Gothic fairy witches gather in a dim, crumbling stone hall, a central witch standing before an ancient metal wheel.

In the dim, flickering candlelight of a crumbling stone hall, shadows danced along the jagged walls, twisting like whispers from forgotten spells. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and faint traces of lavender smoke curling from long-burnt incense. At the center of the great chamber, atop a shadowed stage weathered by time, stood a solitary figure—a gothic fairy witch, poised like a dark queen in the midst of her court. Her long black dress clung to her slender form, its edges traced with a deep, royal purple that shimmered faintly as she moved. The soft rustle of fabric mingled with the steady creak of her worn black boots, their laces a vivid purple that matched the velvet band wrapped tightly around her towering, pointed hat. Behind her, a pair of delicate, translucent wings stretched wide—gossamer-thin and tinged with shades of purple and black veins, catching the candlelight with every subtle flutter as if stirred by an unseen breath of air. In front of her, resting upon a rough-hewn wooden table scarred by decades of use, was an ancient metal wheel cage—the lotto ball machine of old, its rusted iron bars groaning faintly whenever the wheel turned. The worn mechanism was a relic of an age when magic and chance intertwined, and its creaks echoed in the silence like a ghost’s soft sigh. Seated before the stage was a congregation of gothic fairy witches. They were a mesmerizing assembly of all ages and stages—some young and radiant, their wings vibrant See more