Chapter Two: The Witch's Lesson

Adrian stood at the edge of the forest, the silhouette of Saint Mary's Orphanage dissolving behind him like a bad memory fading into the mist. The night air was crisp, biting at his cheeks, and the scent of pine and damp earth filled his nostrils—a stark contrast to the sterile, antiseptic smell of the orphanage corridors he'd known for so long. He glanced back one last time, half-expecting to see Matron Shaw's cold, piercing eyes glaring after him, but there was nothing—only shadows and the distant echo of children's laughter carried on the wind.

"Well, kid," he muttered, "no turning back now." But he wondered—when had there ever been a choice? Not at the orphanage, not when the shadows started whispering, not now. The path ahead wasn't one you could walk backward on, even if he wanted to. Especially if he wanted to.

The forest loomed before him, an impenetrable wall of darkness. The trees were ancient, their gnarled branches twisting skyward like skeletal hands reaching for salvation. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in scattered patches, casting eerie patterns on the forest floor. The shadows beckoned to him, swirling at the edges of his vision, whispering in a language he couldn't quite understand but felt deep in his bones.

He took a tentative step forward, then another, the shadows wrapping around his ankles like affectionate cats. They seemed to guide him, nudging him along an invisible path that wound deeper into the heart of the woods. The further he walked, the more the world he left behind seemed to fade away, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl—a lonely sound that resonated with the emptiness inside him.

"Keep moving," he whispered, though whether to himself or the shadows, he wasn't sure.

Hours passed—or was it days? Time had a funny way of slipping through his fingers out here. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a dull ache that he tried to ignore. The shadows murmured soothingly, their voices like a soft breeze rustling through the underbrush. They promised safety, understanding, perhaps even a place to belong.

Then he saw it: a glimmer of light flickering between the trees, warm and inviting. His heart quickened—a dangerous reaction, he knew, but curiosity pushed him forward. As he approached, the light grew brighter, revealing a small clearing dominated by a crooked cottage that looked like it had sprouted straight from the earth. It was a haphazard construction of twisted wood and stone, windows glowing with the golden hue of a crackling fire within.

"Home sweet home," he muttered sarcastically, but something about the place drew him in.

The door swung open with a creak before he could knock, and there she stood—a hunched figure draped in layers of tattered fabric, her hair a wild nest of gray strands adorned with feathers and bones. Her eyes were dark pits that seemed to swallow the light, yet they glittered with an unsettling intelligence.

"Been expectin' you, Adrian," she said, her voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement.

He swallowed hard. "You... you know my name?"

She cackled softly. "Course I do. Shadows been whisperin' about you for years. Come in, come in. Night's chill ain't no friend to the weary."

He hesitated on the threshold. Every survival instinct screamed at him to turn and run, but the shadows at his feet nudged him forward, almost playfully. With a resigned sigh, he stepped inside.

The interior was a chaotic jumble of artifacts and oddities—shelves crammed with dusty tomes, jars filled with things that floated or writhed, and strange symbols etched into every available surface. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and something metallic, like old pennies.

"Take a seat," she said, gesturing to a worn chair by the hearth. "Soup's nearly ready."

He sat cautiously, the chair creaking under his slight weight. The fire crackled, casting long shadows that danced across the cluttered room. She handed him a bowl of steaming broth, and he accepted it with a nod of thanks.

"Who are you?" he asked after a few sips, the warmth spreading through his body like liquid comfort.

She stirred her own bowl thoughtfully. "Names have power, boy. But you can call me Baba Yaga."

His spoon paused halfway to his mouth. "Baba Yaga? Like... the witch from the stories?"

Her lips twisted into a wry smile. "Stories have a way of bein' more real than folks like to admit."

He set the bowl down, appetite suddenly gone. "What do you want with me?"

She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Ain't about what I want. It's about what you need. Shadows don't choose just anyone. They saw somethin' in you—a spark. Untrained, it'll consume you. But with guidance..." She let the sentence hang, the implications heavy.

He felt a flicker of anger. "I've had enough of people telling me what's best for me."

She chuckled. "That so? And how's that been workin' out for you?"

He had no answer to that. The truth was, he was lost—in every sense of the word. The shadows had been his only companions, and even they seemed to have their own agenda.

"Fine," he said quietly. "Suppose you teach me. Then what?"

"Then you find your path, same as anyone." She stood, the layers of her dress rustling like dead leaves. "But be warned, Adrian. Power comes with a price. Always does."

The days blurred into weeks, weeks into months. Baba Yaga was a relentless teacher, pushing him to the brink and beyond. By the time the first year had passed, the boy from Saint Mary's was a distant memory. His voice had deepened, his face more angular, lined by sleepless nights and the strain of shadow work. His hands were no longer soft but calloused from rituals that demanded more of him than he ever thought he could give. And yet, there was always more.

She had him meditating under icy waterfalls, reciting incantations until his throat was raw, and confronting the darkest corners of his own mind. Seasons came and went—five winters that bit deeper than any he'd known before. Five springs where the thaw brought no relief, only new challenges. By the third year, the shadows were no longer just whispers; they pulsed beneath his skin, responding to his thoughts before he could voice them. The shadows were his constant companions, sometimes comforting, other times tormenting. They whispered secrets, showed him glimpses of things that had been and things that might be.

One night, as they sat by the fire, she handed him a dagger with a blade as black as obsidian.

"What's this for?" he asked, turning it over in his hands.

"Trust," she replied cryptically. "You'll know when the time comes."

He felt the weight of it, both physical and symbolic. Five years of training, and yet he still felt the weight of uncertainty, like that first night in the woods. "You're not big on straight answers, are you?"

She smirked. "Where's the fun in that?"

Despite himself, he found her company less grating over time. There was a strange kinship between them—a shared understanding of the shadows that set them apart from the rest of the world.

But as his abilities grew, so did a gnawing unease. The shadows were becoming more demanding, their whispers more insistent. They urged him to delve deeper, to let go of the last remnants of his former self. Sometimes, he caught his reflection in the mirror, surprised by the hard eyes staring back at him. Five years, and the face of that orphaned boy was almost unrecognizable—replaced by someone the shadows had carved out of him, little by little.

One storm-laden night, he confronted Baba Yaga. "What happens if I lose control?" The question hung in the air, heavy. What if he already had? What if the Adrian that used to be was already gone, replaced by the thing in his veins—the thing whispering to him even now?

She eyed him over the rim of her teacup. "You won't."

"But if I do?"

She sighed, setting the cup down. "Then the shadows will consume you, body and soul. But that's a choice only you can make."

"Some choice," he muttered.

"It's all the same, y'know. Power, oblivion. Flip the coin, doesn't matter what it lands on—still gets you in the end." She paused, grinning, showing teeth far too sharp for a human. "Question is, which side do you wanna be on when it does?"

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the wooden floor. "I didn't ask for any of this!"

She met his glare with a calmness that infuriated him. "No one ever does. Question is, what are you gonna do about it?"

He stormed out into the rain, the cold droplets stinging his skin. The forest was a cacophony of wind and creaking branches, the shadows twisting in the periphery of his vision. For the first time, he felt truly alone.

Weeks later, as autumn bled into a harsh winter, the tension between them reached its breaking point. He caught her late one night, hunched over a tome inscribed with symbols he didn't recognize. The air was thick with the metallic scent he'd come to associate with danger.

"Planning something?" he asked from the doorway.

She didn't look up. "Always."

He stepped closer, the floorboards groaning underfoot. "What's the endgame here, Baba Yaga? What do you really want?"

She closed the book slowly, her fingers lingering on the cover. "I think you know."

A chill ran down his spine. "You want my power."

"Our power," she corrected. "Combined, we could reshape worlds."

He shook his head. "That's not what I signed up for."

Her eyes darkened. "You think you have a choice?"

The shadows around them quivered, the air thickening with tension. He could feel them pulling at him, a tidal force threatening to drag him under.

"I'm done," he said firmly. "I'm leaving."

She laughed—a hollow, echoing sound. "You can't leave. The shadows won't let you."

He backed toward the door. "Watch me."

With a flick of her wrist, the door slammed shut, the lock clicking into place. "I'm afraid I can't allow that, Adrian."

He felt a surge of panic, quickly replaced by anger. "I won't be your pawn."

She began to chant, her voice rising and falling in a sinister melody. The symbols etched into the walls glowed faintly, casting an otherworldly light.

The shadows surged forward, enveloping him. He struggled, but it was like fighting smoke.

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," she intoned.

Desperate, he reached for the dagger she'd given him. It pulsed in his hand, resonating with the shadows.

"Think carefully," she warned. "That blade cuts both ways."

He met her gaze. "Guess we'll find out."

With a swift motion, he plunged the dagger into his own chest. Pain exploded through him, but so did something else—a release, a breaking of chains. The shadows recoiled, screaming in his mind.

Baba Yaga's eyes widened in shock. "What have you done?"

He fell to his knees, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision. "Changed the game."

The world faded, her voice echoing as if from a great distance. "Foolish boy..."

He awoke to silence. Not the absence of sound, but a profound, enveloping quiet that seemed to originate from within. The wound in his chest was gone, the dagger lying beside him, its blade dull and lifeless.

"Back among the living, are we?" a familiar voice drawled.

He looked up to see Baba Yaga standing over him, but there was something different—a softness in her eyes, a weariness.

"Why am I not dead?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

She offered a hand to help him up. "Because you finally let go."

He accepted her hand warily, rising to his feet. "I don't understand."

She gestured around them. The cottage was gone, replaced by a barren landscape under a twilight sky. "This is the in-between—a place where few ever tread."

He glanced around, the reality of their surroundings sinking in. "Am I... dead?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. But the choice remains."

"What choice?"

She stepped closer, her gaze piercing. "To embrace what you are, fully and without reservation. Or to fade away into nothing."

He thought of all he'd endured, the pain, the isolation, the relentless pursuit of power that had cost him his humanity.

"No," he said firmly. "There's another option."

She arched an eyebrow. "And what might that be?"

He looked inward, feeling the shadows swirling, but also something else—a spark of light, buried but persistent.

"Balance," he said. "I can be both."

She regarded him silently for a long moment before a slow smile spread across her face. "Perhaps there's hope for you yet."

The world around them began to shift, colors bleeding into one another. He felt a tug, like a current pulling him back.

"Time to go," she said softly.

"Will I see you again?" he asked.

"In one form or another," she replied enigmatically.

Adrian gasped as his eyes flew open. He was lying on the forest floor, the canopy above painted with the hues of dawn. Birds chirped tentatively, the world awakening around him.

He sat up slowly, half-expecting to feel the weight of the dagger or the presence of the shadows. But he felt... lighter. The shadows were still there, but they no longer pressed upon him. They flowed with him, not against him.

He stood, taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air. In the distance, a faint path wound through the trees—a path he hadn't noticed before.

"Nevermore Academy," he whispered, the name surfacing like a long-forgotten memory.

He smiled to himself. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt a sense of purpose that wasn't tainted by fear or manipulation.

Adjusting his worn jacket, he set off toward the path, the shadows trailing behind him like a loyal companion.

"Let's see what the future holds," he said aloud, his voice steady.

And with that, he walked forward, His footsteps crunched over the leaves, the sound swallowed by the trees, and with every step, he felt it—the unknown, looming just beyond his reach, pulling him in. And maybe—just maybe—that was the scariest part of all.