Chapter 75: The Legend of the Pure White Witch
**Thelma Zane’s Point of View**
Benard’s arms wrapped around me with such intensity, as if he intended to fuse our very beings into one. His hold was not just physical but emotional, an embrace filled with love, fear, and the silent promise of protection. In that moment, it felt as though the rest of the world had faded away, leaving only the two of us in our little bubble of warmth and solace.
We lay together in a field of daisies, their vibrant colors defying the harshness of the winter. around us. Hand in hand, head to head, we resembled newborn wolf cubs, seeking comfort in each other’s presence. The cold, unforgiving world beyond the blossoms seemed distant, insignificant even.
“Flowers blooming in winter–it’s almost magical,” I said softly, plucking a delicate petal from one of the daisies. I twirled it between my fingers, marveling at its resilience. “Perhaps sorcery isn’t entirely worthless. It has its moments of wonder, like allowing us to feel the warmth of spring in the depths of winter.”
Benard reached for a purple daisy and gently tucked it behind my ear. His touch was tender, and his voice was equally soft. “You’re right. The world isn’t always divided into simple categories of good and evil. Unfortunately, the actions of a few can overshadow the kindness of many. It’s like a stream–clear and full of life–but people only notice the dead leaves floating on its surface, not the fresh water or the vibrant fish beneath.”
His words stirred thoughts of Dorothy, a girl who bore the weight of her lineage with quiet etermination. Despite her insecurities about her witch blood, she remained kind, gentle, and resolute. Her heart was delicate yet strong, shaped by the very heritage she feared.
Yet, in a society where werewolves viewed witches with suspicion and disdain, Dorothy’s kindness often went unnoticed. Even her own family treated her with a coldness that was difficult to ignore. The world’s indifference forced her to carry her secret in silence, always watching, always waiting for the next hint of malice directed her way.
Then there was Carolyn–a girl who might have been under the control or influence of a witch. I understood that she was likely a victim of circumstances beyond her control. Rationally, I knew I shouldn’t blame her. But whenever I thought of how she lingered around Benard, my heart stirred with a mixture of jealousy and frustration.
It wasn’t just Carolyn who drew my ire–it was the witches themselves. My anger toward them felt like a form of release, a way to vent the emotions I struggled to contain. I recognized this flaw within myself, yet I found it difficult to suppress.
“Witches are always a delicate subject,” Benard said, breaking the silence. “You’ve heard of the legendary wizard Fitch, haven’t you? The southern Duke became a hero because he defeated him.”
hapter 25 The Legend of the Pure White Witch
“The same Fitch who was responsible for the deaths of over three hundred werewolves during the Backwater War?” I replied. “Of course, I’ve heard of him. His name is etched in infamy across all the packs.”
The Backwater War had left an indelible mark on our history. It had been more than two decades since the conflict erupted, fueled by old animosities between werewolves and sorcerers, as well as the territorial ambitions of certain sorcerer factions. The war claimed many lives, including those of my grandparents. My father, along with Duke Frank and other leaders, rose to prominence due to their bravery in that conflict.
Benard’s expression grew thoughtful. “There’s more to that story than what we learn from history books,” he said. “Would you like to know what really happened back then?”
I nodded eagerly. The sterile accounts in textbooks never captured the essence of those events. I yearned for a deeper understanding.
“My father was sent to the frontlines along with the southern Duke,” Benard began. “During their journey, they encountered a witch–not as an enemy, but as someone in desperate need of help. She was barely alive, and they decided to save her. She wasn’t just any witch; she was a ‘pure white witch.‘ Her magic was unique–entirely devoted to healing rather than causing harm.”
I listened intently, intrigued by the mention of such a rare and enigmatic figure.
“This pure white witch didn’t discriminate in her healing,” Benard continued. “She saved everyone–witches, wizards, werewolves–without hesitation. Her compassion gradually earned the trust of those around her, even my father and the southern Duke.”
For a brief moment, it seemed as though peace between the two races was possible. But wars are not easily forgotten, and peace is often fragile.
“The war raged on,” Benard said, his voice tinged with sadness. “Fitch, the infamous wizard, saw an opportunity to exploit the situation. He secretly collaborated with radical sorcerers held captive in the werewolf camp. Together, they orchestrated a devastating attack from within, resulting in the deaths of 346 werewolves–soldiers and civilians alike. Our forces were crippled, and the capital, the heart of the Lycan Pack, was nearly lost.”
The betrayal deepened the divide between werewolves and sorcerers, making reconciliation seem impossible. In the aftermath, all captured sorcerers were executed–except for the pure white witch.
“The southern Duke pleaded for her life,” Benard explained. “He convinced the others to spare her, but at a cost. She swore an oath to the Moon Goddess and the dark forces of her kind that she would never use magic again.”
I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. “Why would the Duke, a war hero, plead for a witch’s life?”
Chapje 25. The Legend of the There White Watche
Benard’s gaze softened. “Because they were in love,” he said simply. “Though it was never explicitly stated, it was clear. He saw her not as an enemy but as a beacon of hope in a world torn apart by hatred.”
The story took a tragic turn.
“During the final battle, the southern Duke faced Fitch. He fought valiantly but paid a heavy price–losing an arm, an eye, and a leg to defeat the sorcerer. His injuries were so severe that he was on the brink of death.”
“What happened to him?” I asked, though I suspected the answer.
“The
pure white witch broke her oath,” Benard said softly. “She used her magic one last time to save him, exchanging her life for his. The Moon Goddess and the dark forces punished her for breaking her vow, and she died.”
My heart ached at the thought of such a sacrifice. It was a love story doomed from the start–a tale of two souls from opposing worlds, brought together by fate and torn apart by war.
“The southern Duke was never the same after that,” Benard concluded. “His once radical views softened, and he became a symbol of peace and understanding.”
As I absorbed the story, I realized its profound message. Love, even in the darkest times, can bridge seemingly insurmountable divides. But it often comes at a cost–sometimes, a cost too great to bear.
