It was a beautiful, sunny day, one of the few that autumn, when not a single cloud drifted across the sky. Though the air already carried hints of the approaching frost, a pleasant warmth still lingered, clinging to the memory of summer. In a small village nestled beside the forest, silence reigned.

  A crowd of villagers had gathered outside an old cottage, set apart from the others. It stood at the edge of a grove and had never drawn much attention until that day. Locals might not have understood why, but something in their frightened hearts sensed the shift and made them shrink inward. No one spoke. Even the smallest children were silent, as if spellbound. Death stood among them, its cold breath freezing the blood in their veins. Everyone waited.

  Noon had passed. The sun crept across the sky, and the shadows stretched longer with each hour, until the glowing disk began to dip behind the nearby hills. When a soft orange light spread across the fields, a breeze stirred—unexpected, fleeting. No one was surprised by its sudden arrival or vanishing. A few women wiped away silent tears. Men clutched their caps to their chests with trembling hands. Children, too young to understand but old enough to fear, hid behind their mothers’ skirts. And somewhere in the distance, a lone bird chirped—a sorrowful, lost sound. A weeping girl stepped out of the cottage, followed by an older woman. All eyes turned to them. The girl opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but no words came out. The older woman gently, yet firmly, moved her aside and addressed the crowd herself:

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  “She’s gone,” she said quietly, then bowed her gray head in sorrow.

  The villagers remained silent. They heard the words, they understood them—but the meaning hadn’t yet sunk in. The older woman knew it would take time. People needed space for those words to pierce the fog of their grief. After all, on that bright, beautiful day, God had taken from them the last living witch.

  One by one, heads lowered to hide their tears. Not a single voice rose, only muffled sobs. The sun slipped fully behind the horizon, and the air turned sharply cold—but no one moved. They lingered, as if hoping that if they stayed long enough, the witch would wake again, rise from her cold sleep, and return to guide them. The older woman watched, deeply troubled. It wasn’t until she saw the helplessness etched into their weathered faces that she understood how powerless they truly were in the face of a cruel world. Who would now prepare their salves? Who would offer herbs when illness knocked at the door? Who would banish restless spirits, calm the weather, settle their fiercest disputes? These people had no one left to rely on. And though they were strong and capable of hard work, they still needed someone to guide them, to to give their lives meaning.

  The days of this small community were now numbered. And once the old woman realized it, she understood one more thing: the dead witch’s final words had to remain secret.

  Today, the last witch in this world dies. With my death, humanity loses its hold on magic. Beware the day when it is enslaved once again. It will be done by a child raised by spirits and seduced by a demon.