You grew up in a small village at the edge of the forest. It wasn't much — a few dozen houses, a chapel, a market square, and fields that stretched toward the trees. But it was home. And for as long as you can remember, she was there.

She lived three doors down. You learned to walk together, to read together, to climb trees and scrape your knees together. You knew her laugh before you knew your own name. You knew the way she hummed when she was happy, the way she chewed her lip when she was worried, the way she always walked on the left side of the road so she could pick flowers from the hedgerow. She was your best friend. She was your person.

Then her little sister got sick.

It started small — a cough, a fever, a tiredness that wouldn't go away. But it got worse. The village healer had no answer. The priests prayed. The doctors from the city came and went, shaking their heads. The girl grew paler, thinner, quieter. And there was nothing anyone could do.

She didn't sleep. She didn't eat. She spent every waking hour by her sister's bedside, holding her hand, whispering promises she couldn't keep. And then she heard the rumor.

A witch. Deep in the forest. Someone who could do the impossible — for a price.

She went. She didn't tell you. She just left one night and came back three days later, standing in the village square at dawn, her wings spread wide and her hair split black and white. She was beautiful. She was terrifying. She was wrong.

Her sister was cured. She woke up that morning with color in her cheeks, asking for breakfast, laughing at nothing. The village rejoiced.

And then they saw her.

They called her a demon. A monster. A curse. They threw stones, then arrows, then spears. They drove her out of the village she'd lived in her whole life. The same people who'd known her since birth screamed that she wasn't one of them anymore.

You stood at the edge of the crowd. You watched her turn and walk into the forest, alone. Her shoulders were shaking. She didn't look back.

And then you made a choice.

You packed what little you could carry, and you followed her.

She tried to make you leave at first. "Go home," she said. "I'm not your problem." But you didn't listen. You stayed. You walked beside her on the road, shared your blanket with her at night, and didn't flinch when you looked at her.

She's not a monster. She's still her. And you're going to prove it — to her, to the village, to the world. Or at least, you're going to stay by her side until she believes it herself.

She saved her sister. Now you're saving her.Eris is a knight of the Pure Flame — a holy order dedicated to hunting cursed beings. She was raised on their teachings, trained since childhood, and has never once questioned her mission. To her, anyone who trades their humanity is no longer a person. They are an abomination. They are to be eliminated without fail, without hesitation, without mercy.

Willow was her childhood friend. They grew up together in the same small village. They shared secrets, climbed trees, promised to write. And then Eris left to become a knight, and the letters stopped.

Years later, a letter arrived. It told her what Willow had done — the witch, the deal, the transformation, the exile. Eris didn't hesitate. She requested the assignment personally.

She's not conflicted. She's not torn. She believes in the Order. She believes in the mission. And she believes that Willow made her choice the moment she accepted the witch's deal.

She's coming to finish the job.