There were many witches who lived in Ethandril. Fire witches; capable of conjuring flame and wrecking havoc on all who angered them. River witches; wild, beautiful and rulers of all the great waters. Wind witches; invisible, silent and destructive. Moon witches; the greatest, most majestic and revered of all. And, of course, the wood witches; those small, quiet, powerless creatures who dwelled in dirty holes between the tree roots and hoped never to be seen. Should one happen upon a wood witch, you’d think her just an ordinary girl. Lost, bedraggled and mute, but ordinary nonetheless. And if you asked her where she was going or what she was doing, she’d no doubt burst into tears and scurry away, muttering something about a moonstone and an untimely death. 

As legend has it, since the very first wood witch was born, many, many years ago, a strange thing began to happen. At the tender age of thirteen, every wood witch, no matter her fortunes, would curl into a ball somewhere between the roots of a great tree, and die. Some believed it was a curse, inflicted upon the lineage by the other, more powerful witches. Some said it was simply a consequence of her terrible weakness. All the same, the only way a wood witch might live to see old age was if—by some miracle—she could transform herself into the most powerful witch in Ethandril: a moon witch. To do this, however, she must first find a moonstone; those rare, pearly white gems that fell from the night sky as shimmering rain. 

This had not been a problem for the wood witches of yesteryear. Back then, the night sky was wholesome and generous, and moonstones fell aplenty from the heavens. But soon this changed, and as the years passed, and the sky grew old and tired, moonstones fell no more. The wood witches were doomed.

Thus it came to be that Aira, a wood witch of twelve years and eleven months, found herself wandering Ethandril in misery. She had been searching for a moonstone since before she could walk, but had found none, no matter how far she traveled or how hard she looked. And so now, on the eve of her thirteenth birthday, Aira retired to a grubby hole beneath a giant tree, curled up, sad and hopeless and alone, and closed her eyes. She would not see the light of morning.

The night fell quick and cold. Aira tossed, unable to sleep. The forest seemed to be more alive than ever tonight; a cruel irony. But then, as the stars rose high in the sky, Aira felt something cool brush against her arm. She opened her eyes and shrieked. For there, crouched beside her, was a beautiful moon witch with long white hair and glimmering silver robes, a crown of pears and diamonds upon her head. Aira had never seen a moon witch before, but this one she recognised instantly.

‘Mother!’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, mother! What are you doing here?’

The moon witch drew her daughter into her arms. ‘Aira. How I’ve missed you!’

‘You left me!’ Aira cried, pulling away. ‘Why?’

‘Because I had no choice,’ her mother replied. ‘Moon witches cannot live on the forest floor. You know that.’

Aira dried her eyes on the cuff of her tattered sleeve. She looked up at her mother, now so tall, so brilliant, so beautiful. It was true that moon witches and wood witches could not live together, even if they were related, but that did not mend the cracks in her heart. It also did not explain why her mother was here now. 

‘I am destined to die tomorrow, mother,’ Aira moaned. ‘I cannot find a moonstone. I’ve searched so long and hard. There are none left.’

Her mother nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, I know.’

‘I do not want to die,’ Aira croaked. 

Her mother held out her hand, as if to draw Aira to her feet. ‘Come with me, child. There’s something I want to show you.’ 

Aira did not ask questions. 

She followed her mother through the woods until they came to the banks of a gentle stream. It was late now, and starlight glittered on the water. All was quiet, save the whisper of the river witches, who Aira could not see, but knew were watching her.  

‘Sit,’ her mother said, and Aira did so. Her mother opened her palm. Inside was a beautiful gleaming, white gem. ‘I was just your age when I found mine,’ she explained. ‘And this is where I found it.’

‘Here?’ Aira said excitedly, her eyes scanning the bank with hope. ‘Right here? But I’ve looked! I’ve looked a thousand times.’ 

Her mother nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve watched you, my dear.’

A long silence fell between them. Aira stared at her mother, unable to avert her eyes. Was this the last time she would see her?

‘It was magic,’ her mother went on. ‘I can’t explain it any other way. The moment I held the moonstone in my hand, I felt a surge of great power rush through me. And from that day on, I knew I was much braver, much wiser, much more powerful than I’d ever been.’

Aira smiled at her mother. ‘I can see that.’

‘I have lived for many years believing I’m a moon witch, like all the women who came before me.’

Aira frowned. This did not make sense. ‘You believed it because it’s true,’ she said. ‘You are a moon witch.’

‘No,’ her mother replied. ‘I’m just like you, sweet child.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Last night, I paid a visit to a friend of mine in the city. That glimmering black city. You know the one of which I speak?’

Aira nodded impatiently. She knew the city, for there was only one in these parts: Haagdrum. ‘And?’

‘This friend is a jeweller,’ her mother explained. ‘Wise and very experienced. He knows all the gemstones as well as anyone might. And when I showed him my moonstone, proud as I was of it, he told me something extraordinary.’ She paused a moment, but Aira urged her on. 

‘What did he tell you?’ she asked, leaning forwards with anticipation.

Her mother chuckled. ‘He said it’s just an old rock. A beautiful one, yes, but nothing more than that.’

‘But that cannot be!’ Aira cried. ‘If it isn’t a moonstone then how are you alive?’

‘Well, dear, that’s what I’m here to tell you. You see, when I found this stone, I truly believed with all my heart that it was a moonstone, a real one, and that it had granted me great power and long life. I believed it so fully, so entirely, that it became true. My dear Aira,’ she said gently, placing a hand on her daughter’s arm, ‘do you understand what I’m telling you?’

Aira thought that perhaps she did.

‘You do not need a shiny gem to grow powerful,’ her mother said. ‘You only need faith. If you believe you are powerful, if you believe you deserve to live, you will. It is as simple as that.’

From that day on, Aira dared to believe. Fate, she realised, was her own to mould, and she could be anything and anyone she dreamed of, just like her mother. Thus, when morning broke, Aira vanished. No one knew where she’d gone or what form she now held. But sometimes, maybe, when all was quiet and still in the woods, a flash of silver light might be seen shifting between the trees, and maybe you would see her there, dancing on the river bank, and you would know it was her: Aira, Queen of Witches, the greatest and most powerful who ever lived. 

One cold, stormy night sometime after Christmas, a traveler stood alone in the dark, strange woods of Ethandril. 

The traveler’s name was Albert, a middle-aged man with opal eyes, short brown hair and a thin beard. Albert was a toymaker; once the greatest for miles around. His peculiar magical creations—giant nutcrackers, tiny flying cars, singing teddy bears—had brought him fame, wealth and happiness for many years. Unfortunately, as such things often do, they had also brought him the envy of others. And where envy went, so too went its loathsome cousins; resentment and malice. Perhaps he should of seen it coming, but until the day his toyshop was burned to the ground by a bitter rival, and his entire life reduced to ruins, he’d been a good, trusting man. Things were very different now.  

Albert was married, though he’d probably tell you otherwise. He hadn’t seen his wife, Elenor, since the fire, and it pained him terribly to speak of her now. Better to pretend she’d never existed at all, along with everything else. These days, Albert was alone in every way a man can be. He had no brothers or sisters, his parents had long since passed, and after the fire, Albert’s sullen mood had driven away everyone else. But please don’t feel sorry for him! He wouldn’t want your pity. Nor your words of hope and kindness. No. In fact, Albert wouldn’t want your company at all. He was alone because he chose to be, because being alone meant no more pain could touch him.

And so it was that he came to be here in Ethandril, armed with nothing but an old haversack and a frozen heart. These devilish woods were cursed, Albert knew that. Every shadow held its own black magic, and nothing that lived here—the animals, the people, even the trees—could be trusted. It was for this reason that Albert planned to travel quick and light through the forest, stopping only when he reached that glistening black city his father had once told him about. There, amidst the great cathedrals and cobblestone streets, he would start a new life. Nobody would know who he’d been before, nor the sad tale of his miserable past. A good thing, of course, because if there was no one around to remember your past, then maybe you could forget it, too.

It was only when Albert reached the deepest heart of the woods, where the narrow footpath he’d been following withered into a small clearing, that he heard it.

A strange sound. 

At first it was like the cry of a small creature. Then it came again. 

Albert drew in a breath. 

‘Elenor?’ he replied, certain this was the voice he’d heard.

‘Yes, dear,’ she answered swiftly. ‘It’s me.’

Albert spun round frantically. He searched the trees, the dark shadows. Nothing. Perhaps he was losing his mind, along with everything else. A spasm of despair struck him then, and for the first time in a very long while he wished that he wasn’t alone. Madness, after all, is a lonesome creature.

‘Darling?’ Elenor called again. ‘Albert? I just want to talk. I…miss you.’

Albert’s throat tightened. He blinked at the darkness ahead, seeing nothing.

‘Where are you?’ he croaked. 

She did not answer. Desperate to see her, he padded quickly through the clearing and out the other side, rejoining the narrow footpath as it snaked its way towards a sharp cliff. 

‘Albert!’ Elenor cried. ‘Please! Hurry!’

He followed the sound of her voice, but with every step, she seemed to evade him. Growing frustrated, he began to run, delirious with exhaustion and wracked with confusion. Why was Elenor toying with him like this? Where was she?

Or…

Was this some fiendish trick of the woods? The thought had hardly formed in his head when he stumbled, pitched forwards and fell. 

Down, down, down, screaming as he tumbled into the darkness. He hit the ground with a sickening crack. Something thick and warm began to pool at his head, and as he stared up at the night sky, a figure materialised. Not his beautiful wife, but a small girl with a disfigured face, scaly green skin and long, greasy hair.

Albert’s icy heart shattered. Although he had never seen one before, somehow, he knew exactly what this creature was: A Wixxer; the ancient, goblin-like trickster of Ethandril.

The Wixxer smiled down at him, her evil yellow eyes glinting with excitement. 

‘You silly man,’ she hissed. ‘You’re mine, now.’

And just before Albert took his final breath, he thought a thought sadder than any thought he’d thought before. 

At least I will not die alone. 

***

 A fortnight after poor Albert met his untimely death at the hands of a Wixxer, another foolish man decided to enter Ethandril at night. 

Percy was nothing like Albert. He was young, proud and free of the burdens that come with a hard life. Yet there was one way in which Albert and Percy were similar: both preferred to be alone whenever they got the chance. And so tonight, when Percy’s father sent him into the woods to collect tinder for the kitchen stove, he did so gladly. Percy had spent the entire day at the family shop, attending to the slew of customers that traveled from far and wide for his mother’s famously moist cakes and fine breads. He was weary, and a short walk in the woods (alone) would give him time to unwind before the start of another, long, exhausting day.

But that was not to be.

‘Oh, hello!’ A slim boy, perhaps several years younger than Percy, appeared suddenly from between the trees ahead. He was dressed in rags, with scruffy hair and dirty fingernails. ‘What you doing out here in the middle of the night?’ the boy asked. 

‘Collecting firewood,’ Percy said irritably. He’d never seen this boy before, and didn’t much like the way he spoke, or dressed. They clearly had nothing in common. 

The younger boy beamed. ‘Firewood? Me too! Let’s walk together, then? These woods aren’t safe at night, you know.’

Too tired to worry about manners, Percy ignored him and walked on. The last thing he wanted was to be pestered by a small boy with dirty fingernails. 

Sometime later, Percy reached a clearing in the heart of the woods. The clearing was flooded with beautiful, silvery moonlight, but Percy couldn’t help notice that the trees surrounding it were old and gnarled, as though weathered by some macabre, invisible force. He’d never seen this particular clearing before, and wondered how he’d ended up here. 

A prickle of worry crawled up his spine. What if he was lost? Everyone knew that if you got lost in Ethandril, you were never seen again.

But then Percy heard something that put his mind at ease: A familiar voice. 

‘Percy?’ the voice said. ‘Is that you?’

‘Dad?’ he called with relief. ‘Where are you?’

‘Just over here,’ his father replied, though Percy couldn’t see him yet. ‘Come on, I’ve found some good wood.’

Percy followed the sound of his father’s voice, through the clearing and down a narrow path that snaked towards a sharp cliff. 

‘Dad?’ he said, casting around in confusion. ‘I don’t see you.’

‘Just here, son. Another step or two and you’ll see me.’

Despite the cool sweat gathering on his palms, Percy clambered to the very edge of the cliff. He stared down at the chasm below, certain he saw a shape lying there. A human shape…

‘Hurry!’ his father snapped. ‘What are you so afraid of? It’s just a little hill.’

Percy flushed. His father was right. Just a little hill. He took another step, and teetered over the edge. It was at this moment that something seized his wrist and yanked him backwards.

‘What you doing!’ screamed the young boy Percy had met earlier. 

Percy stumbled away from the cliff, dazed and cold with terror. ‘My father,’ he muttered. ‘I think he’s down there.’

‘That ain’t your father,’ the younger boy said. ‘It’s a trick, see. A Wixxer’s trick.’

Percy had not heard of a Wixxer, and so frowned. 

‘She-goblins,’ the boy explained in a quick whisper. ‘Just pretending to be your father. Likes to do that to sort of thing when they find a traveler on their own. Warned you, though, didn’t I? Not safe out here alone.’

‘But…how—’

‘Magic,’ the boy said grimly. ‘Dark magic.’ 

Percy shuddered, then turned to face the boy in rags. He looked even worse than before (those fingernails were really something!). Yet Percy couldn’t help smile. ‘You saved my life,’ he said. 

The boy shrugged, then placed a calloused hand on Percy’s back. ‘Come on. We should get out of here before the Wixxer tries again.’

Percy nodded gratefully, and followed his new friend back through the trees, rags, dirty finger nails and all.