When a witch dies far from home her hut will wait like a faithful hound. It will stand sentinel on its chicken legs, guarding its mistress’s secrets, until the magic fades and all that remains is a gnarled old tree and the sense of being watched.
But sometimes, it goes feral, rampaging through the countryside searching for magic to sustain itself. That’s when you call us.
This old house wasn’t hard to follow. We found it bent before a sacred spring, new limbs sprouting awkwardly from the foundation. I signaled my team. It was time to bring down the beast.

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