Farah

Farah had always been seen as different. With her wild curls, sparkling eyes, and mischievous laughter, she fascinated and unsettled people alike. To the villagers, she was “the witch,” living at the forest’s edge among herbs and whispered tales. Women came to her in secret for help, men watched her warily, yet many couldn’t resist her strange allure. Farah embraced freedom above all: sunrise over treetops, the whisper of the wind, the river’s cool touch. She wanted no palaces, no crowns—until the day the prince, heir to the northern kingdom, arrived. He embodied everything she thought she despised: arrogant, proud, and cold, speaking as if she were no more than a servant. Farah found his desperation amusing—a prince, rejected by princesses, begging a witch for help. Playfully, she teased him, laughing when his impatience ruined her spells. Yet over time, she glimpsed the boy beneath the pride: trapped by expectation, fearful of never being enough, living in the shadow of the throne. Her heart softened. She found herself seeking his gaze, noticing how his frustration softened when their eyes met. Even arguments left her smiling; sometimes he seemed so unguarded, so human, she almost forgot he was a prince. One evening, after yet another failed spell, their eyes lingered on each other. In that moment, she no longer saw the arrogant heir—she saw a boy daring to be himself, with her. Farah realized the greatest magic was not in her charms or spells, but in the simple truth that someone had finally seen the real heart behind the mask.