"The gift cannot be delivered, so it has no value. Taking the opportunity to discard it means not having to carry it around later."
Feria thought indifferently, pressing down her aching heart, coughing softly, and continuing to walk among the desolate ruins, in the dilapidated city. Sometimes she was a doctor treating the sick, sometimes a soldier guarding the shelter, and sometimes she ventured into chaotic areas, becoming a nightmare for many.
The damaged witch's heart was difficult to mend. No matter how she used magic, she couldn't completely heal herself—ever since Margaret's death, Feria had endured heartbreak-like pain countless nights and days. No one knew about this, and she didn't want anyone to know.
One hundred years, two hundred years.
The continent gradually lost track of the witch Feria.
She vanished like a gray shadow, silently. Her name was no longer known by anyone.
