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Best Regards, L.M. Franklin

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"My prophet," the words slithered out, an insidious whisper floating on the air. A woman emerged from the shroud of shadows that clung to the forest, her eyes fixed on the young man perched on the precipice.

They stood in a clearing, or so it seemed at first glance. But it was an illusion, for ancient structures loomed around them, remnants of a forgotten era. Weathered and worn, the great stone walls encased the wooden enclave, once bustling with life, now abandoned to the mercy of beasts and woodland creatures.

Barefoot, the woman traversed the treacherous terrain, her steps sinking into the slick mud. The rain cascaded from the heavens, its melody punctuated by the rhythmic tap on decaying rooftops. The young man remained motionless, his back hunched, knelt before a colossal monument.

A stone path, cracked and worn by the relentless passage of time, encircled the once-magnificent centerpiece. Statues, their significance lost to the annals of history, occupied the heart of the clearing, surrounded by what were once pristine waters. Now, those waters lay stagnant, choked by the suffocating grip of mud.

Approaching with measured strides, the woman traced the etchings of time on the foundations, drawing nearer to the young man. Slowly, he raised his head, not in acknowledgment of the woman's approach, but to cast his gaze upon the fountain. His eyes locked onto her figure as she drew closer.

Her hair, as dark as the raven's wing, cascaded down her back, kissed by the sun's gentle touch. Unusual for the denizens of this region, or any land for that matter. And her elongated ears, a rarity among the human empires, betrayed her otherworldly nature. Clad in a gown as black as the night, she clutched a witch's cap in her delicate hands.

He noticed the thinness of her fingers, the skeletal fragility that belied her apparent youthfulness. His gaze shifted to her face, capturing the familiar hue of purple irises that seemed to peer into the depths of one's soul.

Fury clenched his fists, a seething disdain for those eyes that surveyed the world with contempt, with insolence, concealing a wealth of suppressed knowledge and wisdom that could have averted the loss of countless lives. Slowly, he lifted his gaze once more, and the rage that had consumed him drained away, leaving behind a hollow ache.

His heart quickened its rhythm, pulsating with such intensity that he feared it might trigger a panic attack. With outstretched hands, he stood as if entering into a prayer, his eyes fixed upon the heavens. But it was not the celestial realm that held his attention; it was the faces of the statues. Weathered by time, ravaged by nature's wrath, they endured, their features still discernible. Ten statues, hewn from pristine stone, immortalized as images of great heroes.

Decades earlier, these stalwart defenders had saved the city from the clutches of a demonic incursion, one of the last that had plagued the land. Yet they had been forgotten, their valor stripped away, their loyalty betrayed by the very empire they had sworn to protect. Condemned, humiliated, murdered, and ultimately consigned to oblivion.

The young man's gaze flickered with confusion and panic, akin to an ant stumbling upon the imposing head of a hammer, suddenly comprehending its true nature and the human wielding it. How could something so simple grasp such a truth and still retain its sanity?

In a surge of contempt, he tore his eyes away, rising to his feet with a sudden lurch, his body pivoting to face the Witch. "You!" he snarled, his voice dripping with disdain. "You wretched creature!" The violet lightning crackled overhead, casting an eerie glow upon his gleaming armor, while the rain pelted them mercilessly. The Witch returned his glare, her pale, toothy smile only stoking the fires of his fury.

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"Liar!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the ruins.

His grip tightened on the peculiar glaive he wielded, knuckles turning white as he brandished it before the woman. The strange polearm hummed to life, a blaze of weaponized energy that ensnared both the woman and the young man, its menacing sound filling the air. "Give me answers... now," he demanded, his voice a low, simmering threat.

Yet, the woman remained motionless. Her gaze swept over his figure, a hint of admiration glinting in her eyes. He had changed. "You've grown so strong," she murmured, her voice a soft whisper that failed to escape his notice. Her smile widened, a closed grin that set his blood to boil.

"What a man you've become," her words reverberated through the crumbling remnants of the past, but the young man held his ground. "My Ollie..."

Anger surged within him, uncontrolled and fierce. The words seeped into his psyche, entangling his mind with memories of events that had not yet transpired, at least not to him. With a vice-like grip, he seized the weapon once more, forcing the vivid recollections away, drenched in sweat. "Don't speak my name like that, witch!"

"Oh," she responded casually, a soft laughter escaping her lips, a laugh incongruous with her status as a witch. "Even though it was me who first bestowed that name upon you, Oliver Windsor... or do you not fancy that name anymore? Would you prefer something different after arriving in this place?"

Her hands twirled in an enigmatic gesture. "Did this provide you with answers? Your past, your present, your future?" She paused, observing Oliver's unwavering resolve. "Do you even grasp the significance of all this to you?"

Oliver stared back at her, and it was an unusual sight. He had been the first to make it this far, but the journey had been arduous. No longer a young twelve-year-old boy who had stumbled into her hut all those years ago, he had blossomed into a young man, likely between the ages of sixteen and eighteen. His physique exuded athleticism and strength, his features finely chiseled. Adorned in a mismatched array of armor, a departure from the conventional, it was clear that his battle gear had been scavenged and customized to suit his individual needs rather than conforming to societal norms.

He carried an arsenal of peculiar weapons, each one a testament to his distinctiveness. And his armor, fashioned in a manner defying the era, spoke volumes about his identity. Oliver, this particular Oliver, had always possessed an inherent peculiarity, a charm that set him apart. Perhaps that was the reason he had excelled where others had faltered.

However, her gaze remained fixed on his countenance. His expression transformed, taking on the visage of a seasoned warrior, ready to strike like a cornered beast as he pointed his weapon in her direction. Undeterred, she extended her hands, a disarming smile gracing her features.

"Relax, Oliver," she attempted to reassure him. "I mean you no harm. If you wish, I can answer your questions..."

"Shut your trap!" he snapped back, his voice dripping with venom. "I am sick of your games. Who are you?"

"You know who I am, Oliver," she spoke softly. "We've known each other for years. You possess such intimate knowledge of me that..."

Oliver shook his head, his body tense as she advanced towards him, taking another step forward...

"Don't move!" he repeated, his blue eyes aflame, a deep orange hue coloring them, shifting their shade towards a lighter brown. The air crackled with electricity, as the ancient magic of the gods surged around them, coursing through him. "Take another step, and it will be your last."

“Ah, your true eyes return.” The witch merely chuckled, adjusting her witch's cap atop her head, her smirk still firmly in place. "You truly believe you can best me?" she taunted.

He sneered. The lightning overhead grew increasingly volatile, as if mirroring the turbulence of his emotions. His right hand gripped the polearm with newfound control, while his left hand remained pointed at her.

"I can end your life with a mere thought," he uttered in a resolute whisper. "Do not test me."

She snickered.

"Do you think I am that same twelve-year-old child?" he clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "I have slain men, monsters, and the Sons of Benjamin. I have clashed blades with renowned masters and vanquished mighty wizards. I have dispatched Sponsored Imposters. Do not push me, woman!"

His defiant words rang out against the forces of destiny itself, but the woman could discern something within him. The fear etched in his eyes and the glimmer of tears welling up within them.

Once again, she raised both her arms towards him. "Oh, Oliver," she spoke up once more, taking a step closer.

"Stop," he commanded. "Please... stop," he pleaded, tears streaming down his face.

"You understand, don't you? I can no longer deceive you for your own protection. Deep down, you already know the truth," she gently explained.

Oliver's head spun around in a fit of rage, resembling a feral beast. "I'll kill you!" he snapped. "Take another step... just try it!"

She halted, pausing to scrutinize his battle-worn features, the scars etched upon him, each one a testament to the countless conflicts he had endured. Yet, there were inexplicable marks upon his face and body, things he had chosen to ignore, perhaps to safeguard his own sanity.

Scars from a long-lost world, a realm to which he could never return.

She pondered whether he had ever glimpsed the truth, if fleeting suspicions had ever grazed the edges of his consciousness. And she understood that the Ant would forever seek refuge in some semblance of sanity within the madness. His visions, his idiosyncrasies, the scars and wounds etched upon his being. Did he ever dare to confront his reflection? Did he allow himself to reminisce?

"Oliver," she called out to him once more. Tears streamed down his cheeks, his face contorted in anguish. He slumped to his knees, his polearm slipping from his grasp and clattering to the ground. "Has your hair always been as black as night? Have your eyes forever shimmered with this piercing shade of blue?"

He stared at the ground, his gaze fixed upon the decaying ruins surrounding them. The witch drew nearer, her bony hands reaching out to cradle his face, lifting it gently to meet her gaze. Her fingers brushed against his skin, tracing the contours of a particular mark. It was as if she knew it intimately, as if she herself had crafted it.

"Where is the scar you bear, the one earned on that fateful day when your mother perished?"