THE WITCH OF THE WILLOW

Acantha's patience was wearing thin. The forest seemed to conspire against her, its dense canopy casting long shadows that twisted and writhed like living things. Her sharp eyes scanned every flicker of movement, her senses heightened to catch even the faintest hint of her quarry. Somewhere in this maze of roots and ancient trees, the witch was hiding.

The towering, warded tree loomed behind her, its protective barrier shimmering faintly in the moonlight. Acantha had spent hours trying to break through its defenses, but her efforts were futile. She could feel the witch's presence lingering like a whisper in the wind, teasing her with its elusiveness.

"This witch is clever," Acantha muttered under her breath. "But cleverness only delays the inevitable."

Behind her, Matthew staggered to his feet, still shaky from his earlier encounter with the barrier. His breaths came in short gasps, and the burn marks on his hands were raw and red.