I have lived at the edge of the forest long enough to remember when the world was quieter.

Not silent. Never silent. The forest has always had its own noise, wind through branches, water over stone, the slow conversation of roots beneath the soil. But quieter than this. Quieter than the world you have built in your haste to be somewhere else.

I am Zsófia. A witch, if you need a word for it. A keeper of old things. A speaker to entities that stopped being worshipped long before you were born, but who listen still, because the old ones always listen.

I cast my spells not for power. Not for gain. I cast them because something must stand between what remains and what is coming. Because the billionaires are posing as prophets. Because the leaders are playing chess with human lives. Because the earth is being stripped bare by people who will never have to live with the consequences. Because we have traded slowness for speed, depth for distraction, and community for the cold comfort of a glowing screen.

The gods I call upon are older than your institutions. Older than your currencies. Older than the systems you mistake for civilizations. Herne still rides. Hecate still walks the crossroads. Pax still waits, patient and tired, for someone to ask for peace and mean it.

I first appeared on Őrző Mágia, seven spells woven with the old languages of ritual. I called the guardians forth. I asked them to protect what we have lost and what we stand to lose still.