In the village of Eldenmoor, nestled between foggy hills and a woodland too darkish for even the bravest hunters, lived a identify solely spoken in whispers—Morvena, the Heartless Witch of Blackthorn Woods.
No one knew the place she got here from, solely that she had lived in the woods for decades. Children had been warned in no way to stray close to the forest, for Morvena was once stated to steal voices, flip form animals into monsters, and curse complete households with a single chant.
Her cottage, made of twisted vines and bones, sat in the middle of the woodland like a wound in the earth. The timber round it died. The air close to it grew to become cold. Even birds prevented flying over it.
She used to be referred to as “heartless,” now not due to the fact she had no coronary heart in her chest—but due to the fact she had torn it out herself.
"A coronary heart solely leads to weakness," she as soon as whispered into a replicate of smoke. "And I will by no means be vulnerable again."
The village suffered below her spells for years. Crops failed suddenly. Wells grew to become to mud. Babies fell unwell with no explanation. And each and every time they tried to investigate, they would discover abnormal symbols burned into tree trunks pointing again to Blackthorn Woods.
But one day, the whole lot changed.
A female named Amira, the blacksmith’s daughter, got here to Eldenmoor. She had been away for years, despatched to stay with monks after her mother and father mysteriously vanished close to the woods. Rumors stated the witch had taken them.
Amira back now not as a scared child—but as a brave, smart younger lady who knew greater about magic than she let on.
She wore a silver chain round her wrist and carried an ancient e book wrapped in crimson cloth. The villagers laughed when she stated she would face Morvena.
“She’ll vanish like the rest,” they muttered.
But Amira had a secret. Her mom had as soon as been Morvena’s apprentice—and had written the whole lot she knew in that purple e book earlier than she disappeared.
At sunrise, Amira entered the woods.
She spoke no words. She left no trail. She accompanied the map her mom had drawn in ink and blood—deep previous thorns, shadows, and bushes that regarded to whisper curses.
She reached the cottage and knocked.
Morvena answered, tall and pale, her eyes like cracked ice. Her lips curled at the sight of the girl.
“Another silly soul come to feed my power,” she hissed.
But Amira stood firm.
“No,” she said. “I’ve come to stop it.”
A super fighting erupted—one now not of hearth and swords, however of will and words, of chants and counterspells. The timber bent. The air shattered. The cottage groaned like a death beast.
Morvena solid her darkest magic, but Amira was once ready. She held up her wrist—the silver chain as soon as worn by way of her mother—and it gleamed with a mild so pure, even the witch recoiled.
“You have no coronary heart to guard you,” Amira said. “But I do. And the love of my dad and mom nonetheless beats in mine.”
With a remaining incantation from the crimson book, Amira trapped Morvena’s spirit internal a replicate made of obsidian—a reflect that mirrored solely the truth.
And in it, the witch noticed herself now not as powerful, however empty, twisted, and alone.
The reflect used to be buried underneath the village chapel, sealed with blessings, and guarded day and night.
The wooded area started out to heal. Flowers bloomed the place shadows as soon as lingered. Birds returned. Children laughed again. And Amira—Amira grew to become the hero Eldenmoor in no way thinking it would have.
To this day, they inform the tale:
“Beware the course of the heartless. For even the strongest magic can't defend a soul that refuses to love. Just ask the witch of Blackthorn Woods—
The one who was once caught, no longer by means of might,
however with the aid of the mild of a coronary heart she thinking she had broken.”
