Three hundred years ago, the witch Benacia Vilmire was born from ashes and grew an underworld kingdom built to suit her lust for humiliation and slave...y before being beheaded by an angry mob. At the moment of her death, her soul infused itself to one of her most valuable possessions, a tiny black journal that detailed her life's struggles and triumphs. For almost three hundred years her soul remained banished to limbo, its very existence bound only to that tiny tome, awaiting the moment when. Jab jhule pe baithe to wo mere sath hi baith gaya. Jaise thoda upar gaye usne mere kaamar me hath dal diya aur jor se dabane laga, main sirf charo or dekh k has rahi thi aur dekh rahi thi kahi ye sab altaf dekh to nahi raha hai. Thodi der me usne meri jangho pe hath ghumane laga. Fir hangho k bich hath dal k jor se meri jangh bhi dabane laga, ab mujhe thoda dard bhi ho raha tha. Ek bar to usne itna jor se dabaya ki meri aankh me pani aa gaya. Jab tak hum bahut upar chale gaye the usne jaldi se. More

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