Story 1151: Song of the Thorn-Witch

In the gnarled heart of Daggerbloom Forest, where brambles grew like veins and the air stank of iron and rot, there lived a witch. Not the cauldron-stirring, broom-riding kind of stories—but something older, crueler, and rooted in the bones of the land.

They called her the Thorn-Witch.

No one saw her and lived unchanged. The lucky ones returned with wild eyes and mouths stitched shut by vines. The others simply disappeared, their screams said to echo on the wind that howled through the briar thickets.

And yet, into that forest walked Lina Mournvale, cloak torn, heart burning with vengeance.

Her sister, Alia, had vanished weeks ago—last seen chasing a strange, sweet song into the woods at dusk. The villagers warned Lina it was the Thorn-Witch’s call, a siren made not of sea and salt but thorn and sorrow.

But Lina had never feared stories.

She followed the melody, thin and reedy, carried on a wind that whispered her name.

“Lina… Lina… come listen…”