Son of witches

The pine trees trembled beneath a breeze that carried smoke and silence. Somewhere in the north end of the forest, he sat alone—scratching at the thick beard he'd grown to adore.

Each strand a reminder of the lies he'd lived. The illusion creation had served him well.

The boyish face he'd worn for months—blond hair, bright skin, soft-spoken charm—had been just another tool. But now?

Now, the wolf would shed his skin.

Garrick let the last flickers of the illusion fade, his real features settling into place: graying hair, a face chiseled by years of hate, and eyes that gleamed with the fire of vengeance.

He flexed his fingers. The craving to spill blood itched under his skin.

He muttered under his breath, voice gravel and rage. "For the family you took away from me . For the shame you painted on my name. I'll return the favor, Witch Queen,Zayne!"

Just as he rose, boots silent against the forest floor, three witches emerged from the thicket, whispering among themselves. They hadn't seen him yet.

"I say we team up," one whispered, tightening her grip on a damage potion. "We'll take out the others first—then we settle it between us."

"Deal," said the second. "But if we spot Lunara or Menma, we back off and regroup."

The third nodded, but her eyes froze mid-glance. She had seen him.