They said no man entered the forest past midnight and returned unchanged.
Ronan did it anyway.
The air thickened as he stepped into the glade where the moonlight danced unnaturally—too silver, too alive. She was already there, barefoot on the moss, fireflies circling her like jeweled guardians.
The Witch of Velwyn.
“I should curse you for trespassing,” she said, voice low as velvet and twice as soft. “But you’re not here by accident, are you?”
Ronan didn’t answer with words. His eyes held hers, then dropped to her parted lips, the rise and fall of her breath. He felt the pull—not just of her magic, but of something deeper, older.
She stepped closer. “Tell me, swordsman—do you believe in enchantment?”
“I’m starting to,” he murmured.
When she kissed him, the glade pulsed with magic. Heat rippled through the air as vines coiled gently around his wrists—not binding, just claiming. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her lips trailing heat across his jaw. Every sensation was magnified, every whisper a spell.
Time melted. Night folded in on itself.
And when the stars faded, when dawn bled through the leaves, Ronan knew the stories were true.
No man left the witch’s arms unchanged.