In her office, Bertha shook her head, pushing aside her wandering thoughts. No—focus, she told herself. She had a duty. The kingdom needed this report. Her superior needed to know about the demonic activity, the potential threats, the monsters.
She dipped her quill in the inkwell, took a deep breath, and began to write:
"Subject: Shadowwood Coven Incident – A Detailed Analysis of Demonic Activity and Potential Threats to the Realm…"
As she wrote, her thoughts kept drifting—to Gordon, to Thomas, to the village and its people. She realized this report wasn't just about facts and figures, about demonic entities and ancient evils. It was a story about people—how extraordinary events had touched and irreversibly changed ordinary lives.
She knew she had to do justice to those stories. To capture the fear, the courage, the loss—and the resilience she had witnessed. It was a daunting task, but she was determined. For the kingdom. For the village. For the memory of Thomas—the peddler who had raised a hero. For the quiet kid who used to help her with the goats.
And then, she decided, she was going to find that ridiculously handsome recruiter and give him a piece of her mind. Right after she finished this report. Which, judging by the growing stack of parchment, was going to take a while. And after she checked on the goats. And maybe made some more cheese.
She was, after all, a goat farmer. And a secret agent. And apparently, a chronicler of the supernatural.
Her life was officially ridiculous.
---
Meanwhile, at Gordon's cottage, a different kind of drama was unfolding.
Still a little shaky from his recent brush with death (and demonic possession, and ancestral power awakening, and—well, it had been a week), Gordon was being subjected to a stern lecture from his mother.
"Goats, Gordon? Goats?" she exclaimed, her voice rising in exasperation. She threw her hands in the air—an expression that said more than words.
"After everything you've been through—after nearly being killed by that hag—you come home with goats?"
Gordon winced, shrinking beneath her disapproving gaze. He knew he was in the doghouse. Or rather—the goat house. He'd returned from the market beaming with pride, leading two particularly fluffy (and particularly smelly) goats. His mother, however, was less than thrilled.
"But Mother," he stammered, "I… I thought… I mean, I used to… and they're good goats! Look how fluffy they are!"
His mother glared at the goats, who were currently munching on a piece of her prized rug.
"Fluffy? Gordon, they're eating my rug! They reek! And you have a new job now—a respectable job! Why on earth do you need goats again?"
Gordon shuffled his feet, suddenly fascinated by the floorboards. He hadn't anticipated this reaction. He'd been so eager for something familiar—something comforting after the chaos of the past few weeks.
"It's… nostalgic," he mumbled, the word sounding weak even to his own ears.
"Nostalgic?" she repeated, incredulous. "You almost died, Gordon! And you're feeling nostalgic for smelly, rug-eating goats?"
He sighed. It was hard to explain. He just… missed them. The quiet rhythm of milking, the gentle bleating, the simplicity. After all the madness—the magic, the near-death experiences—the goats were an anchor. A link to his old life.
And that was definitely the reason. Not because he was obsessed with goats. That would be ridiculous.
"They're good company," he offered, voice barely above a whisper.
His mother threw her hands up again. "Good company? Gordon, you have friends! You have a job! You have… well, you have me! What do you need goats for?"
Gordon had no good answer. He just… wanted them. It was a feeling. A longing for something real. Something that reminded him of who he'd been before he became—whatever he was now. A hero? A vessel for ancestral power?
He didn't know.
But he knew he liked goats.
His mother sighed, the anger bleeding from her voice, replaced by weary resignation. She looked at the goats (now trying to eat her curtains), then at her son's hopeful, sheepish expression.
"Fine," she muttered. "You can keep your goats. But they're not allowed in the house. You're cleaning up after them. And if they eat one more thing, they're going to the butcher."
Gordon beamed. "Thank you, Mother! You won't regret it! They're really good goats!"
She rolled her eyes. She would regret it. She just hoped… not too much.
---
Far away, deep in the shadowed heart of the forest, the hag sat hunched on a fallen log. The ancient trees loomed around her, their gnarled branches like skeletal fingers. The air was thick with damp earth and decay—a fitting aroma for her mood.
She looked… diminished. The raw, untamed power she'd wielded during the battle with the high priestess had faded. Her skin stretched thinner, her milky eyes clouded with simmering rage. She was weak—yes. Humiliated.
She ground her teeth in a dry, rasping sound. A boy had defeated her. A mere stripling with power he barely understood. Not just any human—but him.
She, an ancient being older than the trees. A creature of primal magic. Defeated. Outmaneuvered. Shamed.
She clenched her hands, nails digging into the bark. She could still feel the searing heat of the boy's power, the ancestral fire that had burned away her darkness.
But more than the humiliation, it was the implication that festered.
If a human could defeat her—even aided by ancestral magic—what did that say about her power? Her place in the great balance?
She had been a legend. A creature of nightmare. Now… she felt almost mortal. The thought was terrifying.
Her gaze swept the glade—her sanctuary. She had drawn power from this forest for centuries. She would not allow a boy to strip it from her.
She would have her revenge.
She would reclaim her strength. She would show the humans, the Keepers of the Flame, all who dared to oppose her, that she was not to be trifled with.
Her weakness would not last. The forest would restore her. The ancient magic would return.
And when it did… they would suffer.
---
Back in his home, Markus shivered. Goosebumps prickled his skin from toes to nape. He rubbed his arms, unease washing over him.
His mother, Sarah, noticed immediately. "Markus? You alright? You look pale."
His father, David, lowered his fork. "Son? Are you unwell?"
Markus forced a smile. "No, no—I'm fine. Just a sudden chill, I guess." He tried to sound casual, but the knot in his stomach lingered.
Sarah frowned. "A chill? It's warm in here."
"I know, Mum. It just passed. I'm okay, really."
David studied him a moment longer, then returned to his meal. Markus tried to focus, but the strange sensation stayed with him. He finished his chicken and took a drink of water—
—and nearly dropped the cup.
"Ow! What the—?!" he yelped, clutching his mouth. The water had burned him.
Sarah rushed to his side. "Markus! What happened?"
David inspected the cup. "Did you bite your tongue?"
Markus shook his head, still wincing. "No… the water—it's scalding hot!"
Sarah touched the cup, recoiling instantly. "Good heavens—it is! But… I just poured it. It was cold!"
David felt the pitcher. "This is cool. How did the water heat up in the cup?"
Markus stared at the puddle on the table. The chill. The heat. The pain. Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
---
Far from Oakhaven, within a stone chamber carved by time itself, two figures stood.
"Master," said the younger, "now that Markus has rejected our invitation… what shall we do?"
The elder's voice, aged yet resolute, answered: "It matters little, Kaelen. The power he awakened is no mere spark. It breathes. It chooses. And when he can no longer control it, he will come to us."
Kaelen hesitated. "And the Shadowwood Coven? We're in Samble, within their reach. Should we not strike them down?"
The old man lifted a hand. "Patience, my son. Even darkness has its place. For now—let it be."
Kaelen nodded slowly. Then, after a pause: "What of the Royal Family? Now that the heir to the Flame of Judgement has awakened… will they act?"
"They will watch," the elder said. "Markus is still young. They will observe."
"But won't they seek to eliminate him? Strike while he's weak?"
A faint smile tugged at the old man's lips. "They may consider it. But they know he is… under our protection."
Kaelen shifted again. "And Gordon? His command of wind is formidable. Should we recruit him?"
The old man's brow furrowed. "He is gifted, yes. But his power's source is… uncertain. We will wait. Observe. Learn the roots—before we cultivate the bloom."
And so they stood, within the ancient stone, the weight of fate hanging thick in the silence. The threads of destiny, already spinning, continued to weave across the land.