The First Witch Prequel.

Chapter One.

 

Prequel.

 

Some distance along the road that winds through the Dark Forest, there is a narrow path that no one remembers clearing. The Forest Rangers patrol the main road every day, chopping back brambles and fallen branches, but the little side path stays open all by itself, as if the trees know to keep it clear.

Follow it far enough and you reach a small clearing surrounded by tall, ancient oaks. High in their branches lives a colony of rooks. They watch everything. If anyone steps into the clearing, the birds begin to shout at once, a warning, a greeting, or perhaps simply gossip. Whatever the reason, no one can ever sneak up on the cottage in the centre.

The cottage itself looks perfectly ordinary at first glance: white‑washed walls, a thatched roof, a green painted door with two neat windows beside it. A low picket fence surrounds a tidy garden full of herbs, flowers, and plants that look almost, but not quite, familiar. A gravel path leads to the front door.

Inside, the cottage is just as plain. A hall with three doors.

To the right, a large kitchen with a black cooking range, a scrubbed table, and shelves full of bottles and packets that could have come from any village shop.

To the left, a bedroom with a comfortable bed, a chest, and a wardrobe.

And at the end of the hall, a sitting room with ordinary furniture and a single bookcase.

Only the books hint at anything unusual. Each one is bound in dark red leather. Each one has a single word on the spine, a name. Some books are thick, some thin, and one is barely more than a handful of pages.

So far, nothing to alarm a visitor.

Unless, of course, the visitor knew that this cottage has been burned down, blown up, trampled flat, and collapsed more times than anyone can count, and yet it always returns, exactly the same as before.

Almost the same.

If you look closely, the walls seem thinner than they once were, the thatch a little tired, the doorframes slightly warped. As if the cottage itself is growing old.

And that is a problem, because this is the home of Calizone, Witch of the Dark Forest.

People come from every kingdom to buy her potions, love potions, hate potions, hair‑growing ointments, hair‑stopping ointments, cures for spots, causes of spots, and a hundred other things besides. She makes them all in the kitchen, measuring and stirring with the calm precision of someone who has done this for a very long time.

But the real secrets are in the red books. Each one is the diary and recipe book of a Witch of the Dark Forest. Every Witch wrote down her spells, her potions, and, rather grimly, the manner of her own death. The very thin book belonged to a careless Witch who never wrote anything down. Calizone disapproved of her.

There should be one more book on the shelf.

The first book.

The book of the very first Witch of the Dark Forest, the one who set the rules, built the cottage, and created the spell that keeps it alive.

That book is missing.

And without it, the cottage is dying.

Calizone has searched everywhere: No one has seen the book. No one even knows the First Witch’s name.

Calizone does not like mysteries.

And she likes losing her home even less. Calizone had searched for so long that even she, the most stubborn Witch of all time, was beginning to feel the weight of disappointment. She had crossed deserts, climbed mountains, trudged through swamps, and visited every palace library and dusty bookshop she could find. She had even questioned the Ice Queen in her frozen citadel and the Fire Demon in his blazing cavern. Neither had been helpful. Neither had been polite.

Just as she was about to give up, she heard a rumour.

A whisper, really, the sort of thing you only catch if you happen to be in the right tavern at the right moment, and the right old man happens to be talking too loudly after his third mug of ale.

A small Dukedom, hidden in the shadow of the mountains.

A Castle she had somehow missed.

And a librarian so old that even his wrinkles had wrinkles.

Calizone went at once.

The Castle was small, but the library was enormous, a maze of shelves and ladders and books that smelled of dust and secrets. The librarian insisted on showing her everything, shuffling from shelf to shelf, coughing and muttering as he went. Calizone was patient. She had learned long ago that old librarians reveal their treasures only when they feel like it.

But once again, the book she needed, the First Witch’s book, was not there.

Seeing her disappointment, the old man beckoned her outside. He led her up a narrow stairway to the battlements and pointed toward the mountains. Far away, a single peak rose sharply into the sky. If she squinted, Calizone could just make out a thin tower clinging to the summit like a stubborn weed.

“That,” the librarian wheezed, “is all that remains of a Castle. My grandfather told me the story, and his grandfather told him, and so on, back and back. If you look closely, you’ll see a little room at the top of the tower.”

Calizone shaded her eyes. Yes, there was a room. A tiny one.

The librarian continued, pausing every few words to cough.

“They say the Castle was built when that mountain was nothing but a hill. A Witch came to visit the Baron who lived there. She brought a box, a very special box, made of dragon skin.”

Calizone raised an eyebrow. “No one has ever killed a dragon and skinned it.”

“Never believed that part myself,” the old man admitted. “But that’s how the legend goes.”

He cleared his throat and went on.

“The Witch told the Baron to put the box in the tower room and never let anyone see it, touch it, or, especially, open it. In return, she gave him a potion that made a Princess fall in love with him. They lived happily enough and had a son.”

Calizone waited. Legends always had a ‘but’ in them.

“But,” said the librarian, right on cue, “the son was headstrong. One day he went into the tower and tried to open the box. Instantly the Castle and everyone in it turned to dust. The hill exploded upward, becoming the mountain you see now. The tower was flung into the sky, and the Prince with it. They say the box is still up there. And the Prince too.”

Calizone paced the battlements, thinking.

“How have I never heard this story?” she asked.

The librarian shrugged. “I think I’m the only one left who knows it. Might just be a tale to explain an earthquake. But…” He hesitated. “Why mention a dragon‑skin box? And there’s something else. The Witch who brought it, she wouldn’t touch it. She had a servant carry it for her.”

Calizone kept her face still, but her heart gave a sharp, excited thump.

A Witch who could not touch dragon‑things.

A box she refused to handle.

A tower no one could reach.

A Castle destroyed in an instant.

And a spell strong enough to fling a hill into the sky.

She thanked the librarian politely and left before he could ask questions.

It might be nothing.

It might be nonsense.

But Calizone’s curiosity was burning now, bright and fierce.

She had to reach that tower. Calizone rode back to the Dark Forest with the librarian’s words echoing in her mind. A tower on a mountain that used to be a hill. A Witch who refused to touch a dragon‑skin box. A spell strong enough to fling stone into the sky.

It was the first real clue she’d had in years.

By the time she reached the clearing, the rooks were already shouting. They always knew when she was coming, or perhaps they simply enjoyed making a fuss. Their cries filled the air as she dismounted and pushed open the garden gate.

The cottage gave a long, weary creak.

Calizone froze. She knew every sound the cottage made, the cheerful crackle of the range, the soft thump of the bedroom door, the rustle of the thatch when the wind blew. But this sound was different. Older. Thinner. As if the cottage were sighing.

She stepped inside.

A strip of plaster had fallen from the kitchen wall. The thatch above the sitting‑room window sagged a little more than it had that morning. The doorframe to the bedroom had warped so badly she had to shove it to make it close.

The cottage was failing.

Calizone pressed her hand to the wall. It felt cool and tired beneath her palm.

“I know,” she murmured. “I’m trying.”

She went to the sitting room and stood before the bookcase. The red leather books sat in their neat row, each one containing the life and work of a Witch of the Dark Forest. She ran her fingers along the spines, stopping at the gap where the First Witch’s book should have been.

“Where did you go?” she whispered.

The rooks outside began calling again, louder this time, as if urging her on.

Calizone straightened. She was not a Witch who gave up. She had faced demons, queens, curses, and the occasional angry goat. She would face this too.

She packed quickly.

Into her satchel went:

- a handful of potions

- a small jar of ointment for emergencies

- a packet of dried herbs

- a loaf of bread

- a flask of water

- and a pair of thick gloves made from the special, magic‑proof material she used when handling dragon‑things

She hesitated, then added a small red book, her own. If she did not return, someone would need to know what she had discovered.

Outside, her tall black horse stamped impatiently. It always knew when a long journey was coming.

Calizone slung the satchel over her shoulder, locked the cottage door (though it never stayed locked for long), and mounted.

The rooks erupted into a storm of cawing as she rode down the narrow path and out onto the main road. Their cries followed her long after the trees swallowed the clearing behind her.

The cottage creaked again in the empty silence.

It was waiting for her to return.

And Calizone intended to, but not without the First Witch’s book.

Not without the spell that could save her home.