Most people wake up to a dawning experience of inner growth, an epiphany of madness that sings ‘voila, I have attained inner oneness, I am now the best version of myself, the serendipity of serendipities.’ I wake up to the smell of rotten meat, dusty floors and a wooden prison. The epitome of my hidden life.
My life in its half magical entirety has been hidden from every person around me but myself. I am a secret to everyone but myself.I breathe for everyone but myself. I am a sacrifice for everyone but myself. The very fact that I wake up every morning, open my curtains, drink my tea and read my books sings sorrow and misery to not one but five races among those that live in the Hidden Valley. And so, I stay hidden. I stay under a castle built to keep magic in, never to let it seep out. But I am not in my bird cage right now. Now I stare at the door I had been dreading, I unleash the war I had tried to cease and I hope that I live for just one more day.
I am dreading my death, a death I had brought upon myself. Just as I am a sacrifice for everyone but myself, my death is better for everyone but myself. But the fact remains, that I have been kidnapped from one prison to another. My death is but show and tell now. A tragedy for a life.
But my story starts not in these prisons but in the forests of the Hidden valley, the hour at which the last full blooded witch gave birth to a bride for the King of the Wolves.