The Witch's Woven Secret

Honestly, I’ve seen more enthusiasm from a slug on a salt lick than I had that morning. The colossal moon, usually my dramatic spotlight, was just… there. Like a giant, pale dinner plate that had forgotten to be spooky. And my brambles? They weren't just droopy; they were practically weeping. Weeping, I tell you! It was an insult to my entire existence as the Thorn Witch of Blackwood. My whole brand was built on being magnificently, terrifyingly thorny. Now? I looked less like a formidable enchantress and more like a disgruntled houseplant.

Then, like a ray of sunshine tripping over its own feet, Lily appeared. She was supposed to be scared. She was supposed to be tiptoeing, wide-eyed, expecting me to unleash a torrent of thorny vines and dramatic pronouncements. Instead, she practically skipped into the clearing, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like a cheerful ditty about daisies. Daisies! In *my* Blackwood! The audacity!

"Hello?" she chirped, her voice bright enough to curdle milk. She clutched a little woven basket, probably full of more cheerful flora that had no business being in my domain. "Is anyone here? I'm looking for… well, for the Thorn Witch?"