In a dimly lit room filled with the pungent scent of herbs and the stench of a decaying body, Seraphine sat quietly in a corner, holding a wooden staff for support. Her once-lustrous red hair had become rough, tangled, and lifeless, a far cry from the breathtaking woman who had proudly marched against Lycoria Citadel hundreds of years ago.
She was now grey, frail, and almost withering away. A grotesque scar covered one side of her face, as though a flock of ravenous birds had feasted on her flesh, leaving her completely unrecognizable.
For years, she had searched endlessly for a solution to the gaping wound Enzo had left on her face, but instead of healing, every remedy only made her weaker. It was as if the injury itself had become cursed, festering from within and spreading throughout her entire body. It had stolen not only her beauty but also her vitality and power, reducing the once-feared Witch Mother into a shadow of her former self.
Nobody wanted to be around her anymore.
