The prophecy

The Queen of Witches. That title alone carried an almost mythical weight. Witches were rare, rarer than any other race in the realm. They were not a people bound by kingdoms or borders but by an ancient and sacred covenant with the elements and the unseen forces of the world. Witches were the keepers of balance, the guardians of secrets so profound that even speaking them aloud could shift the fabric of reality.

But their rarity wasn't just due to their power—it was their nature. Witches were reclusive by design. The world didn't understand them, and they didn't trust the world. For centuries, witches had been hunted, feared, and misunderstood. Their abilities, which could heal or destroy with equal precision, made them both revered and reviled. It was safer to remain hidden, to let the myths and whispers of their existence serve as both shield and sword.

Bronn's mother, though, was unlike any witch before her. She didn't just survive in the shadows; she thrived in them. As the Queen of Witches, she had unified the scattered covens and clans, bringing a sense of order and purpose to a people who had long been divided. She wielded her power with grace and restraint, a beacon of what witches could be if left to flourish without fear.

To Bronn, though, she wasn't just the Queen of Witches. She was his mother. The one who had cradled him when he was too small to understand the weight of the world he was born into. The one who had sung to him in an ancient tongue, her voice soft and lilting, as though weaving a spell to ward off nightmares. The one who had stood between him and his father during countless arguments, her voice calm but firm, her presence an immovable force.

But Bronn wasn't just her son. He was something far more complicated—a rare mix of vampire and witch. His father's blood made him faster, stronger, and sharper than any ordinary vampire. His mother's lineage, though, was what truly set him apart. The power coursing through his veins was ancient and wild, a force so immense that it terrified him.

That was why his hands were always covered. He clenched them into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly as he tried to suppress the memory of the last time he had lost control. The power he wielded wasn't just dangerous; it was consuming. It whispered to him in moments of weakness, promising strength, vengeance, and liberation if he would only let it in. But Bronn knew better. That power didn't belong to him; it would devour him the moment he gave it the chance.

It was one of the reasons he had run away. The weight of his bloodline, the expectations of being both his father's heir and his mother's son—it had been unbearable. But there was another reason, one far more chilling.

The prophecy.

The elders spoke of it in hushed tones, their words laden with fear and reverence.

The child of mixed blood shall rise, born of shadow and light, bound by the power of two worlds. A force unlike any before, they shall walk the line between balance and chaos, creation and ruin. Their blood shall carry the strength of immortality and the wisdom of the ancients, yet their heart shall remain tethered to mortal fragility.

In their hands lies the power to unite the fractured races, to heal wounds long thought irreparable. Yet, with a single breath, they could ignite a war to end all wars, plunging the world into an abyss from which it may never recover. Their presence shall be both a blessing and a curse, a beacon of hope and a harbinger of despair.

When the child comes of age, the winds shall whisper their name, and the earth shall tremble beneath their steps. The stars will align to mark their destiny, and the elements themselves will bow to their command. But beware, for the power within them is a double-edged sword. Should they falter, it will consume them, leaving only ash and echoes in its wake.

The mixed-blood child will be hunted by those who fear their potential and sought by those who would wield them as a weapon. Betrayal will follow them like a shadow, and trust will be their most dangerous gamble. Their path will be marked by trials and loss, but from their pain will come strength. Only through fire and sacrifice shall they discover the truth of who they are meant to be.

And when the time comes, the world shall face a choice: to follow the child into an era of unity and peace or to perish beneath the weight of their unleashed fury. For they are the key to the future, and their decisions shall shape the fate of all who walk this earth.

The mixed-blood child will rise, a force of balance and destruction, a being of prophecy and power, capable of uniting or shattering the world.

That child was Bronn. From the moment of his birth, his existence had been a symbol of both hope and dread. His mother had always dismissed the prophecy, calling it the ramblings of old fools. But his father hadn't.

Bronn could still see the way his father had looked at him that day, his dark eyes hard and unyielding. "You have a destiny, boy. Whether you want it or not."

Bronn didn't want it. He didn't want to be a symbol or a weapon or a savior. He just wanted to be himself, to live without the constant shadow of what he might become looming over him. But no matter how far he ran, the prophecy followed him, a silent specter that refused to be ignored.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling to the surface. How long had it been since he had seen his mother? Since he had heard her voice? He tried to recall the last time they had spoken, but the memory was hazy, buried under layers of guilt and regret.

Helena's words came back to him, sharper now. She misses you.

He could almost hear his mother's voice, soft and warm, calling him by the nickname only she used. She would tilt her head slightly, her stormy eyes filled with a mix of amusement and exasperation, as though she knew every secret he tried to hide.

"Ronnie," he whispered to the empty room, his voice cracking.

He hated himself for leaving her, for not being strong enough to face the expectations that came with being her son. But more than that, he hated the thought that she might believe he had abandoned her.

Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender—a reminder of both his sister's visit and the home he had left behind. Bronn lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind a chaotic storm of memories and emotions.

He didn't know when or how, but one thing was certain he couldn't avoid her forever. The Queen of Witches was not a woman to be ignored, and Bronn knew better than anyone that when she wanted something, she got it.