Dorothy's Forbidden Grimoire

The night was moonless, with a cold drizzle pattering down. Raindrops fell on the riverbank's soil and rocks, washing away bloodstains and spreading a faint metallic scent through the air.

This was the bottom of a deep gorge. A turbulent stream cut through the valley, its rushing waters echoing against the cliffs. On one side of the gorge stood a sheer cliff; on the other, a steep slope dotted with resilient shrubs and trees clawing their way out of the rocky soil. At the base of the slope, the incline eased, forming a slanted floodplain along the riverbank—a stage for a grim scene.

Several overturned wagons lay scattered across the riverbank. Corpses of people and horses were strewn about, blood oozing from ghastly wounds, only to be swept into the river by the rain. The faces of the deceased were frozen in terror, forever preserving their final moments.

The silence of death pervaded the rain-drenched battlefield. All seemed devoid of life—or so it appeared.

Near the riverbank, within an overturned carriage barely suspended by its reins from slipping into the rushing waters, a young girl leaned against an upturned seat, silent and still.

The girl looked to be about thirteen years old, dressed in a modest white-and-brown dress, with plain shoes and short socks—hardly the attire of someone wealthy. Her body was stained with blood in several places. Long, silver-white hair cascaded neatly down past her shoulders, glinting faintly even in the dim light. Her serene, closed face was marred by blood on one side, which had trickled down from a wound hidden beneath her right bangs.

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