P R O L O G U E
No one remembers when she arrived.No name. No origin. Just the bones on her belt and the skull on her head.
They called her a witch.Not because they knew what she was, but because it was the only word they had for something that didn’t belong.
She spoke in tongues no one understood.She danced through ashes.She sang to the dead.And when the moon bled red over Altaura...she cursed it.
Not out of rage.Not out of vengeance.But because she could.Because suffering feeds something old.Something that watches through the eyes of the living and waits.
The town fell slowly.Love turned to fear.Fear turned to silence.And silence turned to murder.
They say the curse spares no one.That eventually, everyone turns.Everyone kills.Everyone bleeds.
But the story is wrong.It’s not that the curse can’t be broken.It’s that it won’t.
Not until it finds the one soul it can’t consume.The one person who sees the darkness and does not look away.
The curse wasn’t made to destroy what’s already broken.It was made to feed on hope.
And this time... it’s starving.
