**Title: The Witch's Curse**
The Dark Forest was a place of whispered legends, where even the bravest men dared not tread. Yet, it was here that a young prince found himself, running for his life. Barely six years old, he was too young to understand the treachery that had led to this moment. He only knew that men with cruel eyes and sharper blades were after him, and the only refuge he could find was within the cursed woods.
His tiny feet stumbled over roots and rocks, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as the cold, unforgiving branches tore at his skin. Finally, his strength gave out, and he collapsed to the ground, blood seeping into the soil beneath him. His vision blurred as darkness crept in, and he thought this was the end.
But then, through the haze of pain and fear, a spark of purple light caught his eye. It danced before him, growing brighter and more intense until it took shape—a tall woman, her gown a blend of black and purple, stood over him. Her beauty was otherworldly, her presence commanding and fearsome. She was a witch, and even in his weakened state, the prince knew enough to fear her.
The witch stared down at him, her violet eyes assessing the situation with a cold detachment. Yet, something softened in her gaze as she saw the child dying at her feet. With a flick of her finger, she summoned her magic, purple light enveloping the boy. His wounds began to heal, and life returned to his fragile body.
The prince’s eyes fluttered open, and he found himself staring up at her. For a moment, their gazes locked, and he memorized every detail of her face—her sharp features, her dark flowing hair, the way her gown shimmered in the dim light. He knew, even as a child, that this moment would be burned into his memory forever.
With a soft command, she flicked her finger again. "Take him where he belongs," she said, and in an instant, the prince was no longer in the forest. He found himself back within the safety of his castle walls, the witch's image still fresh in his mind.
---
Fifteen years passed, and the once innocent prince had grown into a figure of fear and power. At twenty-one, he was a tyrant, ruling with an iron fist. His subjects trembled at his very presence, and his enemies were quickly crushed beneath his heel. Yet, beneath the layers of cruelty and control, one obsession remained—a memory of a woman with violet eyes and a gown of black and purple.
He had searched for her tirelessly, sending men to scour the land, but no one had seen or heard of the witch who had saved him. Her image haunted his dreams, driving him to madness. He needed to find her, to thank her, to have her. She was the only softness in his hardened heart, and he would not rest until she was his.
When his mother, the Queen, fell gravely ill, the prince saw his opportunity. He summoned his advisors, his cold gaze silencing any objections before they could be voiced. "Call for the witches," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Whoever can save my mother will have their one wish fulfilled."
The court fell silent. Witches were feared and reviled, their magic seen as dangerous and unpredictable. But no one dared challenge the prince’s orders, and soon, witches from across the land were brought to the castle. One by one, they examined the Queen, but none of them were the witch the prince sought. His frustration grew, his patience wearing thin.
On the fourth day, as the sun began to set, a familiar figure appeared in the corridors of the castle. She wore a gown of black and purple, her eyes as fierce and violet as they had been fifteen years ago. The prince’s heart nearly stopped when he saw her, his body moving on its own as he rushed to her side. He didn’t care about decorum, didn’t care that he was the prince, the tyrant king-to-be—he only knew that he needed to hold her, to confirm that she was real.
