With two so-called prophets in town, the werewolves laid low for a while.

Even if I wanted to prove myself, I had no opportunity.

"Some Seer he is. Can't even beat Preston. How did his family's bloodline even choose him in the first place!"

"Who knows? Preston is better than him in every way! I went to give Preston a freshly baked apple pie yesterday, and he refused to take it. See? That's a real hero!"

I strode past them, my face a mask of indifference, but their words still twisted like daggers in my gut.

Preston's reputation in town was soaring, while I, the real Seer, felt more like an impostor.

Soon after, I was suspended from my position as the archivist, and even my access to the archives was restricted.

Having lost my sanctuary for performing rituals, I knew a werewolf could kill me at any moment, and I'd never see it coming.

As the sun sank toward the horizon, I stood at the cliff's edge, screaming two lifetimes of grievances into the tumultuous sea.

"Since you've accepted Preston as the Chosen One, why even keep me around!"

"Are you laughing at me too? I'm not as powerful as Preston. After being a Seer for over ten years, I still can't have visions in my dreams! If you're so disappointed in me, then take back my ability!"

Tears slid down my cheeks, and then, a sigh echoed in my mind.

The sound seemed to carry a mix of pity, helplessness, and a sorrow that felt as ancient as the earth itself.

My breath caught. Could it be? Was Preston not the Chosen One? Was this all just an elaborate lie?

Before I could process it, my phone buzzed.

The townspeople were frantically sharing a message in the social media group: "The Herb Witch is dead!"