Chapter 22: The tournament
The air smelled of pine and burning herbs. Sixteen figures stood at the edge of the dense forest, their breaths fogging in the crisp morning air. The Witch's Festival had begun.
Menma cracked his knuckles, scanning the trees ahead. The terrain looked peaceful, even serene—but he knew better.
Traps lurked everywhere—bear jaws hidden under innocent piles of leaves, tripwires rigged to launch arrows, cleverly disguised nets waiting to snatch the careless.
He'd fallen for most of them as a kid, back when his limbs were too uncoordinated and his ego too big. Not today.
Beside him, Lunara adjusted the straps of her bandolier, each slot filled with potions of various colors—vibrant blues, angry reds, glowing greens. The glass clinked softly as she moved, but her steps remained sure.
"Try not to embarrass yourself," she said, lips tugging into a smirk. Her golden eyes sparkled with challenge.
Menma rolled his eyes and cracked his neck. "Says the one who's about to lose her crown."
A low rumble of anticipation rolled through the crowd of witches behind them, a restless energy vibrating in the air.
Then Annie raised her arm, her silver and white robes fluttering slightly with the breeze. Her voice cut clean through the chatter. "START!"
The witches scattered like startled birds, kicking up leaves and dirt as they vanished into the wild maze.
A scrawny kid—barely fourteen, with tufts of black hair and eyes too wide for someone pretending to be brave—dashed into the underbrush, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.