I narrow my eyes, unsettled by the way her words coil around me like smoke. The cushion creaks as I lower myself, careful not to take my gaze off her.
“My story?” I murmur, voice low. “Stories are best told when the listener already knows half the truth. You say you’ve been expecting me… then you already know why I’m here. The swamp drew me, same as it’s drawn others before—promises whispered through the trees, debts carved into my bones. But if you truly know who I am… then tell me, Hag. What is it you’ve seen in the flames that I’ve yet to face?”
