“It’s sarcasm, little one.” His head inclines. “Or is that not a language you speak?” His gaze drifts from my eyes to my mouth and stays there a heartbeat too long. “Do you speak other languages?”
“Why do you ask?” My jaw tightens.
“Because I’m curious about you.” He steps closer, slow enough to give me time to retreat—though I do not, since my present situation restricts movement and hopping is out of the question. “You have watched me for quite some time, yet I know very little about you. Where did you come from? What are you here to do? How are you the way you are?” His eyes flick briefly toward my collar, toward the hidden markings beneath. “What do all the symbols mean?”
My lips press into a thin line. I say nothing and only meet his stare.
“Let’s add stubborn to the list, shall we?”
I do not dignify that with a response.
The grin returns, lopsided this time, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other. “Beautiful, but stubborn, and dare I say defiant too. Did your daddy not love you enough as a child?”
Irritation and fury flash through me. “I had no father. Or at least not in that way.”
“That explains quite a lot, actually.”
It’s my turn to smile, though there’s no warmth in it. “Does it? Then there you are. You have me all figured out.”
“Hardly.” His gaze roams over me. “What should I call you? Do you have a name?”
“Call me whatever you like.” I lift a shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “It makes no difference to me.”
“No?”
I hold his stare unflinchingly.
“You won’t give me your name?”
“No.”
He studies me a moment longer. “No, you do not have one, or no, you will not give it to me?”
“As I already said, call me whatever you like.”
“Little one, it is then. It suits you. Or perhaps… my White Little Witch.”
“I’m not your anything. Least of all, a witch.”
“Aren’t you?” His head tilts slightly as he studies me. “You do not age. You wear archaic markings on your skin. And your eyes…” His gaze narrows, sharpening. “The light in them tells a different story. That is divine light shining back at me, and believe me, I should know.”
I cannot dispute any of it.
The word witch takes root in my mind and begins to unravel threads of memory. My thoughts sift rapidly through everything I have studied, as though pages are being flipped in some invisible ledger.
Prayer or ritual. Potion-making. Active engagement with unseen forces. Belief shaped into craft—spells, symbols, healing salves, poisons, plants. Weather. Sun and moon cycles. Astrological signs. Charms. Hexes. Communing with spirits beyond the veil.
Some of it aligns. Some do not.
Bloody moon. Now he has me questioning my own identity.
“Are you messing with my head as you have done with them?” I ask tightly, jerking my chin toward the citizens moving about us.
“I have yet to attempt to manipulate your thoughts or emotions.” A faint smile curves his mouth. “At least not today.”
“But you have tried before?”
He shrugs. Shrugs. “Yes. From a distance. As I have with them.”
