Tainted Witch Series - Book One The Ring -

Prologue

Consider this letter both a warning and a plea: flee immediately; you are not safe. Trust no one! Guard the secret at all costs. Your swift action is crucial. Be cautious.
J.J.K

Prologue
A shadow flits past a window, its swift passage causing the delicate white curtains to flutter momentarily. The shadow blurs as it moves urgently, accompanied by the patter of raindrops against the windowpane. In its rush, a table is jostled, a vase atop it wobbling precariously before it drifts over the edge, shattering with a sharp and definitive crash, water and wilting flowers spilling onto the dark wooden floor. The shadow pauses, a brief flicker of annoyance crossing its form, before continuing its careful packing.  Items and papers are snatched up, each one possibly a key to survival, and hastily shoved into a satchel. The seams of the satchel bulge, its contents overflowing and spilling out. There's no time to ponder the value of each item; time's ticking, and every second matters.
Inside the home is chaos, a tempest of disorder swirling in the wake of the shadow's frantic movements. but the shadow is undeterred, sweeping through the space with purpose. Outside, the storm persists, its fury unabated, hammering against the world like a symphony of urgent cymbals a reminder of the imminent danger lurking beyond the safety of the walls. The air crackles with tension, charged with the urgency of the moment. The sound of hurried footsteps echoes off the walls.  With a quiet resolve, the figure continues its path towards the front door, eyes darting back and forth between it and the window. The rain's serenade continues, not unlike the storm brewing within the shadow.
After slinging the satchel over its shoulder, the figure paused, drawing a deep breath. their chest tightened with apprehension, each inhale a struggle against the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon it. With a determined exhale, they reached for the door handle, feeling the cool metal beneath their trembling fingers. Without looking back, They pushed the door open and ventured into the relentless downpour awaiting outside.

Illuminated by the flickering glow of a lantern, he emerged from the shadows as a man, his features etched with worry and the weathered lines of age. Droplets danced in the lantern's glow, casting shimmering reflections upon his pale face. Clad in a weather-beaten brown cloak that billowed around him in the gusting wind, he moved with a measured determination, each step a resolute push forward into the unknown. The fabric of his cloak whispered softly against his skin. Beneath the cloak, he wore sturdy black pants and a navy vest over a white shirt, the fabric clinging damply to his skin as rain soaked through the layers. He cut a striking figure against the night.

His well-worn boots sank into the muddy ground with each step, leaving deep imprints in the soft earth. Each squelching footfall echoed with the weight of his purpose, a resolute determination driving him forward. As he approached, a figure cloaked in shadows awaited his arrival with silent anticipation. Clutching hastily scrawled directions, the figure stood ready to guide their journey into the unknown depths of the night. With purposeful strides, he boarded the carriage, leaving the familiar comforts of home behind. Yet, even as he settled into his seat, he felt a pang of longing tug at his heart, a fleeting yearning for the warmth of hearth and home

The coachman urged the horses forward, their hooves pounding against the sodden earth in a steady rhythm of determination. As the reinsman urged the horses forward, their hooves pounded against the sodden earth with a steady rhythm of determination, the sound blending with the distant rumble of thunder. The carriage lurched into motion, its creaking frame protesting against the relentless assault of wind and rain.  Rain assaults the windows with ferocity; each drop is a percussion beat. With each passing moment, the familiar landmarks faded into obscurity, swallowed by the inky darkness of the night and the swirling mists of the storm. As they journeyed deeper into the unknown, uncertainty hung heavy in the air.

As the black carriage trundles along the sodden gravel path, its wheels crunching against the wet stones, the passenger feels every jolt and sway. Rain lashes against the carriage windows with continuous force. As the coachman prepares to navigate a turn, a sudden flash of electricity briefly turns night into day, throwing the surroundings into stark relief. Inside, Shaking off the sense of foreboding that claws at his mind, he redirects his focus to the interior of the carriage; he retrieves his pocket watch from within the folds of his cloak, the metal cool against his fingertips. The hands of the watch point ominously to midnight, a silent reminder of the urgency of his mission. Every tick of the clock echoes like a heartbeat in the silent cabin, a steady march towards an uncertain fate. His eyes then lower to the ring adorning his left index finger, its intricate design a testament to the immense trouble it has incited.