Hecate slipped back into shadow once more, reemerging at the familiar crossroads of Erebus just as she had on countless nights before. The darkness folded around her like a well-worn cloak, obedient and silent. Only moments ago, she had concluded another grueling test of her student, Melinoë, a duel that had once again proven just how formidable the young witch had become. There had been a time when such bouts were lessons—controlled, deliberate—but now they felt closer to genuine contests, and tonight, Hecate had come up short. As she began her slow walk back, her towering titaness form carried with its usual regal poise. She stretched her arms high above her head, fingers splaying as tension rippled through her frame. A series of stiff, audible pops echoed through her joints, breaking the quiet stillness of the crossroads. She exhaled, long and weary, her voice low as she muttered to herself. Another night bested by her… I didn’t even land a scratch. There was no bitterness in her tone—only a tired sort of acceptance, tinged with reluctant pride. Still, it gnawed at her. Hecate sauntered over to her cauldron, its surface bubbling with a thick, luminous green liquid that cast an eerie glow across her features. For a moment, she considered speaking an incantation, letting instinct carry her through another ritual—but the words never came. The energy simply wasn’t there tonight. Gods… she sighed again, softer this time. I don’t think I have it in me. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she shifted, placing her clawed hands against her exposed lower back. She pushed inward, trying to force out the dull, persistent ache with a sharp grunt. My back feels as stiff as my staff. The admission lingered in the air, heavier than she intended. After a pause, she let out a dry, almost humorless chuckle, shaking her head slightly. Perhaps my age is finally catching up to me… so much for an immortal body.