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The man woke late one night in his cottage. Located in the dark village of Oakwood, witches roamed freely and as they pleased. This man happened to be a witch. 

The meeting, the meeting, just make it to the meeting,” he kept repeating to himself. The only thing was, he didn’t know where the meeting was or why he needed to be there. Any rational voices in his head were gone. Just him and his dimly lit foyer.

He threw on his dark leather cloak and his charcoal loafers. As he stepped outside, the cold winter air bit at his nose, ears, and lips. He shivered yet persisted on his way to the meeting. 

A light snowfall coated homes and trees. The moon shone brightly in the pitch black. The snow crunched under his feet as he walked on the fresh new path he was making.

“The meeting, the meeting. Please just let me make it. Only a bit longer,” the man whispered frantically. 

 As he passed a blacksmith shop, the woman working there glanced at him. “Oi, best be getting back in yer cottage there, young man. Far too cold out for a stroll,” she snarled in a voice that seemed to be sympathetic but, with her thick Scottish accent, it was hard to discern the emotion she was emitting. 

The man dipped his head. Come to think of it, why was he out here again? Who was he meeting? Oh. Right. The meeting.

“Got somewhere urgent to go,” he smiled apathetically. “Don’t worry, I can’t get frostbite.” He laughed, but it was emotionless and the woman stared at him with a certain curiosity.

“Aight, o’ course you can’t. Witch,” she muttered under her breath.

He continued walking in the snowy forest and the torchlights helped guide him. It seemed as though his self-consciousness was leading him wherever he was going. He had no recollection of ever going this way. Must’ve been a mind trick. 

The wind picked up and he held onto his cloak to keep warm. The hood of the cloak tousled his dark hair and shifted his reading glasses. “The meeting, the meeting, I must make it to the meeting,” he repeated over and over. Except… it wasn’t his voice saying that. The man stopped dead in his tracks. What had he done earlier today? What did he have for breakfast? Didn’t he go out to Oliver’s Pub for dinner with Benedict? 

“I’ve been tricked,” he said, astounded. “I need to head back before they—”

“Oh, it’s much too late now, luv,” a new deep voice echoed around the clearing the young man now found himself in. His English accent was heavy and sweet, manipulative. “You’re coming with me, witch.”

He was knocked unconscious by the man’s punch and knew right away the familiar smell of the Inheritance Potion. The young man, whose name was Kaffigan, would soon be sacrificed.

All that would be left of him was a willow.