Arcana Purple

The old woman shuffled about her crooked cottage, her shawl trailing along the floor like a tired banner. Her cauldron simmered in the centre of the room, belching puffs of steam tinted a strange, arcana purple that clung to the air in lazy spirals. Bottles rattled on their shelves as though stirred by some unseen hand, and the floorboards groaned in protest each time she dropped another ingredient into the bubbling brew. Despite her bent spine and wrinkled hands, her movements had a precision to them, as if guided by something far sharper and far older than her feigned frailty suggested.

She whispered words too tangled to remember once heard, and the purple haze responded—thickening, twisting, coiling around her shoulders like a cloak. In the heart of the cauldron, the liquid shifted hue, deepening to a violet so dark it seemed to drink the light. The old woman’s eyes glinted, reflecting that same unnatural glow, and the smile on her lips was both warm and uncomfortably wide. She dipped a ladle into the brew and filled a small vial, the elixir inside pulsing with a faint, hypnotic shimmer. Pressing it into your palm, her grip lingered, firm and cold. “Arcana answers to no one,” she said, her voice both kind and sharp, like silk stretched over a blade. “Drink, and you will find its truth—though not always the truth you seek.”