Ahspid settled into a chair positioned behind a small, round wooden table, its surface painted a deep, matte black. He then lowered the hood of his cloak, revealing his features to the dim light of the witch's cabin. He still hesitated to fully shed the cloak, knowing the biting cold outside mirrored the frigid atmosphere indoors.
Surveying the interior of Bjarna's secluded house, a structure she had meticulously crafted over years of solitary existence, Ahspid could not suppress a pang of nostalgia.
'Even during her days in the Capital, her dwelling bore this same familiar semblance. She does not like change. It is as if she's woven from the very fabric of resistance, an unyielding force tethered to her essence.'
The witch's cabin, though small, exuded an atmosphere far from cozy. Enveloped in ominous darkness and haunted by the chilling howls of drafts, it remained a place miles away from comfort.
