Legend XLVII – The Witch of the Silent Paths

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There are forests that people say have no echo. Words didn't reverberate there, but sank into the moss like drops into a deep well. Whoever ventured down these paths soon realized that even the light grew fainter. Among these trunks, in those shadows cast not only by branches, wandered a figure whose name had whispered through the villages for centuries: the Witch of the Silent Paths. She was beautiful in a way that didn't soothe, but rather stirred a restlessness that began to tremble deep beneath the ribs. Her skin was covered in pale patterns of moonlight, while her arms and shoulders bloomed in colorful tattoos, their lines sometimes shifting as if taking tiny breaths. Her black dress fell like a band of shadow over her, and on her head sat a witch's hat, its jeweled brim shimmering like a night sky filled with silent stars. But the most remarkable thing wasn't her gaze or her gait. It was the skull she carried in her hands—carefully, as if it were a living heart. Some claim the skull is ancient, older than the forests themselves; others say it once belonged to a powerful chronicler or a cursed king. But legend says the skull chose the witch, not the other way around. It is said that this skull, empty as it seemed, held thoughts no one should speak. When she looked at it, a faint golden light shimmered in its sockets, and sometimes its teeth moved as if whispering secrets of the world to her. No one knew what she heard in those moments, but there was always something in her gaze that was both sorrow and understanding—as if she saw the pain behind things that no one else could perceive. The Witch of the Silent Paths was no servant of evil, as some claimed. Rather, she strode through the wilderness like an invisible boundary marker, preserving what threatened to be lost and protecting what found no other refuge. Wanderers who lost their way in the woods later reported—if they returned at all—that a woman with blossoming arms had wordlessly guided them. Others, in moments of deepest despair, found a voice in the darkness that spoke words of encouragement before vanishing into the mist. But not every call brought blessing. There were nights when the witch pressed the skull against her heart, as if listening for judgment. Those who entered the woods too greedily, too cruelly, or too blindly could suddenly find themselves in a thicket that spun like a labyrinth. Some disappeared entirely, and their names were never spoken again. The witch did not let the world lose what was worth preserving—but neither did she let it retain what was destructive. The skull was both her teacher and her touchstone. Within it gathered the shadows of the dead, the cries of the forgotten, and the voices of those who never found one.