"When blood is mixed with golden earth, a beast shall fall and peace be birthed. Half past noon, no more no less, four kits bring forth a life distressed. As skyes grow dark and stars align, a man lay wounded upon thy bed, aching his head for willow fine."

- Prophecy 3008

The day that marked the beginning of the end was just like any other. The sun rose atop the trees, birds sang their melodies, no dark omens loomed, nor was there any reason to suspect something was amiss within their world.

It was an idylic day, and the streets of Lyria bustled with the comings and goings of town life. Vendors called out to passing patrons and advertised their goods whilst children weaved about them in a nonsensical game. The scent of freshly baked bread and blooming wildflowers wafted through the market in a soft breeze.

Beyond the market, Jasmine Cottage sat atop the crest of a sloping cobblestone road tucked between shops and homes that seemed to have been placed without plan or order. Thick plumes of ivy crept up the stone walls and blanketed the thatched roof in lush emerald. There was enough room in front for a small garden that brimmed with fresh herbs, vegetables, and flowers.

Eccentric bobbles hung from the windows by thin bits of twine, and a single rusted iron horseshoe hung above the arched threshold. To a traveler unfamiliar with the town, it would seem that this cottage was just like any other. But any Lyrian knew that this was the home of a witch.

On any other morning, Anathema Device would've been out in the forest gathering ingredients. At the first ray of sunshine that broke the trees, Anathema set off down the narrow forest path with large sheers and a woven basket the size of her torso. But today— despite all that begged to differ— was of a different sort. Today was the day it all began.

Slender fingers grazed the tops of potion bottles as Anathema went over their contents in order. "Celadine, Conynhhaela, Knitbone..." beneath her breath, each was named aloud. She'd spent the morning cataloging and clearing her workspace. The cot in the corner was made with fresh linens and meticulously fluffed pillows. A bowl of fresh water rested beside it, along with rolls of bandages, needle and thread, and milk of the poppy. She only hoped the tiny bed would be large enough for the man soon to lay upon it.

Three sharp taps fell upon her door, pulling her from her reverie. Anathema glanced out the window to the front path. Skies darkened in the distance, but the road was dry as bone from a week of drought. It couldn't be him, could it?

Despite her befuddlement, She grasped the hammered metal doorframe and yanked her door open. Hunched beneath the thatched overhand of her front stoop was a man of no more than forty years, a crumpled hat wrung between calloused hands. One look at his creased face told her this was a visit of dire circumstances.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Her eyes softened from surprise to concern. The man bit his lip anxiously, his eyes flitting between her face and the threshold.

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you, Miss, but I'm told you're a Mage." Anathema pulled the door open a bit more. A warm, balmy wind swept across her skin. The tree leaves showed their underbellies.

"Not a Mage, just a witch." She smiled to show she meant no harm by the distinction and gestured for him to continue.

The man wrung his hat tighter. "It's my wife. She's with child and has almost come to term, but the baby—" he shook his head, "she's in such pain that she can't get out of bed. The midwife said it's to be expected, but I can't bear to see her this way. Is there a spell- or potion- something you can do to help?"

Anathema glanced over his shoulder at the sundial nestled into her front garden for the thousandth time that morning. If she was quick, she could help the man and send him on his way well before they arrived.

Pushing her round spectacles up her nose with one finger, Anathema gave a curt nod. His shoulders dropped as his tense muscles eased. With a gentle wave, she beckoned him into her home.

Upon first inspection, Anathema's living quarters were entirely discombobulated. It looked as if a storm had blown through only her cottage, leaving the village untouched. Herbs hung in dried bunches from the eaves, and the witch wove about without a second glance. Every surface, save for a massive butcher block table in the center of the room, was covered with baskets and bottles that looked to be in various stages of assembly. The man eyed a pile of purple mushrooms that couldn't possibly be edible with apprehension. Anathema ignored his gawking.

"When is she due?" Her arm stretched above her head as she plucked a deep blue bottle from a high shelf, nearly knocking a heavy tome atop her head in the process. But with a flick of her fingers, the tome righted itself with nothing but a puff of dust displaced.

"Two weeks," Anathema twirled to pluck a few sprigs of sage from a bunch and gave a low thoughtful hum.

"I suspect it will be closer to one." The man's eyes widened to the size of saucers. His mouth opened and closed as he fumbled for words.

"But the midwife--"

"Is very skilled at delivering children," Anathema smiled in amusement. "Predicting their birth, however, is much more suited to the talents of a witch." Her finger dipped into an open jar of purplish seeds. The man opened his mouth to protest but was too engrossed in her work to form a coherent thought.

He'd heard from the other villagers of her proficiency in the art of spell-casting and potion-making. Many marriages were saved by a well-crafted fertility drought or aphrodisiac. There were other practitioners of the mystical arts, but none as revered and talented as Anathema Device.

Yet, despite her skills, there was a distinct separation between her and the powers of a Mage. As far as anyone knew-- which admittedly wasn't much-- She had never served for any Kingdom, never pursued higher knowledge of any kind, and certainly wasn't as flawlessly beautiful as those who underwent enchantments. Anathema was simply a witch. At least, that's what she declared herself to be.

The Device Family had lived in Jasmine Cottage for generations, and her grandmother was even Mage to the king of Lyria. But with a lack of information willingly given by the witch herself, there was plenty of room for wild speculation.

The rumors spanned from unlikely to preposterous. They liked to say that Anathema had trained within the walls of the Aretuza. That she'd killed her mentor and fled persecution. That she had the gift of sight. That she knew everything about everyone, including how they would inevitably perish. But no one knew what was truth and what was myth.

Stone scraped as Anathema set to work grinding ingredients. All the while, her eyes jumped from the man to the open window behind him. She had a perfect view of the dirt road packed with hoofprints and carriage wheels. On the horizon, darkness gathered. Anathema's fingers swirled above a collection of empty bottles until she plucked one from the table with a light clink of glass. The man watched as she poured her concoction inside and placed the stopper in the bottle. She held it out to him.

"Give her a spoonful morning and night in a tea. She should be back to normal in a few days." His entire body seemed to slacken with relief as his hand grasped the tincture. Then his eyes widened, and his free hand reached into his coin purse. Anathema placed a hand on his arm.

"Only pay me what you can afford. You have a family to care for." The man peered into the pouch and hesitated. He dropped three coppers into her palm.

"Thank you." He bowed low in thanks, his nose nearly kissing the floor. At the distant rumbling of thunder that shook the cottage, Emeralda's heart quickened. To her dismay, she had to practically shoo him out the door, trying her best to stay gracious when he insisted on thanking her profusely with grand bows and handshakes. When she finally waved him off down the path, she could see the wall of rain inching down the road towards her.

A flash of blinding light and an ear-splitting boom commenced the torrential rain. Droplets pummeled the roof of her cottage. Anathema stood in the doorway beneath the rusted horseshoe. Gnawing on her lip, she squinted through the storm and down the road as far as her eyes could see.

A dull roar surrounded her, softening the sharp edges of the natural world. The scent of wet earth and fresh herbs wafted on the wind. Any other day, Anathema would've found it calming to the nerves, but all she could do was worry. Mist kissed her face and settled upon dark lashes like the first spring dew on meadow grass.

Her heart leaped in her chest when she saw it. The faint dark mass made its way towards her through the storm. It could've been mistaken for a beast with its massive lumpy appearance and six too many legs. But Anathema knew precisely what was heading towards her. Without hesitation, she threw up the hood of her cloak, pushed up her spectacles, and threw herself into the monsoon.

Boots slapped across the muddy path, drenching the skirts of her dress with dark water. Four young children stumbled towards her, each one gripping at the soaking wet lump of a man.

The rainwater flowed around them and down the hill like the path of a forest stream, babbling as it went. There would surely be flooding in the village. When the children spotted her sprinting down the path, their faces flushed with relief. Two of them dropped the man's arm like a sack of potatoes, and his head fell with a smack into the mud. Silver-white hair dripped like a soaked rag, and as Anathema reached them, her eyes caught the pink tinge of the rainwater around his body.

"Come, quickly. Get him inside." Anathema's commands were hastily obeyed by the children, probably more for their own sake than the injured man they carried. She knelt in the mud, paying no mind to the icy water that soaked through her dress and slung the man's arm across her shoulders. Two of the children, a girl and a boy, took his other side.

With a grunt of exertion, they stood, only to lurch to the side once the man's bulk shifted to weigh upon Anathema entirely. His head sunk to rest upon her shoulder, his hair a mop across his face. Barely managing to right herself with the children's help, Anathema began the trek back. The two boys sprinted ahead, and when Anathema reached the door with the man limp at her side, it was already wide open.

"Help me get him to the cot." She instructed, nodding towards the prepared bed in the corner. One of the boys had the foresight to move a kitchen chair out of their path before a collision occurred. Within a few moments, Anathema and the children lowered the injured man on the cot with as much ceremony as they could muster in their state.

With a cursory glance at the man, muddied, bloody, and in full armor, Anathema grimaced. He stank of soured milk and rotting flesh, and just having him in her cottage brought his stench to every crevice of the home.

"We found 'im by Berrybuck Lake," The girl, Lillie, explained through desperate pants for air. The boy who'd helped carry the man flopped down in a spare chair, his energy entirely spent. Anathema set to work untying the man's boots with the utmost efficiency. When she finished, shesent one of the boys to place them outside to be rinsed off by the rain.

"Yeah," A dark-haired boy with striking blue eyes and a pointed nose piped up. This was the baker's boy, always running about the market and forsaking his duties. His gaze fixed on the man's face, and the long bloody gash that trained from his brow to the tip of his ear. "We heard a shout and some screeching, so we went see."

Anathema listened intently and discarded her soaked cloak before the blazing fireplace. Everything she and the man wore would need to be scrubbed until her knuckles bled. She pitied the children who would return to their mothers with clothes soiled and soaked to the bone. They'd likely received a switch for their misbehavior.

"He was already out cold when we got there. Covered in monster guts and shit." Anathema breathed through her mouth, and undid the buckles and ties that secured his armor. Blood was already leaking onto the sheets, and likely beneath layers of soiled clothes and armor was a nasty wound.

"I grabbed his sword." The oldest boy, a redhead with freckles splattered across his face, held up a black leather sheath, nearly falling over with the weight of it.

"I need you to tell me exactly what the creature he killed looked like." Anathema pressed, trying to regain their attention.

"I doubt I'll be able to forget even if I wanted to," Lillie groaned. "There wasn't much left of it but chunks of flesh and bone."

"It wreaked like a pile of rotting meat and shit!" The redhead declared with a mock gag.

"Oh!" The smallest, Nicolaj, reached into his sachel, and rifled around. "I found this in his hand." He held out a clear bottle filled with a deep wine-colored oil. Anathema took it without pretense and popped the cork. She sniffed, swirling it around to emit its odor.

"Blowball," she whispered, eyes shutting as she deduced the ingredients, "and Dog Tallow. Hand me the sword." Her hand shot out expectantly, and the eldest scurried forward, struggling beneath the weight of such a weapon. Ignoring the thick dark blood coating the metal, Anathema unsheathed the blade.

Chunks of flesh still clung to the sharp edge, and as she ran a finger along the smooth side, she took care not to swipe across any. With the pads of her fingers stained red, Anathema rubbed them together, feeling very carefully for the consistency of the substance.

"His blade was coated with Necrophage oil." She announced, and the children took a step forward with an overwhelming curiosity.

"What does that mean?" Livia leaned forward as if to sniff it herself.

"It means, you are extremely fortunate that you arrived after he'd already slain the monster." Anathema replaced the bulky sword in its sheath and leaned over the silver-haired man with an assessing gaze. "Devourers are a nasty bunch, and if it managed to take down a Witcher, I suspect it was a powerful one. Likely responsible for the disappearances of late."

"A Witcher?" All four children stilled, their eyes bulging out of their sockets. The blood had drained from their faces, leaving them looking like sickly water spirits.

"Yes," Anathema didn't bother to soften her words for them, too busy removing the Witcher's chest piece. It fell to the floor with a clang, and her fingers reached for the shirt beneath, torn and soaked scarlet. The Devourer had taken a chunk out of his side and left behind a meaty jagged lump that oozed with blood and yellow secretions.

"You're telling me we carried a Witcher for miles?" The baker's boy gawked, and the redhead nearly hurled beside him at the sight of the Witcher's wound.

"Yes, and if it weren't for you, he'd likely not have survived his wounds." Anathema didn't tear her gaze from him despite the immediate storm of chatter that commenced behind her.

"Wait till we tell the others! They won't believe it!"

Anathema's fingers splayed across the horrific wound on the Witcher's stomach. Beneath her breath, she uttered an incantation, relishing in the warmth that rushed through her veins as chaos released.

"What did you just do?" Nikolaj asked, and it was then that she noticed the children peeking over her shoulder.

"I slowed the bleeding." She turned to face them with a solemn expression. "It should keep him from dying of blood loss while I administer proper treatment."

"Can you teach me how to do that? I want to be a witch, too." Lillie declared, leaning forward on the balls of her feet with such hope that Anathema loathed to deny her. But as a rumble of thunder cracked overhead, she frowned.

"You should be getting home. The storm will have a lull soon. Your parents will be sick with worry."

"But we want to help," Nikolaj whined, and the others nodded in unison.

"Yeah, why can't we help?" Four sets of puppy eyes fixated on the witch. Anathema couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled out of her.

"You will only hinder the process." The children deflated. But before they could mount another argument, she began to speak. "You did a good thing, bringing him to me. I'll give you each a sweet for your journey home." Grins spread across their faces, but Anathema held up a hand. "But you mustn't tell your parents I gave them to you. They already despise my influence."

"We promise!" They each nodded frantically and hurried after her as she pulled a jar of multi-colored candies from the shelf. The children treated them like gold. Most could never afford it. If they could, they likely only had them on special occasions. Despite their protests, Anathema succeeded in sending them out the door and waved as they hurried out into the rain.

"Be safe!" Once the children had passed the hump of the hill and disappeared, Anathema shut her cottage door and turned back to the Witcher. "It's just you and me now, Geralt of Rivia."

NOTE
Ok so the aesthetic of this book has me so pumped to write it omg. I've had this in my drafts for soooooo long and even put it in my plot shop but I kept coming back to it because it's just so lovely. What are your predictions? I have so much foreshadowing and mystery in this chapter I can't handle it!