I'm 500 years old

The forest seemed to stretch endlessly, a labyrinth of ancient trees and whispering leaves. Lydia and I trudged through the underbrush, our recent encounter with the wolves still fresh in our minds.

The air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, a stark contrast to the acrid smell of my black flames that had only moments ago danced between my fingers.

As we walked, the forest began to change. The trees, once menacing and oppressive, now stood like silent guardians, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. The darkness that had once threatened to swallow us whole was now retreating, giving way to the soft glow of twilight that filtered through the canopy above.

And then, there it was—a house, as if conjured from the very essence of the forest itself. It stood alone, a beacon of red amidst the sea of green. The house was quaint, with walls of deep crimson that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.