed in shadows, until at last they stumbled upon a modest village, newly placed under a young baron’s care. Marian, blessed with the gift of nature, found work as a gardener there, hoping for peace.

---

One afternoon, whispers fluttered through the village like restless birds.

“Do you think they’re witches?”

“I heard Father and Mother arguing. They said the sisters bewitched him.”

“My parents said the same…”

“But aren’t witches supposed to look like old hags? With crooked noses? My brother swears it’s true.”

“I saw that in a book too!”

Behind the garden fence, children peeked in at Rosetta as she tended to Marian’s plants. She rolled her eyes, their words pricking at her patience.

“I wish I were a witch,” she muttered under her breath—loud enough for the children to hear. “Then I wouldn’t have to work just to survive… and maybe I wouldn’t be so weak and sickly.”

A small boy stepped forward. “You’re sick?”

Rosetta gave him a weary smile. “I’ve been sick since birth. My mother died bringing me into this world, and my father… he went to war fifteen years ago and never returned. Since then, my poor sister has carried the burden of caring for me.”

“See? I told you—they don’t look like witches at all!” another child hissed.

“Hey! Are you calling our new neighbors witches?!” a young man barked, glaring at the children. Frightened, they scattered like sparrows.

Rosetta chuckled softly at their retreat.

“I’m sorry for them,” the young man said with an awkward smile. “It’s been a while since we’ve had newcomers, and the adults keep feeding them such nonsense.”

“It’s fine,” Rosetta replied kindly. “They’re only children.”

The man paused, taken aback by her gentle smile. His cheeks flushed. “I’m Frank,” he stammered.

“Rosetta,” she answered, her gaze brushing over his tall, sturdy frame—his long green hair tied in a half-bun, his brown eyes steady.

“I heard you’re sick… Should you really be outside for this long?” Frank asked, concern softening his tone.

Rosetta chuckled faintly. “Now that you mention it, perhaps I should head back in.” She offered him a polite nod before retreating toward the house.

Frank lingered, waiting until she safely stepped inside before he continued on his way.

---

“Being a friendly neighbor, hmm?” Marian teased with a sly smile.

Rosetta rolled her eyes, climbing toward her room on the second floor—when suddenly, her body convulsed. A searing agony ripped through her chest, as if thorns pierced her heart, fire burned her veins, and unseen hands wrung her insides.

She collapsed with a choked cry.

“Rosetta!” Marian’s voice cracked with panic as she rushed to her sister’s side.

“Ahhh… curse this fate!” Marian cried, her voice trembling as she rushed outside, desperation guiding her steps. By fortune—or perhaps by fate—she crossed paths with a young lad, Luke, wandering nearby.

He followed her inside, where Rosetta lay trembling, her body seized by invisible torment.

“What has befallen her?” the young lad asked, concern etched upon his face.

“She has been frail since childhood,” Marian whispered, her eyes heavy with sorrow.

“Prone to fainting, consumed by pain… We can do nothing but offer her the herbs the villagers spare us, to dull the edge of her suffering. Priests and physicians belong to the wealthy. For us—orphans who toil in a baron’s garden—they are but unreachable stars.”

Luke lingered a moment, his gaze resting on Rosetta’s pale form before he turned to Marian.

“I am Marian,” she said quietly. “And this is my sister, Rosetta.”

“Luke,” he answered with a small nod. “I live next door. Call on me should her suffering return.”

Marian managed a faint smile as she guided him to the door. “If only the rumors were true—that we were witches. Then I might wield power, or coin, enough to save her.”

Luke departed with a heavy heart, his steps weighed down by sorrow, while Marian returned to her sister’s side.

She knelt beside Rosetta, brushing a strand of hair from her pale face.

“What cruel life has she been given?” Marian murmured. “It has not even been a month since blades tore her flesh, and now poison grips her veins…”

She laid her trembling hand above Rosetta’s body. A faint green light flickered to life, spilling softly over her sister’s form. Slowly, Rosetta’s complexion brightened.

For Rosetta bore a curse most merciless of all— to feel the suffering of the boy she had met in the forest… thirteen years ago.

It all started that day... Marian closed her eyes remembering the past

The forest had always been Marian’s refuge. Here, where shafts of light slipped through the canopy like broken glass, where the whisper of leaves drowned out the world’s cruelty, she could pretend she was safe. Her hands moved with practiced care, plucking herbs from mossy stones, fingertips brushing delicate petals she knew by name.

But tonight, safety betrayed her.

The hair on her nape stiffened. The rustle behind her was not the innocent scurry of a hare. Her heart faltered, then raced. She turned—slowly, unwillingly—as if her body itself resisted seeing what memory already knew.

There she stood.

The witch.

Not the vague nightmare Marian had buried in her mind, but real, solid, her shadow spilling across the forest floor. Her smile was the same as before—sharp, cruel, savoring pain.

“So this is where you’re hiding.” The witch’s voice was honey dipped in venom.

Marian’s knees buckled. Her basket of herbs toppled, spilling precious leaves into the dirt. She collapsed onto the damp earth, hands trembling, breath hitching. The years fell away in an instant; she was again that girl on her knees, mocked and powerless.

Her legs refused to obey. She could not rise, could not flee. She bowed her head to the soil, too weak to even meet her tormentor’s gaze.

The witch’s steps were unhurried. She relished this moment, the way a predator savors the paralysis of its prey. She crouched, her fingers like talons as they seized Marian’s chin and forced it upward.

“I’ve searched every nook, every shadow,” she purred. “And who would have thought I’d stumble upon you on a simple stroll?” Her nails dug into skin, and Marian whimpered despite herself.

The witch tilted her head, eyes gleaming with malice. “Where is that arrogant witch you clung to? Did she abandon you? Cast you aside when she realized what you were? Pathetic. I told you once—you were useless. Your precious ‘nature magic’? Nothing but parlor tricks. Plants and weeds. That’s all you’ll ever grow.”

Marian’s throat tightened, her words caught between a scream and a sob.

“You thought yourself special because she—Rosetta—kept you. You thought yourself worthy. Foolish child. Even heroes abandon dead weight.” She released Marian’s chin with a shove. Marian slumped forward, hands clawing at the dirt.

“Crawl back to me,” the witch hissed. “Grovel. Eat the soil you worship, and perhaps I’ll grant you a place at my feet once more.”

The forest air trembled. A voice, cold and unwavering, cut through the witch’s gloating.

“It has been two hundred years,” Rosetta said, her form emerging from shadow. Her presence filled the clearing like stormlight, impossible to ignore. She leaned against an ancient oak, arms crossed, eyes glinting like steel. “And still, you chase Marian. Tell me honestly—what festers in you is not hatred, but love, isn’t it?”

The witch startled, a step faltering. The mask of confidence cracked for a heartbeat, then sealed again.

“You’re still together?” she spat.

“She is… useful,” Rosetta replied, voice dry, almost dismissive. Yet her eyes never left Marian, softening in a way her tone did not betray.

The witch’s lips curled. “She’s mine. Always has been. I’m only taking back what belonged to me.”

“She belongs to no one but herself,” Rosetta said, pushing off the tree. Her steps were deliberate, predatory, but her gaze softened only when it fell upon Marian. “Your arrogance blinds you.”

Marian covered her face with shaking hands, tears spilling as she whispered apologies to Rosetta, voice cracked with guilt.

The witch, desperate to reclaim dominance, raised her hands, power pooling between her fingers. A coil of magic—dark and writhing—shot toward Rosetta.

But Rosetta did not falter. Two centuries had hardened her. The spell hit, and though her body flinched, she endured, lips pressing into a thin line.

With deliberate calm, Rosetta bent to seize a fallen branch. In her grip, it was no mere stick. Her magic, fierce and unyielding, ran through it until it hummed like tempered steel.

The witch flinched, memory colliding with reality. She remembered the agony Rosetta had inflicted long ago.

Rosetta’s eyes narrowed. “Shall we dance again?”

With a cry, she charged. The branch whistled through the air, her strikes sharp, relentless. The witch countered with a blade of manifested mana, its edge glittering like obsidian.

Wood and magic clashed, sparks of green and violet scattering like fireflies.

Rosetta’s movements were honed, disciplined. Every strike carried the weight of centuries. The witch, though powerful, faltered in swordplay, her desperation naked.

Snarling, she diverted her magic—not at Rosetta, but at Marian.

“No!” Rosetta roared. She leapt, twisting her body to shield her sister.

Black smoke coiled around her, shackling wrists and ankles, crawling into her lungs. She coughed, gagging, as the curse bound her in place.

The witch froze. She knew the price. Once a curse began, it could not be recalled without cost—eternal suffering, a torment worse than death. Cursing a stronger witch was folly. Yet her hatred burned hotter than reason.

Rosetta strained against the bindings, but they only tightened. They would not release until the caster withdrew them—or until the curse ran its course.

“You’ve gone too far!” Rosetta’s voice shook the clearing. “If this curse falls upon Marian, do you even comprehend what fate awaits you?”

The witch’s lips quivered, but she forced a smile.

“You know the price,” Rosetta taunted, voice edged with fury.

The witch laughed, the sound brittle, unraveling at the seams. “Better to perish than suffer eternity. At least before I draw my final breath, I’ll know it is you— not I—who writhes in agony.”

Her hands rose, forming symbols older than memory. Power pulsed, foul and ancient, filling the forest with a suffocating weight.

Rosetta’s eyes widened. “You dare—?”

“I dare everything!” the witch shrieked.

The air screamed with them as the curse carved its mark. The ground cracked, trees bent as if bowing to some terrible power. Marian clung to Rosetta’s body, sobbing, guilt gnawing her soul.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered over and over, her tears soaking Rosetta’s shoulder. “It’s my fault, it’s always my fault…”

The witch’s voice rose in a final incantation:

“With this whisper, I bind you. You will feel the pain of the nearest mortal—

Every wound, every agony, will crawl into your bones,

Will chain itself to your heart,

Will rot your immortal soul.

You who never bled, never broke—

Now taste the torment of the lowly.

Know suffering. Know despair.”

Her laughter cracked into a scream as her body collapsed, smoke spilling from her mouth, her essence unraveling.

The moment her hand struck the soil, Rosetta gasped.

A chain of fire coiled around her heart, branding it with invisible iron. She buckled, a cry tearing from her throat.

Somewhere, not far, a boy screamed—the sound raw, jagged, echoing through the night. His pain pierced her like a blade, clawing down her chest. Her body arched, trembling as agony not her own sank into her marrow.

Marian clutched her, helpless, sobbing into her sister’s hair.

And in the shadows, the forest seemed to shudder. For a curse had taken root—merciless, binding, eternal.

Marian watched in horror as the wicked witch crumbled into ash. The forest wind carried the remains into nothingness, scattering the last of her existence like smoke dissolving into the sky.

Beside her, Rossetta gasped, clawing at her chest as if something seared within. Her breath came ragged, her fingers digging into her skin where a faint rune ignited, glowing like fire carved upon flesh. The mark spread across her body, curling over her arms, her throat, her heart.

And far away—beyond the sisters’ sight—a second light burst into being. Its glow pulsed stronger, brighter. With each flare, the agony inside Rossetta deepened, pulling a scream from her lips.

The curse had found its anchor. Two souls, now shackled.

The boy.

He was no longer free in the forest; he was on his knees in the mud, surrounded by men with blades and cruel laughter. Kidnappers.

Their shadows loomed tall, but even their malice faltered when the boy’s cries filled the night—shrieks born not only of their beatings, but of the curse itself tearing through his small frame.

One of the men staggered, his bravado faltering as unease chilled his spine.

“Cover him!” the leader barked, his voice sharp with fear.

“Someone will hear him! Do it, now!”

“Is this… a witch’s curse?” another muttered, voice trembling.

The men exchanged glances. Several stumbled back, horror etched across their faces. A few fled outright, their boots pounding against the earth as if chased by death itself.

The leader sneered, refusing to let fear show. He turned his fury back to the boy, striking him with a savage kick. The child folded beneath the blow, coughing mud and blood. The man raised a whip, ready to lash again—

—but his arm froze.

A hand had seized it.

He looked up. A figure stood before him, cloaked and masked, her presence suffocating as winter frost. The remaining kidnappers staggered back, some trembling, others whispering prayers.

“A witch,” one whimpered.

“She’ll curse us all!”

The leader hissed, voice low with defiance.

“Who are you?”

Her tone was quiet, almost gentle, but it cut sharper than any blade.

“This boy is under my protection. Order your men to silence their tongues about this night—and I will spare you.”

The man smirked, though sweat gleamed at his temple.

“Spare us? You’re a witch. One word from me, and the pyres will burn for you.”

At this, Rossetta laughed. The sound was soft, mocking, and unbearably cold.

The boy, curled in the mud, peeked between his arms. His eyes widened, transfixed by the clash of fear and power before him.

“I can make your guild rise to heights you’ve never dreamed,” Rossetta said, lifting her branch—though in her grip, it gleamed like a blade.

“Or I can erase you without a trace. Who do you think is faster—your legs, or my spell?”

She moved before the man could answer. The stick flashed, biting into his shin. He dropped to his knees, gasping in pain.

“Keep him alive. Keep him safe. Do this, and wealth and power will follow,” Rossetta offered, her eyes narrowing.

The leader froze, torn between temptation and terror. His men watched him, waiting. He weighed her words, the ache in his shin throbbing with each breath.

Finally, he exhaled, shoulders slumping. “I won’t gamble my guild for a child’s life,” he said bitterly.

Rossetta tilted her head, curious.

“I am Marco,” he continued,

“a commoner. A small-time mercenary captain—paid for dirty work, guarding caravans no knight would touch.”

Rossetta’s lips curved faintly.

“Then build your own guild with the cowards who fled. Give them hush money if you must, but make them remember—none can hide from me.”

Marco bowed his head in bitter acknowledgment. He raised his hand, signaling to his men. They lifted the boy, who had collapsed into unconsciousness.

From the shadows, Marian emerged, her own mask concealing her face. She knelt beside the boy, green light spilling from her palms as she healed him, weaving threads of life into his frail body. His breathing steadied, though his small frame trembled from exhaustion.

“Return tomorrow,” Rossetta commanded, her voice firm.

“Same place, same hour. You’ll have your reward.”

She turned away, her cloak sweeping behind her, and knelt beside the child, whom Marian now held protectively. His eyes fluttered open, dazed and wet with tears.

Rossetta lowered herself to his level, her gaze unreadable.

“If pain is my prison,” she whispered,

“then yours shall be lovelessness—until death frees us both.”

Her hand brushed his forehead. Warm light bloomed, enveloping them both. Ancient runes etched themselves upon his skin, binding him as surely as her own chains bound her.

Marian’s eyes widened. “Rossetta—no!”

But Rossetta’s voice shook with the weight of memory as she murmured the spell, finalizing the curse.

The pain of betrayal.

The pain of abandonment.

The pain of loving too deeply.

She could endure blades, fire, chains—but not that pain again. Not the pain of the heart.

Afraid the boy would one day suffer what she had, she sealed his emotions. Locked them behind iron walls no one could breach.

“It will keep you level-headed,” she whispered to him, almost tenderly.

“For no agony rivals the cruelty of love betrayed. Love is weakness. And weakness… destroys.”

The boy’s eyes slid shut, sinking into unconsciousness.

Rossetta’s body trembled. With Marian’s arm steadying her, the sisters vanished into the night, leaving only fear and whispers behind.

“What now?” one of the kidnappers asked, voice shaking.

Marco—still kneeling, blood soaking through his torn trousers where Rossetta’s blow had struck—pressed a hand to his healed shin. The pain had vanished. The wound was gone, as though it had never been. Yet the memory of it lingered sharp, and the blood on his clothes was proof it had been real.

He shivered.

“They spared us when they could have erased us,” he said darkly.

“That witch gave us a chance to rise. Do you fools not see? This boy is no ordinary child. Even his enemies are his protection.”

He stood, limping slightly, and looked toward the unconscious child.

“From this night forward, he is ours to guard. Treat him well, or you will answer to them.”

The men nodded, fear silencing their doubts.

Marco turned, leading them back to their carriage. Yet his thoughts burned.

If these witches truly backed him, then rising to power was no dream. It was destiny.

Back at their temporary home, Rossetta collapsed. Marian caught her, heart hammering.

“Why would you cast a curse?” Marian cried, tears streaking her cheeks.

“Do you not know what retribution awaits the caster? What it might cost you?”

Rossetta, pale and trembling, smiled faintly.

“Who would have thought,” she whispered,

“that the great witch Rossetta—who never cursed even those who wronged her—would curse a boy she does not even know… I don’t even know his name.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. The smile lingered, fragile as glass, as she slipped into unconsciousness.

Marian, choking on her tears, held her close.

Neither of them knew that fate had sealed itself that night. Two souls chained together—not only by curse, but by something far more merciless.

Faith.