The witch of the forest, p.20
The Witch of the Forest, page 20
The first thing I notice is the stonework. It’s meticulous. Smooth gray slabs fitted together so precisely you’d think they were born that way. Arched walkways line the perimeter, supported by pillars etched with old elven runes. The kind I can’t read—but feel anyway. Like a whisper in the bones.
At the center of the courtyard is a towering obelisk. It’s white marble, veined with silver and green, and rises at least forty feet into the sky. Around its base is a shallow reflecting pool, clear as crystal, with tiny golden leaves drifting across its surface. They don’t look like they fell—they look placed. Like offerings.
Flanking the courtyard are rows of banners—each one bearing the royal crest. But behind them, the inner castle rises, grand and ominous. Its walls are ringed with narrow balconies, and I can just make out sentries pacing above.
Everything about this place screams authority. Legacy. Power that isn’t demanded—but assumed.
Thorne keeps her hood up as we walk. Caelum walks stiffly, like every step is one closer to a throne he’s not sure he deserves. And me?
I’m trying to memorize everything.
The guard leads us toward the great doors at the far end of the courtyard—massive things, each carved from dark wood with veins of polished iron, etched with swirling designs that mimic leaves caught in a storm. They creak open with slow ceremony, revealing the castle’s interior.
It’s... stunning.
The walls are white stone laced with veins of green crystal that glow faintly beneath the sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Vines spiral up the marble columns, not overgrown, but placed—woven there deliberately like the castle itself grew from the earth. Chandeliers hang like nests of silver branches, dripping with glowing orbs instead of candles. The air smells of cedar, polished wood, and something faintly sweet—like honeysuckle.
But for all its beauty, my attention keeps snapping back to her.
Thorne moves like a storm disguised as a shadow—silent, sure... and on the edge of something dangerous. She places a hand on Caelum’s back and nudges him forward, insisting he lead the way, but never letting him stray more than a few feet from her. Her other hand is balled into a fist so tight her knuckles have gone pale, the tremble in her fingers just barely visible beneath her sleeve.
I’ve seen Thorne face down fae in the woods, men twice her size and flirt with chaos like it was a game.
But this?
This castle is what has her shaking?
It makes no sense. And it makes me nervous.
I hang back, trailing behind her like a shadow’s shadow, watching every twitch of her shoulders, every flex of her hands. Her head stays bowed beneath her hood. Her voice is silent. And whatever this place means to her—it’s already unraveling something.
We pass beneath another archway into a smaller hall, then through another door, and the boy from earlier—glances back at us, gives a short, nervous nod, and darts down a separate corridor.
The door to the council chamber opens.
It is grand—but not in the way a throne room would be. This is built for argument. For power. For decision-making. The space is round, stone and polished wood. A high ceiling domed in glass lets sunlight spill in and cascade across the curved stone table at the center of the room. There are five chairs. Each filled.
The council members.
The first is an older woman with skin like carved wood and hair braided with beads and feathers. Her robes are forest green, embroidered with gold thread, and her eyes gleam like they’ve seen centuries. She sits upright, spine straight as a spear, and watches us with no expression at all.
The second is a younger man, maybe mid-thirties, fair-skinned and dressed in the ceremonial robes of the temple sect. His fingers are adorned with rings and his hair is braided back so tightly I wonder if he can blink. There’s a quiet arrogance in his gaze—like he already knows what we’re here for and has already decided how little he cares.
The third is a woman in silver armor—polished to gleam under the sun, her short hair swept back, sharp eyes assessing each of us like a sword looking for its sheath. She wears no robe, no jewelry. Just the badge of the High Guard over her heart and the stillness of a trained killer.
The fourth—
Well. If the girls back home could see him, they’d drop faster than the harvest leaves.
He’s broad-shouldered, with dark, ruddy skin and a scar over one brow that looks like it came from something worth bragging about. His red coat is well-worn and half unbuttoned, showing the faint glint of chainmail beneath. His hair is a mess of windswept curls, his face dusted with scruff, and his smile—crooked and half-formed—carries the lazy confidence of someone who’s been punched in the face and liked it.
And the fifth is... odd.
A slender figure wrapped in flowing blue robes, their features sharp and angular in a way that makes them almost inhuman. Their eyes are silver. Like mirrors. I don’t even know if they blink. They sit still—too still—and I have no doubt they see more than just the surface of things.
Five council members. Ten guards lining the room. Stone walls that feel far less comforting than the ones outside.
And Thorne...
Still hasn’t spoken.
Still hasn’t looked up.
But her fists shake.
And I don’t know why.
The room falls to a breathless hush as the first councilwoman—the elder with hair like braided bark—leans forward. Her fingers thread together on the table.
“You have the floor,” she says, her voice even, measured, and heavy with expectation. “Speak your purpose.”
Caelum hesitates. He looks over his shoulder, wide-eyed, searching for Thorne. She takes a step forward, lifting her chin though her hood still shadows her face.
“A few days ago,” she begins, “this man arrived at my home seeking help. Upon reviewing the royal archives... and through a personal connection to the family, I was able to confirm something I never thought I’d say aloud.” She pauses, then looks to Caelum before facing the council again. “This man is Prince Caelum. Eldric’s firstborn. Missing for over a decade. He doesn’t remember who he is. But I do.”
The murmurs ripple through the chamber like a tide.
“I knew I recognized him,” one guard whispers to another.
“The jawline—just like the King’s,” another mutters.
One of the councilmen leans back in his chair, squinting at Caelum like he’s trying to make the boy fit a memory. Another nods silently to herself, already convinced.
And then the silver-eyed councilor speaks. “Names,” they say, their voice neither male nor female. Just... cold. “Yours. All of them.”
Thorne freezes.
I glance at her, eyebrows raised, but she doesn’t speak.
So I step forward.
“My name is Solariandriel Vex Ilumine the Fourth,” I say, smoothing my robe with exaggerated flair. “But most people call me Sol. I’m a witch. From the outer region. You know, forest stuff, stars, minor mischief.”
No one laughs.
Tough crowd.
Then... Thorne moves.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t explain.
She simply reaches down and unbuckles the sword from her side. Slowly, deliberately, she lays it on the floor beside me, the hilt facing away like she’s surrendering something sacred. Her satchel follows, set gently down beside the blade.
And then, she lifts her hands to her hood.
The moment the fabric falls back, the effect is instant.
Gasps. Audible, sharp.
Guards stiffen.
One even drops his spear in surprise.
The fourth councilman—the rugged one in red with the roguish expression—surges to his feet.
“Calixta,” he growls, pointing straight at Thorne. “Guards! Arrest her immediately!”
I blink. “Wait—what?”
Two guards spring forward, grabbing her arms. She doesn’t resist. She doesn’t even flinch as they start binding her wrists behind her back with iron-threaded rope.
“What the hell is happening?” I demand, stepping toward her, only for one of the guards to put a hand on my chest and shove me back.
Thorne doesn’t meet my eyes. She just says, quietly, “It’s fine, Sol.”
“It is very much not fine!” I snap, heart racing. “Why are you being arrested? Is this because you left the guard? Because you ran?”
The red-clad councilman glares at me like I’ve grown an extra head.
“This traitor,” the red councilman snarls, rising fully to his feet now, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “She didn’t just abandon her oath. She let the Fae into the kingdom. She is the reason the rebellion happened. She executed King Eldric.”
The chamber erupts.
Gasps. Shouts. A clatter as someone’s weapon hits the floor. Even the other councilmembers look stunned—one of them half-standing, the rest whispering furiously to each other.
And me?
I can’t move.
I can’t breathe.
“What?” I whisper, barely audible.
Thorne says nothing. Her jaw is locked, her expression unreadable—but I see her. I know her. And whatever they think she’s done—whatever they say she did—this isn't the Thorne I know.
The guards grab her arms and bind her wrists behind her back. She still doesn’t fight.
Doesn’t even flinch.
“Thorne?” I step forward, my voice rising. “Tell them they’re wrong. Tell me they’re wrong—because this—this is insane.”
Her gaze lifts, finally meeting mine for a single breath.
But it’s not fear I see there.
It’s sorrow.
“No windows,” the red-cloaked bastard snaps at the guards. “Put her in the dark.”
And just like that, they start dragging her toward the dungeon doors.
The woman who kissed me under starlight.
Who spun fire into my chest with her touch.
Who walked me through forests and burned through every insecurity I had.
Gone.
The Traitor and the Traitor
Thorne
I knew it the moment I stepped into that council room I was doomed.
The moment I saw him.
Not Caelum. Not Sol.
Him.
The red cloak. The smug certainty. The one man who never knew how to lead—only how to punish.
And I walked right back into his hands.
The chains bite into my wrists as I’m dragged down spiral stairs, each one colder than the last. The torches grow thinner. The air thicker. By the time we reach the bottom, the only light left flickers weakly behind the guards, casting their shadows long and monstrous against the damp stone walls.
It smells like mildew and rot and blood too old to scrub out.
“This one,” one of them grunts, shoving open a cell door so rusted it screams on its hinges. “No windows. Just like he said.”
The cell is exactly as promised. Stone walls. Stone floor. Steel bars. No light except for the spill from the stairwell and the dying candle behind them.
They shove me inside.
I stumble, catch myself on the wall. My boots scrape against dried lichen. Chains clatter as they’re tightened through the ring embedded in the stone.
They don’t lock the cell door.
It locks itself.
They start talking once they’re safely back on the other side. Louder now. Mocking.
“Can’t believe she actually came back.”
“She was a ghost. Thought she died with the rebellion.”
“What kind of idiot walks back into the capital after ten years?”
I say nothing.
Not even when the one on the left—young, maybe newer—spits near my feet and calls me a coward. I let them talk. Let them feel brave with their weapons and their steel and their stories. Let them whisper about what I did. About what they think I did.
Because none of it matters.
He will come.
He always does.
Whether he’s gloating or baiting me or trying to piece together his own past, I don’t care.
When he walks into this dungeon—when he steps into reach—I’m going to snap his neck.
And if they bury me beneath this castle in a stone casket, so be it.
I’ve lived in the dark before.
But he won’t walk out again.
THE COLD HAS SEEPED deep, bone-deep, turning stone to ice beneath my skin.
I don’t know how long it’s been—hours, maybe longer. The candlelight from the stairwell is gone now, swallowed by shadow. Only the slow drip of water and the rasp of my own breathing keep me company.
I lie on my side, cheek pressed to the freezing floor, wrists aching in the manacles. I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I learned long ago there’s no point.
There’s no comfort in silence. Only the ghosts he left me with.
Then—
The door at the top of the stairs groans open.
I don’t move.
I know that walk. Heavy. Measured. Confident. Like he still believes the world owes him its knees.
I sit up, slowly. Knees bent, arms folding across them. I lift my chin as the torchlight crawls across stone and steel, casting long shadows into my cell.
Red and gold gleam against his chestplate, polished to shine like it never tasted blood.
But I know better.
Aeralis steps into view, and the air thickens with the rot of memory. The smirk he wears is the same one he used to wear after taking what was never his to have.
His gaze slides over me—not like I’m a threat. Not like I’m even a person. Like I’m a possession he left behind, one he expected to find exactly where he dropped it: ruined, obedient, silent.
But I am not silent. Not anymore.
Then—“Leave us,” he tells the guards behind him. His voice is calm. Careful. Too casual. “I’d like a word in private.”
The guards hesitate. But they obey. The torch stays behind, wedged into a sconce in the wall, casting long shadows across his face.
He steps forward, resting a gloved hand on the bars.
“Funny,” I say, voice gravel rough from disuse. “You look so at home in that armor. Almost like it fits now. Like you forgot what it was made for.”
His smirk doesn’t fade. “You’ve always been so dramatic, Calixta.”
“And you’ve always been a liar.” My voice is colder now. “How can you sit on that council like you didn’t commit treason?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Treason? Is that what we’re calling it now?” He chuckles as if I’ve told a joke. “The last person seen pulling their blade out of the king’s chest was you. That’s what they remember, Thorne. Not your oaths. Not your service. Not your loyalty. Just the sword. Just the blood. Just the pretty little girl who betrayed a crown.”
His words are meant to sting. They don’t. Not because they aren’t true. But because I remember what really happened.
The king wasn’t dead when I found him. He was bleeding out. Barely breathing. His wife—Queen Vaelra—had her hands stained red as she clutched his broken body. “He’s suffering,” she had whispered, eyes wild and glassy. “Please. Please end it. He wouldn’t want to live like this.”
I didn’t want to do it. Gods, I didn’t.
But I knew he was going to die. I knew the enemy was coming. I knew the fae were already breaching the walls.
And I listened to her.
I pulled my blade free.
I thought the Queen’s word would protect me. But before she could speak again—before she could do anything—she was dead.
The guards burst in. The fae behind them.
Everything fell apart.
I got Caelum and his brother out. The younger brother was consumed—burned alive.
And Caelum...
He fell.
I fell too. Into the water. The current carried me further than I ever wanted to go.
And now, the snake who slithered into the empty power vacuum is standing in front of me, basking in his illusion of victory.
I stare up at Aeralis, my voice low and venomous. “So. What are you doing here, Councilman? Wanted to see the traitor up close? Make sure I’m still breathing?”
He leans in, a flash of teeth in the torchlight.
“No,” he says. “I just wanted to see how stupid you really are.”
And gods help him—
He’s about to find out. He shifts his weight, metal creaking faintly as he studies me like a bored predator.
“So,” Aeralis says, dragging the word out like a lazy breath, “how’ve you been the last ten years, Calixta? Get married? Settle down? Pop out a few adorable little soldiers?”
I don’t answer.
His grin curls. “No? Hm. Didn’t think so. You always were a bit too... prickly for domestic bliss.” He tilts his head, letting the insult settle like ash. “But maybe you found some quiet corner of the world to grow herbs and hide. You know, raise plants instead of rebellions.” He laughs at his own joke like it’s brilliant.
Still, I don’t speak. I don’t blink. I just stare.
He steps closer, his fingers now resting on the hilt at his hip, voice dropping into something more intimate, more dangerous. “You’re alone here, sweetheart. You know that, right? No one’s coming to save you. Not your council. Not your little rebels. Not even that poor bastard of a prince you dragged back from obscurity. What’s he going to do for you behind those polished doors? He’s as soft as new bark.” He leans in closer. “Especially when I hand him over to the fae. Let them carve him up in his sleep. One orphan for another.”
I still don’t speak.
His smirk twitches. Irritated.
“Nothing to say?” he drawls, then casually rests his hand on the buckle of his belt. “Maybe I should come back tonight. You must be freezing on that stone floor. I could... keep you warm.” He lets the suggestion hang, vile and sharp. “Floor’s awfully hard for someone with your—delicate—bones.”
My lips curl into a smile. Not kind. Not warm.
But sharp.
Venomous.
“Go ahead,” I murmur. “Open the door. Try it. Step one foot in here and see what happens.”
