Dylan stood at the edge of the cursed forest, gripping a rusted sword and his sister’s final letter: “She has me. Do not come.” But he did.

The witch Lana lived in a black house beneath the hill, her name spoken only in whispers. None who entered her woods ever returned.

Inside the house, Lana waited. Behind her, his sister lay in a glass coffin.

“I’ll free her,” Lana said, “if you win.”

“Win what?”

“Yourself.”

Mirrors appeared, showing Dylan as a coward, a failure, a brother too late. The sword trembled.

“No strength,” Lana mocked.

But in one mirror, he stood tall—scarred but unbroken. He lunged.

The blade struck true. Lana shattered like glass, her scream fading into silence.

His sister awoke.

The sun touched the trees for the first time in years.

Lana was gone.

But Dylan knew: evil never dies. It waits.

Slay the Witch

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