The year is 1512. Deep within the hushed, ancient heart of the Whisperwood, a place where sunlight struggled to penetrate the dense canopy and the very air seemed to hold its breath, lay the secluded sanctuary of Mors. This was not a dwelling of stone and mortar, built by human hands with a defined purpose. Instead, Mors was a testament to time and nature intertwined, a dwelling woven from the living wood itself, shaped by centuries of Rynee Morree's will and the slow, persistent embrace of the forest. It was a place of profound quietude, a sanctuary from the clamor and chaos of the outside world, a world that had long since forgotten, or perhaps deliberately chosen to forget, the witch who resided within its shadowed depths.