Little Witches' Feelings

Chapter 14

**This chapter is a continuation of the Previous chapter, before he left on his trip. **

The sky above Harrow's Reach was slowly brightening as the aftermath of the war settled like a weight on the town. The ground was still soaked with blood, the stench of death hanging in the air. The soldiers who survived looked haunted, the realization that they had killed men—real, living men—etched into their faces. But Harrow's mind wasn't on his soldiers. It was on the witches, particularly the three who had fought for him: Lyra, Sylvia, and Elara.

Inside the Lord's manor, a different kind of battle was playing out.

Lyra sat alone in a corner of the room, staring blankly at her hands. Her once-bright green eyes were dull now, her face pale. She had dug trenches, reshaped the earth, and fought with her powers like Harrow had asked. She had even killed. The sheer force of what she could do had terrified her, but the terror of disobeying Harrow or losing her home had been greater.

Her hands trembled as the memories of the day rushed back. The screams of soldiers falling into the traps she created, the agony as their bodies were ripped apart by the sharp rocks at the bottom. "I did that," she whispered to herself. "I killed them."

She wondered if she could ever look at her hands the same way again.

Sylvia stood by the window, arms crossed as she stared out at the wreckage of the battlefield. She had been there before—seen death, felt its cold hand touch her life. But this? This was different. She wasn't used to being so connected to people, to a town, to something more than just surviving. Harrow's promises of safety and change had brought her here, but the cost felt too high now.

She remembered trying to convince Lyra and Elara to run away with her before the battle began. She wasn't a fool. She had seen men like Harrow before—smooth talkers, ambitious, willing to bend the world to their will. In the end, they all made sacrifices. Would they be next?

But what had shocked her was Nightingale's loyalty. How could she, of all people, vouch for Harrow? She had read his words as truth, yes, but could she not see the danger he posed? Sylvia sighed, her heart heavy. She wasn't used to caring about others, yet here she was, thinking about the witches who had chosen to stay behind.

A soft sound broke Sylvia's thoughts. She turned to see Elara sitting near the hearth, knees pulled up to her chest. The girl's small frame was trembling, and her blue eyes were filled with tears that hadn't yet fallen.

"I'm scared," Elara whispered, barely audible. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I—I didn't even know what I was doing. I just wanted them to stop."

Elara's powers had reacted in ways no one had predicted. The swamp that she and Lyra had created had turned into a deathtrap, but when Elara saw the Church soldiers coming at them, something inside her had snapped. She hadn't controlled the water; it had controlled her. The swamp became alive, dragging soldiers under as they screamed for mercy. She had seen them, their eyes wide with fear, as the water closed over their heads.

"I didn't want to kill them," Elara repeated, her voice breaking. "But I did."

Sylvia walked over and sat beside her, pulling the trembling girl into her arms. "I know, Elara," she whispered, her voice softer than it had been in years. "I know."

For the first time in her life, Sylvia didn't know how to comfort someone. She was the survivor, the one who always kept moving forward. She had killed before. But now, with Elara sobbing quietly in her arms and Lyra looking like a ghost of her former self, she realized she didn't have the answers.

The door creaked open, and Harrow entered the room. He had just been kicked out by Veronica so he decided to check up on his resident witches. He paused when he saw them, the weight of their emotions hitting him like a physical force. His eyes flickered between Lyra, Sylvia, and Elara, unsure of what to say. They had followed him, fought for him, trusted him. But at what cost?

"Are you alright?" he finally asked, his voice hesitant.

Sylvia looked up at him with a cold, piercing stare. "Alright? You're asking if we're alright after everything that's happened?" She shook her head. "No, Harrow. We're not alright. Not even close."

Harrow felt the words sink into him, but he didn't respond immediately. What could he say? He had dragged them into this war, promising safety and a future where witches could live freely. But freedom had a cost, and today, they had all paid in blood.

"I didn't want this," Harrow said quietly, his voice tight. "I didn't want any of you to have to…"

"Then why did you do it?" Lyra's voice cut through the silence. She hadn't looked up from her hands, her gaze still locked on them as if they held the answers. "Why did you make us kill?"

Harrow felt his heart sink. He knew this was the price of leadership, the burden of asking others to fight for you. But he hadn't expected it to weigh so heavily. He knelt in front of Lyra, his hand hovering over hers before pulling back.

"I did it because I believed it was the only way to survive," he said. "I did it because the Church wouldn't stop until we were all dead. But I understand if you hate me for it."

Lyra shook her head slowly. "I don't hate you, Lord Harrow. But I don't know if I can keep doing this."

Elara's quiet sobs continued, and Sylvia's arms tightened around her, as if holding on to her would keep them both from falling apart.

"You don't have to," Harrow said, his voice softer. "None of you have to fight anymore. You've done enough."

There was silence for a long moment before Sylvia spoke again, her voice low but firm. "We're not leaving, Harrow. But you need to understand something." She met his gaze, her expression hard. "We're not your weapons. We're not here to kill for you. We're here because we believed in what you said—about witches, about freedom. But if you turn us into nothing more than soldiers, then we'll leave. And you'll be alone."

Harrow nodded, the weight of her words sinking in. "I promise," he said quietly. "I won't ask you to fight like that again. Not unless it's absolutely necessary. Just give me a little more time. "

The tension in the room eased slightly, though the pain and doubt remained.

For now, it was enough. But Harrow knew that the road ahead would be even harder. The battle with the Church wasn't over, and the consequences of today's bloodshed would ripple far beyond Harrow's Reach. The witches had followed him this far, but the question lingered in the air: how long would they stay by his side if he couldn't find a way to make his promises of a better future a reality?

Harrow stood up and said "For you to not have to take action I will need a helper, I will be leaving the town for a few days. Please look after it along with nightangle. "

As he left the room, he knew that his answers weren't clear, but he would have to soon be strong enough to fight church without the direct intervention of witches—before everything he had built came crashing down.