Belica was young then, or as young as a witch of her lineage could be. She hadn't yet learned the art of the perfect sneer or the defensive shield of sarcasm. She was a creature of the earth, her hair tangled with briars and her fingers perpetually stained purple from the crushed berries she used for her tinctures. She moved through the forest like a shadow, seeking the rare Aether-bloom that only opened during the lunar eclipse.
She had heard the sound first. It wasn't a roar, but a low, wet rasping, the sound of a lung struggling to pull air through a throat clogged with fluid. It was a sound of absolute, agonizing defeat.
Curiosity had always been Belica's greatest vice. She followed the trail of broken ferns and dark, heavy spatters on the leaves until she reached a clearing near the Blackwater Stream.
There, tangled in the roots of an ancient oak, lay the monster.
