Chapter 1: The Stillborn

“This world is rotten. Abandon hope, everyone who sets foot on this earth, a world that smells of shit and fresh carrion.”

Brazilian Empire — 1648 — Unknown Village

In a forgotten corner of an old village, tucked near a dark, ancient forest where the sun had long given up, there was a rundown shack. The trees around it reached their gnarled branches toward the sky like twisted limbs. The shack was falling apart, its wooden beams sagging from years of neglect. The wind howled through cracks in the walls, carrying the stench of rot and death.

Inside, a gut-wrenching sound shattered the silence—a deep, pained groan, followed by the sharp cry of a newborn. The baby had just been born into a world already rotting around it.

On a bed of blood-soaked straw, a young mother trembled. Her weak, filthy hands clawed at the hard dirt beneath her, as if trying to cling to life. Her eyes, once bright, were now dull with pain, staring at the crooked ceiling. Her breaths were short, each one like a desperate prayer.

“Please… Jesus… don’t let me die… not before I give this child to the world… take care of him…”

Her voice was barely a whisper, swept away by the icy wind. The darkness in the room seemed to close in, hungry for her final breath.

The newborn, covered in blood and yellowish goo, cried weakly. Its hair was an odd color, an unnatural purple, plastered to its head in tight curls. Flies buzzed around, drawn to the blood. Its tiny fists flailed in the air, grasping at nothing. The mother tried to reach for it, wanting to hold it one last time, but her body wouldn’t respond. Blood pooled, mixing with the straw and dirt.

With one last shaky breath, she died. The baby’s cries echoed through the shack, unanswered.

Days passed. The air grew thick with the stench of her decaying body. Her skin turned greenish, the flesh swelling as bugs feasted, turning the corpse into a bloated nest of meat and bone. Somehow, the baby survived, though its cries grew fainter until they stopped completely.

On the third day, a thick fog rolled over the village, cloaking everything in a shadowy veil. A crow, black as night, landed on the broken windowsill. Its red eyes scanned the scene before it hopped inside. The baby whimpered, too weak to cry.

The crow was quick—its sharp beak pierced the baby’s left eye, plucking it out. The child let out a short, broken scream before falling silent again. Blood ran down its face, mixing with the purple hair. The crow swallowed the eye greedily and went for another peck—but a noise outside startled it. With a hoarse caw, it flew off, leaving the child bleeding alone.

But someone had heard the cry.

The shack’s door creaked open. A woman stepped in. Tall and graceful, she wore a tattered purple dress that dragged on the floor. Her hair was bone-white, cascading to her waist like moonlight. A wide, pointed hat hid most of her face, but what showed was beautiful—sharp, delicate features with a quiet sadness.

“Well, well…” Her voice was soft, almost playful. “What a curious gift the Old Gods left for me.”

She knelt beside the baby, her black-gloved hands hovering over its wounded face. It whimpered at her touch. She pressed a hand to its tiny chest and whispered strange words. The pain seemed to ease, and the baby’s body relaxed, though its one remaining eye stared blankly.

“You’ve already met pain, little one,” she murmured, her voice sweet but cold. “A good start. Pain’s gonna be your best friend in this world.”

She wrapped the baby in a lavender-scented blanket and lifted it gently. She glanced at the mother’s rotting body and gave a small smile, like she saw beauty in the horror.

“Go ahead and cry,” she whispered to the baby. “I’m the one taking care of you now.”

With the child in her arms, she stepped back into the forest. The trees loomed overhead, their twisted branches like claws. The air smelled of wet earth and a faint sweetness beneath the rot.

As she walked deeper into the woods, she spoke softly to the baby.

“Don’t be scared of the dark, little one. I’ll teach you to walk in it. You’ll be my ward—my disciple. Shaped by this cruel world.”

They reached a clearing where moonlight cut through the trees. Fireflies (or something like them) flickered in the air, pulsing like a heartbeat. The woman paused, looking at the child. Its single eye caught the light, still holding a spark of life.

She carried him to a hut hidden among the trees, its walls woven from vines and wood. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of herbs, lavender, yarrow, potions and—something that clung to the back of the throat.

She laid the baby on a soft velvet-covered couch. From a bubbling cauldron, she poured a steaming drink into a cracked mug.

“Drink,” she ordered, bringing the mug to the baby’s lips. Her eyes gleamed—kind but dangerous. “This’ll warm you up. Keep death’s chill away.”

Too weak to resist, the baby drank the bitter liquid. Its eyelids grew heavy, and the world spun around it. Shadows danced, shifting shapes.

“Sleep now,” the witch whispered. “When you wake, you’ll be reborn—made new by my will.”

The Witch’s Lair

The hut’s roof sagged under layers of moss and leaves. Inside, the air was heavy with a variety of things hanging or scattered on shelves. Beneath it all, there was always a faint whiff of lavender, steady and constant. The floor was packed dirt in some spots, smoothed by years of the witch’s footsteps. In others, warped wooden boards creaked underfoot.

The witch carried the boy in her arms, her steps silent despite her high black boots. Her tattered purple dress clung to her lean but pretty built frame, the hem stained with mud from countless forest treks.

She laid him on a bed of petrified wood, its surface worn smooth from years of use. The boy, still caked in birth blood and goo, shivered when she set him down. His one good eye—yellow and bright—darted around, confused and scared. The other socket, where the crow had struck, was raw, throbbing like a second heart.

She worked slowly, her movements precise. She grabbed a cloth from a shelf lined with jars of dried plants and strange, glistening things. She soaked the cloth in warm wine mixed with crushed poppy. The sharp smell filled the air, and the boy flinched as she pressed the cloth to his wound, letting out a weak whimper. But she held his head steady with her long, soft, black-gloved hands—hands that had known poison and roots for years. She hummed a low, eerie tune as she cleaned, soothing the boy. Then, with a needle, she stitched the eyelid shut. When she was done, the scar curved like a pale moon against his skin—a mark of pain, but also raw survival.

She bandaged his head with a strip of white cloth soaked in a paste of lavender and green herbs, tying it tight like a crown.

“Best keep it closed,” she murmured, as if talking to the wound.

The boy’s first months hung by a thread between life and death. He barely cried—as if the pain of birth and the crow’s attack had already taught him screaming was pointless. His little body seemed to accept the pain, his whimpers fading into silence. But now, cradled in the witch’s arms, he stayed quiet, watching her with his yellow eye.

She never gave him a name. Names, she believed, were chains that bound a soul to the world, and she feared what might come looking if he was too tied down. Instead, she called him mine, with a fierce protectiveness—and maybe a touch of obsession.

When she fed him, offering her breast with a tenderness that didn’t match her sharp face, she stroked his cheek, her fingers tracing his skin like she was memorizing every detail. His hunger was fierce, but her milk was enough.

Baths were a ritual of their own. She washed him in a shallow basin carved from an ancient tree trunk, filled with cold river water mixed with tea leaves. She scrubbed until his skin glowed pale. He never knew the warmth of a fire; the witch kept no hearth. The only warmth he felt was her body when she held him close, her gaze heavy, like she could see his future in every twitch of his limbs.

The witch’s lair was alive with quiet, lurking things. Spiders wove delicate webs in the corners, their threads glinting with dew. Jars lined the walls, filled with roots, dried flowers, and animal organs floating in murky liquids. A cauldron simmered in the corner, its steam carrying a sweet-and-sour scent. The “windows” were just holes in the walls, draped with vines that let in the forest’s sounds—a distant wolf’s howl, the rustle of leaves, and the uncanny whistle of something not of this world.

When the boy learned to walk, his bare feet already knew every dip and rise of the floor. He stumbled at first but soon moved lightly, dodging roots and creaky boards. By two, he spoke in broken phrases: “mother”, “hungry”, “hurts”. The witch taught him more, her voice slow and careful: “bed”, “kiss”, “grief”. He repeated them like spells, clumsy but eager, as if each word unlocked another piece of the world.

By three, he was silent as a shadow, running and exploring, curious yet cautious, his yellow eye glowing in the dark like a dying ember. The bandage over his stitched socket was part of him now, changed every full moon with fresh herb-soaked strips.

His days followed the witch’s rhythm. Mornings were for gathering herbs, her basket filling with roots and mushrooms while he trailed behind, learning which plants burned and which healed. Afternoons were for chores—sweeping the dirt floor with a twig broom, feeding the spiders in the corners, stirring the cauldron under her watchful eye. At night, she sang to him, her voice weaving tales of faceless gods and forests that swallowed men whole, myths from the many lands she’d wandered.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The forest outside was both home and threat, full of shadows, whispers, and shapes that moved. Sometimes, he saw things in the deep woods—something watching him when he peered out the “window” at night. Big yellow eyes, long thin ears, and a creature twice the size of a man… but crouched low.

The boy grew lean and light, as if the forest had shaped him to slip through its shadows unnoticed. His hair, once a soft purple, darkened to a deep violet—thick and wild like an animal’s pelt, falling unevenly over his face. His single yellow eye blazed in the dim hut, too big for his sharp features, cutting through the gloom like a flame.

Time meant little in that forest, where seasons blurred under the thick canopy. The witch never spoke of years or marked his growth, but he felt it—in his longer limbs, his sharper mind, the growing hunger gnawing at his belly. His voice, once faint and small, grew steadier, though he still spoke softly.

Even as he grew taller, the witch still held him to her chest, nursing him like a newborn. She gripped him tightly, her arms a warm prison, and sometimes he wondered if she needed it more than he did.

“The world wants you dead, my son. My milk keeps the rot away. You must drink… and live.”

By five, he’d learned the chores that sustained their strange life. Every morning, he swept the dirt floor with a twig broom, though the dust always returned as fast as it was cleared. He gutted fish with a small knife, silver scales sticking to his fingers. He peeled tree bark, learning the roughness of oak and the slippery softness of willow.

The witch taught him with slow patience, her voice soft but firm. She moved through the hut like a living shadow, her tattered purple dress dragging on the floor, her white hair glowing in the faint light of fireflies. Her hands guided his as she showed him how to grind herbs in a mortar.

“This is comfrey,” she’d say, holding up a jagged leaf. “Fixes bones, speeds healing.”

Or, handing him a knobby root: “Burdock. Good for fever. But you gotta boil it with orange leaves, or it won’t work right.”

Outside, the forest felt alive—heavy with the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves. Roots and thorns snagged at his bare feet as he walked. Over time, he learned to move carefully, listening for the snap of a twig or the low growl of some forest beast.

The witch took him to gather, pointing out glowing mushrooms in the shade or berries that burned the tongue. He followed, clutching her dress, his small hands stained with dirt, learning the forest’s secrets step by step.

But the boy didn’t always listen.

By six, he started lingering outside, shirking his chores. He chased fireflies in the forest clearing, their lights flickering like tiny stars, trying to catch them. He climbed low branches, scraping his hands on rough bark. He sat by the swamp’s edge for hours, watching the water ripple with fish below. When the witch called him back, her voice sharp as a blade, he pretended not to hear, kicking the dirt, savoring those brief moments of freedom.

One stormy night, rain lashed the trees, and the wind howled like a wounded animal. The boy sat near the hearth, where a small fire flickered inside a circle of blackened skulls. The air smelled of burnt herbs, and candlelight made the walls glow softly. He watched as the witch knelt on the floor, drawing strange symbols in the soot with a charred bone.

“What’s that one?” he asked, pointing to a spiral with two jagged slashes.

She smiled, her lips stained red from crushed beetles, her teeth too white in the firelight.

“It’s the letter that turns words into blades. It cuts things apart.”

“Cut apart?” he repeated, the word heavy and strange on his tongue.

“Yes, my sweet.” She leaned closer, her ink-stained nails brushing his cheek. “It’s a ritual to break something. Like a word that slices through anything standing against you.”

He frowned. “How does a word cut?”

She laughed, and the sound sent a shiver down his spine.

“Words cut when they carry strong meaning, my love.”

She reached for a stack of books tied with velvet cords, her fingers hovering over an old, cracked leather volume. When he tried to grab it, she pulled it back.

“The Tale of the Jackrabbit,” the cover read.

“Not that one,” she said firmly. “This one.”

She handed him a small black book, its cover rough like tree bark. He scowled.

“I want that one.”

“No, my sweet. Wanting is a fever. Too much, and it burns you up inside. Got it?”

He nodded, but his eye lingered on the leather book.

She kissed his forehead, her lips lingering too long, and pulled him into her lap, her arms wrapping around him like vines.

“My perfect boy,” she murmured. “I love you more than worms love a grave. You’re my spark in this ashen world.”

He stiffened, her affection weighing on him.

“Why do you keep those books if I can’t read them?”

She froze, then let out a cold, surprised laugh.

“Knowledge is a snake pit, my love. Some I keep… in case you ever try to leave me.”

His throat tightened.

“I wouldn’t leave.”

“Oh, my sweet. All sons leave their mothers. But not you.” She opened the black book to a page of ancient, curving letters. “This is the Pattern of the Old Kingdom. Every word we speak comes from it. Learn the alphabet first. It’ll keep you alive if… you ever leave this forest…”

Her voice grew sad.

“Can I read the big ones later?”

Her smile faded.

“No. Those books aren’t for you.”

“But—”

“No.” Her nails pressed into his chin, turning his face toward her. “There are things a child shouldn’t know.”

Then her voice softened.

“One book at a time, my love. I waited six years to show you this. Let’s not rush.”

And so he studied by candlelight, under the hearth’s glow, the witch always nearby—correcting his posture, feeding him soft fruit and warm milk as he read, combing his hair with fingers far too gentle for a woman so obsessed.

In the silence of the night, as the boy slept, the witch leaned over him, her face so close that her warm breath brushed his pale skin. Her gloved fingers traced the contours of his cheek with a delicacy that bordered on fanaticism.

“My treasure... my only one...” he murmured, his eyes shining with a mixture of devotion and hunger. “The world doesn't deserve you, only I can have you”

She took a lock of his violet hair, slowly twirling it between her fingers. For a moment, their lips met, the witch caressing his pale, smooth face as she kissed him.

“You will never leave me.”

She pulled away, but not before pressing another long, wet kiss to his forehead, as if marking her ownership.

The day after the boy's teachings, the boy sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, his eyes shining with a mixture of curiosity and exhaustion. In front of him, the witch held a yellowed piece of parchment covered in angular, curved symbols that seemed to pulse in the dim light.

“This is the Brazilian Imperial Alphabet,” she said, her voice low, almost reverent, as she pointed to a series of sharp lines that resembled blades. “The language of the Old King. Each letter forms a meaning, which together with other letters formed words.”

The boy frowned, his violet hair falling over the headband covering his empty eye socket. He held a charred twig, his small hands stained with ash. On the ground before him, the witch had improvised a wooden board that served as a chalkboard.

“Try it,” she ordered, pointing to the first symbol, a straight line intersected by two diagonal lines, like a broken spear. “This is Ka. The letter of brute force. Draw it.”

He hesitated, the twig trembling in his hand. Carefully, he traced the straight line, but the diagonal strokes came out crooked and clumsy. The witch tilted her head, her white hair falling like a curtain, her breasts more in front of the boy's face than the witch's. Wordlessly, she knelt beside him, gently holding his wrist. Her fingers, cool beneath the black gloves, guided his hand, retracing the symbol with precision.

“Like this, my sweetie...”

The boy swallowed and tried again, alone. The twig scraped against a basin of earth, which would be his makeshift “notebook,” the harsh sound echoing in the silence of the hut. He drew the Ka three times, each attempt a little firmer, until the witch nodded, a faint smile curving her lips.

“Good. Now, next. Zhe.” She pointed to a sinuous symbol, like a coiled snake. “The letter of cunning.”

He traced the Zhe, the twig trembling less this time. The witch watched, her eyes shining with something other than pride. When he finished, she took the parchment and held it close to the candle, letting the light reveal the outlines of the letters.

“You will learn them all, my love. It is necessary to know the language of the empire to understand what is written in the books more accurately.”

The boy looked up, his yellow eye meeting hers. “What if I spell it wrong?”

The witch chuckled softly. “Don't worry.” She leaned in, her lips brushing his, the scent of lavender enveloping him. “We have all the time in the world to learn together...”

By eight, the boy’s curiosity about the world beyond the witch’s forest was a gnawing ache he couldn’t ignore anymore. The dead sun hung frozen in the sky—a gray, lifeless eye casting the world in a sickly twilight. Still, he slipped away from the hut whenever he could, sneaking past the circle of toadstones the witch had placed to ward off the forest’s worst horrors.

Under the twisted branches of ancient trees, he lost himself for hours. With sticks, he drew little scenes in the soft dirt—whole kingdoms in the mud. Sometimes, he built villages from smooth pebbles, lining them up like houses, crowning himself king of moss and beetles crawling through his tiny domain. Other times, he lay on his back, staring at the canopy where leaves glowed an unnatural green in the faint light. He wondered what lay beyond the trees—what strange lands, forgotten cities, what secrets the world hid from him.

The witch watched him with growing unease.

“Don’t wander too far, child. The forest doesn’t take kindly to the curious. It swallows the distracted alive.”

But the boy didn’t listen. His hunger for answers only grew.

One afternoon, venturing deeper than he’d ever dared, he found something awful—a deer, its head completely torn off, lying in a pool of black, clotted blood. The boy froze, staring at the carcass for hours, his stomach churning. The air reeked of rust and spoiled meat. Clouds of flies buzzed, their wings glinting in the dead light.

He didn’t understand death, not really. The witch had never let him see it before. But now it was there, raw and repulsive, and he couldn’t look away. A dead body that didn’t sleep, just was.

Now the boy knew what death was.

That night, he dreamed of the deer. In his dream, its severed head spoke to him, lips moving soundlessly as its glassy eyes stared.

As the years passed, the boy’s questions piled up inside him like stones in his chest.

“Why don’t I have a name?” he asked one night, staring at the witch with his single yellow eye.

She stirred the cauldron, her face blank.

“Names are for things that belong to the world. And you belong to no one but me.”

“Why can’t I go past the trees?”

“Because the world out there is dead. The sun’s gone. There are no gods left, just beliefs… beliefs kings use to control their tamed flocks, filthy rituals passed down through generations of defiling sanctity… this land is dead…”

“What’s wrong with my eye?”

Her fingers twitched.

“Nothing’s wrong with it. It sees more than most. That’s why I had to close the other…”

After that, he stopped asking. But he never stopped wondering.

Weeks earlier, he’d found a hidden clearing—a quiet place where the trees parted and the ground was soft with moss. Usually, he stayed in the forest, where candles and torches kept the darkness at bay. But there, outside the trees, there was only the moon—huge and pale—casting long, unnatural shadows. That day, he stayed too long.

When he finally returned to the hut, the air felt heavier. The witch sat by the hearth, the fire reduced to glowing embers. Her face was blank, her expression hollow. In her lap sat a bowl of soup, long cold, a wrinkled film forming on its surface.

The boy’s throat went dry. He knew he’d crossed a line.

“I brought the mushrooms,” he whispered, holding out the basket.

The witch raised her head slowly. Her eyes were sunken, her lips colorless. When she stood, the room’s shadows seemed to lean toward her, clinging with menacing intent.

“Come here,” was all she said, patting her thigh with a bony hand.

The boy hesitated. He’d never seen her like this—so cold. Something about her made his skin crawl with fear.

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled, stepping back.

Her face twisted. In a flash, she was on him, her fingers digging into his arm like claws. She yanked him forward, pressing his face against her rough robe. The smell of herbs filled his nose.

“You will be hungry,” she hissed, forcing his mouth to her breast. The flesh beneath the fabric was warm, damp. He struggled, but she was too strong.

“You’re mine,” she murmured, her voice trembling with rage. “All sons must obey their mothers.”

For the first time, he understood—she wasn’t just protecting him.

She was possessing him. Her love wasn’t tenderness—it was obsession. A raw, desperate need to control.