Cithara

The witch was the most powerful of her kind, her name whispered in both respect and fear across the land. Cithara. Her extraordinary powers were unmatched, a beacon of magic so pure it was blinding. But purity was a burden, for in the eyes of men, her innocence mattered little. They feared what they could not control. They feared her power. And so they named her a curse, the daughter of Lucifer, a harbinger of doom. Every foul name that human tongues could conjure clung to her like thorns, but she bore them with quiet grace, her smile soft yet distant as if she existed just beyond the reach of mortal understanding.

Lucian was brought to her on a dark, windswept evening. His desperation, like so many before him, had driven him to the witch's door. Once a man of strength and grace, his body had grown weak, and his face bore the lines of years he could not reclaim. Yet what tormented him most was not the age in his bones, but the rejection gashed deep into his pride.