CHAPTER IV: The Old Wizard

The village was drowning.

Not in water, but in death.

The rain poured endlessly, soaking the dirt paths, turning them to mud, but the true weight pressing down upon the land was grief.

"No… No… My son… Come back to your mother… Come back to us…"

Charlotte rode through the streets, her auburn hair plastered to her face, her cloak heavy with rain.

The world around her was blurred by mist and shadows, but even through the haze, she saw them—the grieving mothers, the fathers standing like ghosts in their doorways, hollow-eyed and broken. Small lifeless forms wrapped in linen lay in their arms or on beds, their tiny faces pale, their breaths stolen away in the night.

Some families still knelt beside their children, whispering prayers, clinging to fragile hope.

The plague had come like a creeping shadow, unseen yet relentless. Wizards had tried and failed to stop it. The palace—the heart of wisdom and power—offered no answers, no aid.

The King did not speak of it. The Royal Sorcerer remained silent.

And that silence was an answer in itself.

There was still no cure.

Charlotte spurred her horse forward, pushing past the sorrow, past the scent of damp earth and decay. The sky overhead churned with thick storm clouds, threatening another downpour, but she did not slow. She did not care for the rain.

She had to reach him.

Beyond the village, where the land grew wild, a dense forest loomed like a solemn guardian. The trees here were old, their trunks thick and gnarled, their branches reaching toward the sky as if whispering secrets to the heavens. The villagers once hunted in these woods, but now, the silence was suffocating. No birds sang. No wind rustled the leaves.

A narrow path led deeper into the forest, winding through the mist until it reached a house.

It was old but sturdy, its wooden walls darkened by time and weather. Vines crept along its edges, half-consuming the structure, but the faint glow of candlelight flickered through the small, fogged-up windows.

Charlotte barely waited for her horse to stop before she leapt off, boots sinking into the wet earth. She hurried up the stone steps and rapped her knuckles against the door.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then—creak.

The door opened.

An old man stood before her, his presence as still as the ancient trees around them. His long white hair flowed past his shoulders, so as his thick beard. The deep green of his robes was embroidered with golden sigils, swirling like constellations. His face was lined with age, yet his pale blue eyes—cold and sharp as winter's first frost—held an unwavering strength.

He did not look surprised to see her.

As if he had been waiting for this moment.

Charlotte exhaled sharply, her breath uneven from the ride.

"Melor."

The old wizard's gaze softened, a flicker of something unspoken passing through his features. Then, in a voice as steady as stone, he stepped aside.

"Get inside, my child."

She hesitated, just for a breath, before stepping into the warmth of the house.

A place they once called home.

The door shut behind her with a quiet finality, sealing away the storm outside.

The scent of old parchment, herbs, and burning candles wrapped around Charlotte like an old cloak. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Nothing had changed.

To the left, wooden bookshelves lined the walls, filled with thick tomes, some stacked carelessly, others open with their pages worn from use. A round table sat in the center, books and parchment spread across its surface, a single candle flickering beside them.

To the right, a long wooden counter stretched against the wall, cluttered with glass vials, aged scrolls, and bottles filled with strange glowing liquids. This was where Melor brewed his potions, where the scent of crushed herbs and simmering elixirs lingered in the air.

And above them—a creaking staircase led to the second floor.

Her eyes flickered to it. She and her siblings had once slept up there in a single, small bedroom. A place where the three of them huddled together during cold nights, where Charlotte would stay awake to make sure Willow didn't cry himself to sleep.

And Melor…

He had been their parent.

The one who had fed them when no one else would. The one who had wrapped Willow in thick blankets when he was too small to fight off the cold. He had brought back warm milk from the village, filled their plates with meat and fresh bread whenever he returned from the palace, and scolded Charlotte whenever she pushed herself too hard—just as her father once had.

She could still see him there now.

Slumped over his desk, head resting on his folded arms, silver strands of hair falling loose from the ribbon that usually held them back. His breathing was slow, deep, his shoulders rising and falling with exhaustion. A book lay open beneath him, ink smudged where his hand had last gripped the quill before sleep had stolen him away. Beside him, an unfinished potion sat in its glass vial, the faintest wisp of steam curling from its surface.

Charlotte remembered how often she had found him like this. How his days had been spent balancing his duties at the palace with raising them, how he never spoke of his exhaustion but carried it with him in the dark circles beneath his eyes.

She would always do the same thing.

Silently, she would take a blanket—the thick, patched one he always draped over Willow during the winter—and place it over his shoulders. Then, without a word, she would turn away.

Because she knew that when he woke, he would never speak of it. He would simply rise, brush himself off, and continue on as if rest was a luxury he could not afford.

And Lilith… Lilith had been his little apprentice.

Charlotte could still remember the way her sister would sit by the bookshelves, flipping through thick tomes on wizardry. How she would watch Melor brew potions, memorizing every movement. And when she turned ten, how she had secretly begun to mimic his magic.

The protective barrier around this house—the one Melor claimed would keep them safe from shadows—had been reinforced by Lilith's hands.

But in truth, it had never been to keep out shadows.

It had been to hide them. From the palace.

The realization settled in Charlotte's chest like a stone.

And then… Willow.

A chill ran down her spine as she remembered the whisper in the dark. The shadow.

Charlotte turned to Melor. "There's a plague in the village." She shrugged off her soaked cloak and hung it by the door.

Melor, who had moved to the table, paused. His fingers brushed against the spine of a book, but he did not turn to her.

"It is not only the village, my child. The entire kingdom is suffering."

There was a firm weight in his words, but also a terrible softness.

Charlotte clenched her fists. "This is no ordinary plague."

"I know."

She took a step forward. "Then you must have a cure."

At that, Melor finally turned. His face was unreadable, but something flickered behind his pale eyes.

Before she could continue, he spoke the name she hadn't yet said aloud.

"Willow… How is he?"

Charlotte swallowed hard, her throat tight. She could not bring herself to soften her tone, even as the pain clawed at her.

"He is one of the suffering." Her voice was sharper than she intended. "I need the cure, Melor. Or else, he'll—"

She stopped herself. She couldn't say it.

Melor's face darkened, the brief glimpse of worry in his features vanishing behind something heavier.

"Charlotte…" His voice was low, hesitant.

She straightened, hands curling into fists. "You have the knowledge of all medicine in this kingdom. You can—"

"I do not have the cure."

The words struck like ice.

Charlotte's breath hitched. She turned from the bookshelves, facing him fully. "What do you mean you don't have it?"

His silence was her answer.

And then, it hit her.

The shadow. The one that whispered to her.

Had it been lying? Had it sent her here on purpose? Was she being pulled away from her siblings, leaving them vulnerable to something far worse?

Panic surged through her, raw and burning. "No—if you don't have the cure, then I've been tricked!"

She spun toward the door, but Melor spoke again, stopping her in a trance.

His voice was calm, steady. "The shadow did not lie to you."

Charlotte's breath came in shallow gasps. "Then what?"

Melor turned to his table, gathering small bottles into a ragged leather satchel. His next words made her blood run cold.

"I will make the cure. But you, Charlotte, must bring me what I need to do it."

She swallowed hard. "I don't understand."

Melor slung the bag over his shoulder, turning to face her fully.

"This isn't just a plague, Charly." His voice was grave.

"The first prophecy has begun."