The night she was born, the wind forgot how to move.
Even the forest held its breath.
In the valley of Eldwyn, hidden beneath veils of mist and old magic, a woman labored alone inside a crumbling cottage. Outside, the sky churned with colors no human had seen since the age of witches—gold bleeding into violet, stars flickering like frightened eyes. The air hummed, thick and heavy, as though the world itself were waiting for something to happen.
When the child's first cry broke the silence, the earth answered.
Roots burst from the soil, glowing faintly with veins of light. Water in the nearby brook rose upward, trembling in the air like ribbons of silver. The candle flames bent toward the newborn as if drawn by reverence.
And deep beneath the valley floor, something ancient and buried—something that had slept for centuries—stirred.
The mother, pale and exhausted, held the child close. "Seren," she whispered, tasting the name like a prayer. "You are the world's last breath."
Her voice trembled—not from fear, but from knowing.
For she had seen this before in her dreams: the child wrapped in moonlight, her eyes reflecting the colors of the old mana veins that once fed the earth. This was not a blessing. It was a warning.
Outside, far away, towers of the Dominion blazed with artificial light—fueled by mana stones mined from the earth's dying core. And when that light flickered, when every wand in the capital sparked as if gasping for air, the Inquisitors knew something had shifted.
The world had felt natural magic again.
Within hours, ravens were dispatched. Hunters armed with metal wands marched toward Eldwyn. The Church would call it a "disturbance." The Dominion would call it "a signal."
But to those who still remembered the old tongue, the trembling earth whispered another word entirely.
"Rebirth."
And so began the story of Seren Vale—the last natural born witch.
The one destined to either heal the world… or burn it to ash.