“Dare we risk it?” another said. “We’re too far from a city for my liking.”
“That, or risk her in the open air with water in her lungs.”
Oi, I got most of it out.
“It’s not Winter’s Bite. She looks strong enough to handle it.”
“She’d be more suited to handle the Bite. I say we push on to an inn. Captain?”
Sainte remained silent, and the gentle sway of the horse nearly lulled me into sleep before he spoke.
“No—the next hut we see.”
A chorus of disappointed groans rolled through the group.
As I cracked my eyes open, the fading sun painted the overgrown road in hues of gold and shadow. I wasn’t too concerned about finding a roof over my head—exhaustion lured me into its embrace, and all I craved was rest.
Our little crew pressed on, slowing as the moons rose. The night’s chill bit at my fingers, and at one point, Sainte cupped his hand over mine, pinning them to his abdomen. I grabbed fistfuls of his tunic, trying to stay coherent enough to keep my seat.
He jerked on the reins. “Hold.”
Startled, I broke into a fit of coughs, my throat sore and raw.
“Urien–”
“Aye.”
Quiet creaks of leather and the snap of small twigs disturbed the night’s silence. I straightened, examining the crowded road. Twin moons mirrored each other above, both full, lending ample light despite the shroud of trees. A dim, flickering candle cast a soft glow through the carved window of a shack nestled along the path ahead. The structure, akin to a horse stall at a typical inn, offered enough space to shield from the cold, but lacked the roominess to be comfortable during warmer seasons.
I rested my temple against Sainte’s shoulder as Urien approached the small door hanging precariously on a single hinge.
“Hail.” His call was soft, yet carried through the night, barely audible above the nocturnal creatures.
A muffled response came from inside, and at Sainte’s nod, Urien approached, gently pushing the door open. He paused, surveying the shack’s interior before returning to the group.
“It’s a witch, but she’s alone.”
“Do you trust it?” Sainte asked quietly.
The moonlight illuminated a figure in a long dress with a shawl over her head, standing at the threshold.
“‘Tis my principle never to trust a witch,” Urien scoffed, then shrugged. “I don’t think we’ll be wandering upon any better tonight, though.”
“Bring her in,” her dry voice rasped from her hovel.
The ambient sounds around us dwindled into silence. Crickets ceased chirping, owls silenced their hooting, rodents halted their scurrying—everything fell quiet.
Sainte grunted, shifting in his seat. “Where there’s a witch, there’s a town.”
Witches were familiar territory. They spoke in riddles and claimed to have visions within their dreams. Still, their usefulness usually ended with potions,and even then, few concoctions actually worked for me.
And they all had something to prophesy about my ‘heritage.’
Sainte clicked his tongue, urging his horse to walk. “Move on.”
Urien mounted, and we rode past the witch’s shack. Her skin resembled an aged grape, wrinkled, dry, and sagging. A long, crooked nose adorned her face, while her jowls hung low, revealing the redness of her eye sockets. Her dark, mysterious leer followed me, glittering in the dim light.
“Peace,Princess,” she hissed.
