Whoa...Witch-Craft!

"So," the witch began, her sharp eyes sweeping across the trio before settling on Zana. "What, pray tell, did I do to warrant such a pleasant visit from a kni—Hunter and a..." She turned her gaze to Flower, her disdain palpable as she looked her up and down. "...Conjurer."

"We need a small favor," Zana said, her voice steady but tired.

"Small," the witch interjected, her lips curving into a sly smile. "Or big? Such things are but a matter of perspective. But... a favor?" Her tone turned mocking, yet the glint in her eye betrayed her interest.

"Yes, a favor," Zana replied, unfazed.

The witch's gaze lingered on her, scrutinizing her every word before scoffing softly. "Yes, a favor. Of course. What favor does the mighty Hunter and her tag-along trickster seek of me?"

Zana sighed, the weariness in her eyes deepening. Flower shook her head in frustration. Without another word, Zana gave El Ritch a light nudge, pushing him forward so that he stood in front of them.

"We need a way to contact Aldric," Zana said bluntly, gesturing toward El Ritch. "For him."

The room fell silent. The witch tilted her head, studying El Ritch with a peculiar expression, one that flickered between intrigue and suspicion.

"Aldric Par—"

"Yes, him." Zana interrupted curtly, cutting off the witch before she could finish the name.

The witch arched a brow, her smirk widening as she muttered, "Coming on a bit strong, aren't we?" She glanced back at the boy, then at Zana. "So... Miss Adeline and that... runner of hers—"

"We don't know," Zana said flatly, her exhaustion clear. "We don't know if they're alive or where they are. All we know is this boy belongs to Aldric, other concerns don't matter."

The witch's amusement faltered as the story unfolded. She listened intently, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the edge of the table. When the tale ended, she let out a thoughtful hum and turned her attention fully to El Ritch. Slowly, she knelt, her gown—a white garment that bore the faint, intricate patterns of flowers—gathering around her in soft folds. Her garment was slightly dirty, as if she played in the dirt and it got stuck to her clothes and she wiped them off but some kept sticking.

The boy hesitated, his breath catching as the witch leaned closer, her tone softening. "Are Aldric and Adeline your father and mother, boy?" she asked carefully, as if speaking too loudly might startle him.

El Ritch shook his head, his voice quiet yet resolute. "They... they took me in. Mr. Aldric said to call Doctor Adeline 'Mother.'"

The witch nodded, her lips pursed in thought, her expression unreadable. "Mhm," she murmured, the sound hanging in the air like a faint echo.

"The payment?" the witch asked at last, her eyes glinting with expectation as her fingers drummed lightly against the table's edge.

Zana leaned forward, her voice sharp and cutting. "It is a favor," she said firmly. "We will remember it, and it is good for our friendship." Her stare bore into the witch, unrelenting.

The witch raised her hands in mock surrender, her lips curving into a sly smile. "Don't look at me that way," she said, her voice dropping into a softer, almost sultry tone. "You'll do something to this poor old soul~" She wiggled her brows suggestively, her exaggerated playfulness earning a collective grimace of discomfort from all at the table.

"Remember the favor, though," she added, her grin widening.

"Yes, we will," Zana replied curtly, her tone brooking no argument.

With a shrug, the witch reached for a stick leaning against the chimney. She prodded a noose that dangled from the ceiling, pulling it downward until it opened a hatch leading to the attic. From above, various items—each tied neatly to ropes—descended in a haphazard array.

"Find the big wooden box," Zana said, her words more an order than a suggestion. Her eyes darted toward Flower, who let out a dramatic sigh but complied nonetheless.

The ropes held an assortment of objects: a battered broom, swords with dulled edges, coiled hides of beasts, books bound in weathered leather, and at last, a cube-shaped wooden box. With an annoyed grunt, Flower untied it and heaved it onto the table.

The witch, humming a tune under her breath, wiped the box down with a rag so filthy it only seemed to add to the grime. Without another word, she carried it outside.

"Come out," she commanded, gesturing with a flick of her wrist.

When the group stepped into the crisp winter air, a small round table and chairs had somehow materialized in the clearing. The witch seated herself first, her back to the vine barricade, then gestured for the others to sit. Zana and Flower sat on either side of the witch, while El Ritch took his place directly across from her.

Without ceremony, the witch began scratching lines into the wooden box with her fingernails. The screech of nails on wood cut through the silence, grating on the ears.

"What are you doing?" Zana asked, her voice tinged with impatience.

"Structural Integration," the witch answered without looking up.

"What's that?" Flower asked, her curiosity finally overcoming her disdain.

"Leylines for mana," the witch replied, her voice steady and matter-of-fact. "Just think of it as carving out land for the intent of the spell to reach and explore."

Flower blinked, startled by the uncharacteristically earnest response. "You... answered?" she asked, her disbelief evident.

The witch gave a faint chuckle. "Learning isn't a privilege. It's a right of all who are conscious," she said. "If you wish to learn, I am not so bigoted as to mock you for it. We all dwell in a constant state of learning. And that is why I despise your kind," she added, her tone darkening as her gaze flicked to Flower. "Conjurers, with their petty monopolies, their illusions of control, their greed to hoard what should be free."

The witch's fingers worked their magic on the wooden box, her nails carving intricate sigils that seemed to drink in the dim light of the winter day. The sound was unbearable—sharp, grating, like splintering glass dragged over steel. El Ritch leaned forward, fascinated despite the noise, while Flower sat back with her arms crossed, wearing a mask of mockery that didn't quite hide her unease.

"Structural Integration…" Zana muttered, her voice low but carrying. She glanced at the witch, her tone wary. "It's been a long while since I've seen this done. Last time, one of your kind had me trapped in a circle for three moons."

The witch's fingers did not falter. "A novice, I'd wager," she said, her tone dismissive. "Had it been me, you'd have died before the sun set. Aldric was different, though. He fought well enough to stalemate me, at least for a time." Her lips curled into a smile. "His abilities were… irritating. A thorn for us witches—and for Conjurers, well, we all know the result."

"We bested him," Flower cut in, her voice tinged with pride.

The witch raised her head at that, her eyes glinting with mocking amusement. "Did you?" Her tone was venom wrapped in silk. "Strange, then, that you're here begging for his scraps."

Flower's lips twitched as if readying a retort, but she bit it back, glaring daggers instead.

The witch went on, her voice a blade wrapped in velvet. "Conjurers, so sure of themselves, so smug in their arcane superiority, forget there's more than one way to weave the threads of mana. Magic doesn't belong to one sect. It belongs to no one." She paused in her work to glance at Flower. Her smirk deepened, and there was a dangerous glimmer in her eye. "And yet again, you seem surprised I'd share knowledge so freely."

"Because you're…" Flower trailed off, gesturing at the witch as if that explained everything.

"A witch?" the woman finished for her. "And here I thought Conjurers had some semblance of imagination." Her grin twisted into something sharp, bitter. "You lot picture us as cackling hags boiling children in cauldrons. Where do you think your spells, your alchemy, your arcane lusts came from? Without us, you'd be mumbling in circles, playing with fire you don't understand."

Her nails scraped one final line across the wood, a sound like shattering ice, and she leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Done."

El Ritch craned his neck, peering at the box. Its carvings seemed to shimmer faintly, though whether it was the light or something deeper, he couldn't tell. "What does it do now?" he asked, his voice soft with wonder.

The witch laid a hand on the box and tapped its top with her fingers. "It channels intent, boy. A bridge between mana and the mind, reaching out to find those we seek."

Flower snorted, leaning forward. "So it'll just work, will it? Just like that?"

The witch's lips curled into a sly grin. "If it doesn't, you've a fine box to carry home." She laughed, and Flower rolled her eyes in exasperation.

But then Flower's expression shifted, her curiosity outweighing her scorn. "Why do you hate Conjurers so much?" she asked, her voice almost hesitant. "It can't just be because they keep knowledge to themselves."

The witch's smile faded, and when she spoke, her voice had a weight to it, heavy and sharp as a blade. "Hate them? No, child. Hate wastes time and breath. But their control, their greed to hoard what was never theirs to claim—that I despise. They act as gatekeepers, doling out wisdom as if it were their right to say who may learn and who may not. Knowledge is not theirs to keep. It is the birthright of all who seek it."

Her tone softened, but the fire in her words remained. "To monopolize the freedom of learning," she said, her voice low but fierce, "is the gravest sin of all. It denies others their chance to become what they might. It cages them in ignorance."

Zana's eyes flickered, her gaze lowering. There was something in her expression—bitterness, perhaps, or shame, the real truth—but she said nothing. El Ritch noticed her silence, but he didn't understand it. Not yet.

The witch gestured toward the box, her face unreadable again. "Now, boy, place your hand here."

El Ritch hesitated, his eyes darting to Zana. She gave a faint nod, her expression carefully neutral, and he reached out, resting his small hand atop the carved wood. The sigils flared faintly beneath his touch, getting lukewarm, and comforting to touch.

The witch placed her hand over his, her grin returning, wicked and knowing. "Hello, Aldric."

The box vibrated beneath their palms, emitting a strange series of clicks—soft, then sharp, as if it were speaking in a language of its own.