Map of the Continent

  The threshold of the witch’s hut was less of a doorway and more of a boundary between two different realities. As we crossed inside, the collective breath of the hunting group seemed to catch in their throats. The sensory shift was immediate and overwhelming.

  “Whoa! This is... incredible,” someone whispered, their voice echoing in a space that shouldn't have existed.

  “How is the inside so big?!” Wyn exclaimed, her head swiveling as her hunter’s instincts tried to map a room that defied the laws of physics.

  From the outside, the hut had looked like a cramped, weathered shack, barely large enough for a single occupant. Inside, however, the ceiling vaulted upward into a shadowed expanse, and the walls seemed to stretch back into infinity. The interior was a chaotic masterpiece of the arcane and the biological. Every surface was cluttered with strange, humming devices—brass gears turning without a power source, glass vials filled with swirling, iridescent mists, and decorative figures that seemed to watch us with unsettlingly lifelike eyes.

  What caught my eye, however, were the creatures. Throughout the room, peculiar but surprisingly cute beings were either wandering freely or resting within ornate, silver-barreled cages. Some looked like fluff-covered lizards; others were little more than balls of moss with blinking eyes. Above us, swarms of glowing, flying bugs drifted through the air, their rhythmic pulsing casting a soft, bioluminescent light over the chamber. It felt as though we had stepped directly into the pages of a fantasy story, leaving the mundane world of wood and stone behind.

  The witch herself stood in the center of the room, looking entirely at home amidst the madness. She stood with her left hand resting on her waist, her posture elegant yet casual.

  “Please, sit. Let’s hear your purpose, even though I already have some ideas,” she said, her right hand waving dismissively toward the center of the room.

  We remained rooted to the spot, still dazed by the sheer impossibility of the space. But the witch didn't seem inclined to wait for us to find our manners.

  Wham! Bang! Clatter!

  The sounds of heavy furniture moving erupted from the adjoining room. Before we could even flinch, a dozen chairs came flying through the air, moving with a fluid, haunting grace. They decelerated perfectly, dropping into a wide crescent formation in front of us with a synchronized thud. They sat there, perfectly balanced and waiting. It was a display of raw telekinetic power that made me realize exactly how dangerous the woman in front of us truly was.

  The number of chairs matched our group exactly. In the center of our crescent sat a larger, more ornate chair, decorated with intricate carvings and dark velvet—it looked less like a seat and more like a throne.

  “Sit down and let’s talk, shall we?” the witch invited, seating herself on the throne and resting her chin on her right hand. Her eyes, sharp and all-knowing, twinkled with a quiet amusement.

  We exchanged brief, nervous glances before sitting down one by one. The arrangement ensured that every one of us was facing her directly. Once the last of us had settled, she smiled faintly, her gaze sweeping from the left side of the crescent to the right, cataloging our expressions.

  “Good, now we can talk,” she said, her voice dropping into a mature, all-knowing tone. “Is it for the rumors about my foresight that you’ve come to me, little ones?”

  We all nodded—some with hesitant, small movements, others with a frantic, desperate energy. Seeing our confirmation, she leaned back, looking deep in thought for a few moments before her eyes settled on the group again.

  “Okay, you all look like good kids,” she mused, her gaze lingering on the men of our party. “Despite some of your rather... obscene looks. The young fellow is being young as always, huhuhu.”

  She spoke like a grandmother teasing her grandchildren, but her words carried a sharp edge. I felt my cheeks heat up as we all looked toward the two men in our group. They were notorious in the village for their "open" interest in women—a trait common among beastmen, who often struggled to hide their base instincts, but embarrassing nonetheless when pointed out by a witch.

  Starting from her left, she began to move through the group. She didn't so much predict the future as she did dissect their lives. She offered advice on lingering feuds, warnings about neglected duties, and small insights into their current paths. It felt more like a therapy session than a magical prophecy. But when she reached the end of the line, where Wyn and I were sitting, her tone changed. She didn't speak immediately. Instead, she stared at us, her eyes narrowing as if she were trying to see through the layers of our reality.

  “Hmm... are you two siblings?” she hummed, her tail twitching behind her throne. “Or no... You are twins, right?”

  “Y-yes,” Wyn said, her usual bravado faltering under that intense scrutiny. “Woya and I are twins.”

  “Hmm... interesting,” the witch said, her voice dropping into a low, enigmatic murmur. “You two have entangled fates. They are remarkably similar, almost mirrored. But I must be honest... it will start badly. Something troublesome—something quite dark—will happen very soon. It will change your lives completely, tearing you away from everything you know.”

  A cold chill washed over me. I felt the fur on my tail stand on end.

  “What happens after that is a bit beyond my authority to see clearly,” the witch continued. “But... it looks like you will eventually be with one of the favored ones. A life full of big events—chaos, growth, and destiny—is waiting for the two of you.”

  I didn't understand the part about the "favored ones," but the warning about a "troublesome event" was crystal clear. I felt a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety in my chest. I began to shiver, my hands gripping the edges of the chair until my knuckles went white. I was scared.

  “M-madam!” I asked, my voice shaky and thin. “W-what do you mean by a bad thing happening? Can you tell us more? Please!”

  The witch looked at me, and for a second, I thought I saw a flash of genuine pity in her eyes. “No. I don't know the specifics myself. This is the extent of my ability. Regardless, I doubt I could say more even if I did know. Some things must be experienced to be understood.”

  Wyn, always the stronger of the two of us, managed to collect herself. She leaned forward, her eyes determined. “Thank you, madam. But my sister is very uneasy. If you can’t tell us what will happen, can you at least guide us on how to face it?”

  The witch smiled, her expression softening. “Hmm... you really are quite cute. Very well, I will give you a piece of advice. You cannot do anything to stop this ominous event. It is already in motion. Therefore, my advice is this: get used to it. Accept it as soon as possible. Resistance will only increase your pain. If you want to reduce your suffering, you must yield to the current. As for the events that follow... I cannot say if they will be good or bad. That depends entirely on how you approach the situation. So, act clever, okay?”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I still felt lost, but the weight of her words felt like a heavy stone in my stomach. If we couldn't change the outcome, then we truly only had ourselves to rely on. I looked at Wyn, who was deep in thought. She seemed to be trying to find a logical explanation for the "bad experience," but her face remained grim.

  “Alright, that is enough for today,” the witch said, standing up and shooing us toward the door with a wave of her hands. “Thank you for visiting, little lambs. It is time for you to leave now.”

  We wanted to protest, to ask for one more detail or a clearer path, but she didn't care for our pleas. She practically pushed us through the threshold.

  The transition was jarring. One moment, we were in the shadowed, magical expanse of the hut, and the next, we were standing in the bright sunlight of the forest. We were several meters away from the entrance, but when we turned back to look for the building, it was gone. The clearing was empty. There was no smoke, no wood, and no pulsing bugs. It was as if the hut had never existed at all.

  “Don’t worry, Woya,” one of the men said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “It’s just a witch’s talk. It doesn’t mean something bad will really happen.”

  “Yeah,” another added, trying to sound cheerful. “Even if something does happen, we’re wolfkin! We can handle a bit of trouble, right?”

  The others in the hunting group tried their best to soothe us, but their words felt hollow. A thick, suffocating blanket of anxiety had settled over both Wyn and me. It was as if we could feel the gears of fate turning beneath our feet. We moved in a daze, our instincts screaming that the "soon" the witch had mentioned was much closer than we wanted to believe.

  In the end, we decided to return to the village immediately. There was no point in staying in the woods. On the walk home, my mind raced through every possible disaster—a monster attack, a forest fire, a sickness. But the truth was far more mundane, and far more devastating.

  When we pushed open the door to our house, the gloomy atmosphere hit us like a physical blow. It wasn't dinner time yet, but Mom should have been in the kitchen, the sounds of chopping and the smell of soup filling the air. Instead, she was sitting in the living room, her head bowed and her hands covering her face. Her shoulders were shaking—she was crying, or trying desperately to suppress the sound.

  Across from her sat our father. His elbows were resting on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white, and his chin was resting on his thumbs. He looked like a man who had aged twenty years in a single afternoon. His heel was tapping a frantic, rhythmic beat against the floor, causing his entire body to vibrate with a nervous energy I had never seen in him.

  This was the first time I had ever seen my father look broken. My mind went blank. The questions I had been about to ask—Why are you home early? Why isn't Mom cooking?—vanished. Only one question remained.

  “What happened?” Wyn asked, her voice low and stern.

  Our parents flinched, seemingly unaware that we had even entered the room. They looked up at us, and my heart broke. Dad’s face was a mask of pure agony, and Mom’s eyes were bloodshot and swollen, her face etched with new lines of grief.

  Oh. So this is it, I thought. The witch said it would be soon. I just didn't expect it to be this soon.

  “Girls... sit down,” Dad said, his voice cracking. “We need to talk.”

  We obeyed, sitting on the floor between them. My heart was racing so fast I felt as though it might burst through my ribs. Wyn looked pale, her jaw set in a hard line. We waited in the suffocating silence as our father struggled to find the words.

  “...Girls, I am so sorry,” he started, refusing to meet our eyes. “You two have always been such good daughters. You listened to your mother and me, you respected us, you worked so hard... and I thought I was doing my job as a father. I thought I was protecting you. But I failed. It’s not just a failure; I’ve completely ruined us.”

  He stopped, his face contorting into a grimace of self-loathing. I felt as if I were standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the wind to push me over.

  “As you know,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper, “it is difficult for us beastkin to live in this human kingdom. There is no room for error. People are waiting for us to slip up. It’s no excuse for my own incompetence, but... please, just forgive me.”

  He looked ancient. Mom stayed silent, a lifeless expression on her face as she stared at the floor.

  “So? What happened?” Wyn pressed. She was trying to act brave, but I could hear the tremor in her voice.

  “...My business. It went bankrupt,” he said, biting his lip until a bead of blood appeared. “Not only did I lose everything we owned... but I am also in a debt so large I can never hope to pay it back.”

  “Kh—hh... mmnh... snff... hic...”

  The sound broke from my throat before I could stop it. I started to cry, the tears hot and fast. I didn't even know the full consequences yet, but I knew my life was over.

  “S-so... so what will you do?” Wyn asked, her voice cracking.

  Mom began to sob openly then, a heavy, wretched sound as she tried to cover her mouth. The sight of her—the strong, steady woman who had raised us—completely falling apart made me lose the last of my composure. I cried more intensely, my vision blurring.

  Then, I noticed a single tear rolling down my father’s cheek. I don't know why, but seeing that one tear calmed me. It was so out of character for him that it silenced my sobs. I wiped my eyes and looked at him, knowing he was about to deliver the final blow. We waited, the air in the room feeling too thick to breathe.

  “W-we... we have to pay the debt,” he stammered, his words broken by his own hitching breath. “There is no other way. The collectors... they won't accept anything else. S-so I have to... I have to sell the two of you into slavery.”

  He finished the sentence and collapsed into a fit of earnest, hacking sobs.

  Wyn and I froze. The world seemed to stop spinning.

  Wyn and I... being sold? Slaves? The thoughts moved through my mind like a slow-motion nightmare. We’ll never see Mom and Dad again? We’ll never walk the village streets? We’ll be toys for someone we don't know—probably a human who hates our kind? I don't want to. I don't want to!

  I felt a scream building in my throat, but I couldn't even find the breath to let it out. But then, Wyn spoke, and the words she said were so unexpected they cut through my terror.

  “S-so... if we are sold,” she whispered, her eyes wide and overflowing with tears, “can the two of you live a normal life? Will you and Mom be alright?”

  I turned to look at her, dumbfounded. Her voice was shaking, but her intent was clear. She was offering herself up as a sacrifice. I looked at her face and realized she was smiling—a weird, forced expression that looked more like a grimace of pain. She was terrified. She didn't want to be a slave any more than I did. But she was choosing to bear it so our parents wouldn't have to suffer.

  I looked at Mom and Dad, who were staring at her in stunned silence. Her expression was both the most horrific and the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. She was putting her family above her own life. Seeing her strength, I felt a spark of courage ignite in my own chest.

  “D-dad,” I said, my voice trembling but certain. “I am afraid. So afraid. But it’s okay. We don't have another choice. So... please, just live well with Mom, okay? Make it worth it.”

  I had gathered every ounce of courage I possessed to say those words. It didn't sound brave, but it was all I had. Our father looked at us, his heart breaking, but he knew we were right. He was the one who had brought up the slave trader, after all.

  I remembered the witch’s advice: Accept it as soon as possible. Resistance will only increase your pain.

  If this were the "ominous event," then fighting it would only make the separation more agonizing.

  Our last day at home was spent in a state of grieving silence. Dad had already arranged for a trader—someone he claimed was known for being "easygoing" toward beastkin, even if it meant a lower price. He wanted us to have some semblance of a life, even in chains.

  The money from our sale was enough to clear the debt with a small amount left over. It was a small mercy, knowing our parents would be free of the burden that had cost us our freedom. And so, the trader arrived and took us away toward the nearby city called Yargan.

  [Edited]