She felt as if the space around her was warping and slowly closed her eyes. The feeling that crept over her wouldn't disappear just because she closed her eyes.
It was at the beginning of winter when an epidemic spread throughout the continent. In a flash, the epidemic spread to the Castina Empire, a nation referred to as the country of prosperity, without exception. Many people would refer to this period as the 'Dark Winter' for many years to come.
Many people collapsed and suffered, and in a world covered in darkness, in a noble house of Castina Empire, the symptoms of the illness also appeared in the eldest daughter of Devill. Shock ran through the house...
"We can't afford to lose the daughter who we raised with care to be the future empress here," the head of the family said.
It wasn't like there wasn't a treatment for the epidemic, but no matter how abundant their assets were or what doctor they obtained through connections, or what state-of-the-art knowledge and medicine they had, the child did not recover. The doctor quietly muttered, "She isn't just afflicted with the epidemic. Her mana seems to be running wild within her body."
Apparently, it is a rare condition among the children of noble families. The servants looked gloomy; the lady of the house shed tears...the eldest son, the heir, was by her side.
"That's enough. Stop crying."
"You...even though your daughter is suffering," the lady of the house argued with her husband, "You don't feel anything, do you!?"
The man only frowned upon hearing that. He had married her for political reasons and never felt anything close to love towards her...this feeling, of course, extended to the children she bore him as well. He thought his wife understood that.
The child currently suffering was born out of obligation...to be more accurate, out of the woman's stubborness. She probably wanted to have another son to strengthen her position as the lady of the house, but now... The doctors told them that if her fever doesn't go down, then they should prepare for the worst.
Mana Running wild can be life-threatening, but there is currently no cure for it. Even if they start their research now, the number of people it affects is so small that there is no profit to be made out of it. The child fell sick almost three days ago, and she probably reached her limits as well.
This one is no good, the head of Devilla thought calmly as if nothing about this concerned him. That's because he has a child with another woman, a daughter who he thinks is much cuter than the one his wife bore. I should bring them home soon.
As the man made preparations for the future, a scream came from his daughter's room. He asked a servant what happened but got nowhere. He just kept saying, "My lady, my lady..." over and over.
What on earth could have happened? If the child was dead, then the servant would have said so...they were prepared for at least that much. When the man looked inside the room, he saw the child sitting on the bed, but...is she really my daughter?
Her hair, which had been wheat brown, had turned dark, almost black, and her eyes, which had been light brown, sparkled like gems, making it impossible for him to think that the child in front of him is even human.
As he stood there, speechless, his wife asked in a trembling voice, "Who...where is my daughter!?"
Amidst the hustle and bustle around him, the Lord made a decision.
"Send this to the frontier!"
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A dragon had appeared in the Worgan Mountains, within the lands of Count Kerbeck. The news swept through villages and cities alike before nightfall, and by dawn, fear had taken root across the entire Castina Empire.
To the people of these lands, dragons meant ruin. They descended from the clouds to burn fields, slaughter livestock, and turn proud towns into nothing but soot and silence. But this one was no ordinary beast. The messengers said its scales were black as the void—black, the color that legends whispered of in terror.
Isabelle Norton listened to the rumors from the window of her father's study, her reflection pale against the storm-gray glass. A black dragon. Her tutors had spoken of them in hushed tones: creatures whose fire could melt even enchanted steel, whose breath turned stone to ash. Once, entire kingdoms had vanished beneath those flames.
"Lady Isabelle," said Agatha, her maid, her voice trembling as she curtsied. "This mansion is no longer safe. We must flee to the countess's family estate."
Isabelle turned, her silken gown rustling faintly. "No," she said, the single word cutting through the room like steel. "If Father stands on the battlefield, I cannot abandon his people to burn."
She was fifteen—barely more than a girl—but there was pride in the set of her jaw, the kind that came from generations of House Kerbeck's blood. The eastern frontier had always suffered the dragons' wrath, and her ancestors had faced them time and again. Their history was carved into charred stone and rebuilt villages. She had seen the scars herself—fields scorched to glass, children clutching what little remained.
Agatha's lips trembled. "My lady…"
"Thank you," Isabelle said softly. "For everything. But I'll remain here. This house stands because our family stands."
Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the hills, dull and distant. Isabelle thought of the knights her father commanded—of banners flapping against the storm, of the smell of smoke carried by the wind. She could almost hear the clash of steel if she listened hard enough.
Then, the door burst open.
"Lady Isabelle! Aggie!"
Agatha's younger brother, Alan, stumbled in, breathless and flushed. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes wide with the wild light of rumor.
"What is it?" Isabelle asked, already bracing herself.
"The dragon—!" Alan gasped. "A mage from the capital… she's slain it! The black dragon is dead!"
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. The ticking of the clock filled the silence like a drumbeat.
Isabelle blinked, unable to process the words. "What did you say?"
"They say the Silent Witch did it!" Alan blurted, his excitement tumbling over itself. "She went into the Worgan Mountains alone and—"
"Alan." Agatha's tone was sharp, though her hands shook. "Do not spread such nonsense. No one can defeat a black dragon alone."
"But it's true! Everyone's saying it—the knights didn't even reach the mountain before it was over. There wasn't a single casualty!"
Isabelle stared at him. A single mage defeating a black dragon—without an army, without even the Dragon Knights? It was absurd. And yet, something in the boy's trembling voice rang with conviction.
Could it be?
Her father's forces had not been annihilated. Her people—her people—were alive. A rush of relief broke through her disbelief, sudden and overwhelming. She pressed a hand to her lips as tears stung her eyes.
"Zero dead…" she whispered. "Not one…"
Agatha exhaled shakily, crossing herself. "A miracle."
Outside, thunder cracked again. But this time, Isabelle thought she heard a different sound layered beneath it—high, shrill cries that did not belong to the storm.
Agatha went still. "My lady… listen."
The three of them turned toward the window. Over the gray horizon, specks of black moved against the clouds, growing larger by the second. At first, Isabelle thought they were crows. But then the light shifted, and she saw wings. Long, leathery, beating in unison.
Her breath caught. "They're not birds," she murmured. "They're ptero-dragons."
The first screech tore through the clouds like metal splitting apart.
Dozens of dark shapes swirled above the manor, wings slicing the air with brutal force. The wind that followed rattled the shutters and sent loose papers flying across the room. Isabelle ran to the balcony, ignoring Agatha's frantic calls.
When she threw open the doors, the storm hit her full in the face—wet, cold, and reeking of sulfur. The sky writhed with movement.
"Sweet Saints…" Agatha breathed behind her.
The creatures were ptero-dragons—she could see that now. Lean, fanged beasts with scales like blackened bronze and wings that beat with the sound of thunderclaps. They weren't supposed to flock in such numbers. Twenty, at least. Maybe more.
"They've come for revenge," Isabelle whispered, gripping the railing until her knuckles turned white. The black dragon's death had shattered their order. Now the lesser kin raged without restraint.
A violent gust nearly threw her off her feet. One of the dragons swooped low, its eyes flashing with cold, animal fury. Isabelle ducked, shielding her face as gravel and leaves whirled around her.
"Please, my lady, come inside!" Agatha pulled at her sleeve, desperate.
And then—
The world changed.
A soft, shimmering sound rippled through the air, so gentle it barely rose above the storm. The wind stilled. Clouds parted.
High above the burning horizon, a gate of light bloomed open. Not like fire, not like lightning—something purer, unearthly. Rings of runes revolved around it, slow and deliberate, each glowing brighter than the last.
From within that gate, a current of wind poured forth, scattering white dust that gleamed like stars.
Agatha gasped. "By the Heavens… what is that?"
"The Spirit King," Isabelle murmured, awestruck. She had read of such things in her father's tomes—of the King of Wind Spirits, Sheffield, the Shining White Wind, whose sigh could pierce mountains. But those were legends. Not something human hands could summon.
The wind began to sing.
It coiled itself into spears—long, radiant, precise—and fell upon the horde. Each spear struck true, burying itself between the eyes of a ptero-dragon. No shrieks followed. No blood fell. The beasts simply froze mid-flight and drifted downward, wrapped in shimmering air, as if even their deaths had been lulled to sleep.
Isabelle could only stare.
The spears faded. The gate closed. Silence reclaimed the world.
And through that silence, across the courtyard strewn with faintly glowing dragon corpses, stood alone figure. Small. Cloaked. Her robe caught the dying light, gold thread glinting with every subtle movement. A staff taller than she was rested in her hand, its crystal still faintly humming with the memory of that impossible magic.
At her feet padded a black cat, its tail curling lazily around her boots.
Isabelle pressed a hand to her chest, her pulse hammering. The girl was so small, she could have been her age—or younger. Yet the air itself bowed around her.
"The Silent Witch," Isabelle breathed.
Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried into the stillness like a prayer. What she had seen was not destruction, not the chaotic blaze of magecraft she'd been taught. It was art—terrible, beautiful, and precise.
Far beyond the manor walls, on a hill overlooking the valley, a man watched the last traces of light fade from the gate. His cloak snapped in the wind, blue eyes gleaming beneath its hood.
When the final spark died, he exhaled softly, almost reverently.
"So that's her…" he murmured. "The one they call the Silent Witch." A faint smile touched his lips. "I've finally found something worth chasing."
For a long moment, no one moved. Only the soft hiss of settling ash and the slow rustle of wind through broken trees filled the air. The world felt hollowed out, as though the storm had stolen its own sound.
Isabelle gripped the balcony rail, hardly daring to breathe. The woman below — no, the girl — stood amidst the fallen dragons like a phantom conjured from another age. Her cloak rippled once in the dying wind. The black cat brushed against her boots, then sat, tail flicking in lazy approval.
Agatha was the first to find her voice. "It's over," she whispered. "Saints preserve us, it's truly over."
But Isabelle couldn't answer. Something in her chest ached — awe, relief, and a strange, inexplicable pull she didn't understand. She stepped back from the railing, then forward again, torn between retreat and the need to see.
The figure below raised her head.
Even from that distance, Isabelle felt the weight of her gaze. It wasn't proud or severe, but anciently calm — the look of someone who had long since stopped fearing the things that terrified others. Without thinking, Isabelle called out, her voice catching on the wind.
"Wait—!"
The witch's hood turned slightly toward the sound.
For an instant, Isabelle thought she had imagined it. Then, the air stirred again — a small, playful gust that lifted her hair and brushed her cheek, carrying a faint scent of wild mint and ozone.
A message. A greeting. Or perhaps a warning.
The girl below raised her staff. Runes flared briefly at its tip, forming a circle of pale light beneath her feet. The cat leapt into the glow, tail swishing like a ribbon of ink. And then they were gone. The circle collapsed soundlessly, leaving only a faint shimmer where she had stood. The wind died. The silence returned — complete, absolute.
Isabelle remained frozen, her heart thundering in her ears. "She vanished…" she murmured, almost reverently.
Agatha moved to her side, shaking. "My lady, please. You must come inside. You're trembling."
"I'm fine." Isabelle's eyes stayed on the courtyard, on the glittering dust that still floated above the slain beasts. "That magic… it wasn't like anything I've ever read. It was beautiful."
Her voice was barely audible, yet filled with something fierce — the spark of recognition, of yearning. Below, the servants began to emerge from hiding, their cries of disbelief turning to cheers. But Isabelle hardly heard them. Somewhere deep within, a quiet certainty was forming:
The Silent Witch would not remain a myth. Their paths would cross again. And when they did, Isabelle would be ready.