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Traveling through the hollow woods, Amia raises her lantern to guide the way.
She had set out the night before, leaving nothing but a note behind. Everyone need not worry for her, for this wasn’t out of the ordinary. She brought nothing but a lantern, rations, and her only healing stone. Everyone need not worry, for this isn’t her first time vanishing amid the night.
Though, she has always been warned to not wander the forest. Especially after midnight, when the moon’s fully out. Folklore often told of the many lurkers within these woods; Beware of the wolves, the witches, and the passing shadows. So many warnings were tossed her way, but Amia took none of it to heart. The woods may seem empty, and they were. Nothing lingered behind the stalking, tall shadows of the trees. In reality, it was just an easy escape from the village.
Passing through the premade path of the woods, she took one step after another, taking them as if she were walking a tightrope. “Slow and steady wins the race,” they said. Amia took that to heart and continued walking mindlessly within the woods. Only the soft sounds of snow crunching echoed throughout the forest. Amia strolled peacefully. Though, something didn’t feel quite right.
She clenched her fist around her healing stone. Perhaps, this forest wasn’t as empty as she thought it to be. A loud rustle cackles behind her. Amia’s breath hitched, keeping a fixed stance. The rustles became heavier. Amia wasn’t alone. Whatever it was following behind her left Amia unsettled. In a count of three, Amia booked forward. There was no looking back.
Just ahead, she could see the horizon. Her eyes glimmered upon the sight. Hurriedly, she ran faster, and faster. But, as the saying goes, “slow and steady wins the race,” Amia trips on her feet, crashing onto the muddied forest floor. Her lantern shatters, and the light blows out. She hissed. Amia hugged her stone tightly against her chest. Her lantern was lost, rations now ruined, yet only her healing stone stayed intact. She couldn’t let it go. No, she couldn’t. She had made a promise, and she was determined to keep it. Through storms, sleet, and wind, she promised to share this miracle, through the powers of this stone.
This passion burned fiercely like the raging embers from that fateful night. When everyone cried “witch!” while chanting their prayers, Amia stood amongst the crowd. Hanging upon those stakes was no witch to her, but rather a savior. She was her savior—the one who mended Amia, the one who cherished Amia, the one who loved Amia. Her savior stood tranquilly. She neither screamed nor did she cry. She merely obliged, ready to be consumed by the hungering flames. Those torturous memories only served to haunt her; it served to weigh her down until she couldn't move any further. And now, they were after her.
But Amia couldn’t give in.
This stone was the only memory left of her savior. The sun began rising over the horizon. Amia had to shake that gruesome feeling behind and push forward. Though, before she could take another step, a sharp pain punctures her leg. Letting out an agonizing cry, Amia falls forward. An arrow had torn through her calf. They were here, stakes and pitchforks in hand, ready to burn their next witch.