Fitting Shoes

El Ritch sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, his eyes darting between the three women. They loomed over him like judges deliberating a sentence, their voices sharp. They called themselves members of the Creeping Dolls, an unofficial guild of Hunters—he had heard of their brethren, the Stalking Murder, and the stories were enough to make even Adeline wary.

Flower, the one with auburn hair and freckled cheeks, smiled as she spoke. Her emerald eyes glimmered with something between mischief and malice, the sort of look that made a man question if she meant her words in jest or earnest. "I say we keep Aldric's kid and use him. Hold him hostage, twist his arm. That'd speed things along nicely." Her grin widened, revealing sharp teeth that seemed more fitting for a wolf than a woman.

Zana Arnold, clad in battered armor, scoffed at that. Her face was a tapestry of scars, deep grooves that marred her features into something almost grotesque, and her hair was cropped short, more like a soldier's than a hunter's. Her voice was low and gravelly. "Not only would he cancel those demands," she said, "he'd hunt us down, and he wouldn't stop until we were all dead. Every last one of us."

"Speaking from experience?" Flower teased, her grin turning sly.

Zana's mouth twitched, but she said nothing.

"Either way…" The third woman, Baharak Coul, cut in, her voice slow and deliberate. Her skin was deep brown, speckled with black like spores on a decaying tree. The effect was unsettling, almost repulsive, and the blood-red cloth tied around her eyes only heightened her strangeness. She tilted her head toward the boy. "…we can't keep him here. We'll have to return him. To his mother, or his father, or whatever they call themselves."

"And how, exactly, do you propose we do that?" Zana said. "The Capital is far, and it's the season of winter. We'd be frozen dead before we made it halfway there."

"Hm." Baharak nodded slowly, her expression unreadable.

Flower sighed, exhaling her frustration in a long, audible breath. "It's not so complicated," she said, her tone light but edged with exasperation. "We can't keep him hostage, so there are three things we have to do." She raised her right hand, three fingers extended.

"One," she began, folding her thumb. "We help the child recover."

"Two," she continued, closing her index finger. "We contact his parents. Let them know their little whelp isn't dead."

"Three," she finished, folding her middle finger. "We get him to the Capital safely."

Her hand dropped to her side, and her grin returned, though it lacked its earlier sharpness. "And for all those plans, there's only one major problem."

"Winter," Zana growled, the word bitter as frostbite.

______

El Ritch was kept away from the rest of the Creeping Dolls, though he couldn't fathom why. He didn't particularly care either—so long as they fed him and treated his wounds, he was content. They called him Aldric's boy, and the name alone seemed to ensure he received more care and consideration than he'd had in years, though what years he was comparing to- he couldn't remember even. Food was plenty, warm and fresh, and he even found himself wrapped in a thick fur coat made from some beast he couldn't name. The touch of it was softer than any fabric he'd known, but its heaviness told him it was worth more than anything he owned. They thrust it upon him without asking, muttering something about Aldric as if his wrath might strike them down if they let the boy so much as shiver.

For an entire day, they kept him confined to the cave, poking and prodding at his injuries as if expecting to find something fatal. When his restlessness finally broke, he asked the question that had been burning in his mind since he first woke. "How did you save me? I should be dead from that fall."

Their response was as baffled as he felt.

"Your fall wasn't hard at all," Baharak had said, her tone distant, as if she was still puzzling it out herself. "It's as if... as if a feather fell from the sky."

It was a strange answer, but El Ritch let it go. He had no energy for riddles, not with the ache still lingering in his bones.

The next day began with grumbling and bitter complaints.

"I do not want to go to that witch!" Flower groaned dramatically, throwing her head back as if the mere suggestion was a dagger to her heart. "Of all the ways to die, freezing to death in this forsaken winter would be better than asking her for help."

Zana snorted, unimpressed. "I don't understand you conjurers and your petty disputes," she said, her tone sharp and clipped. "You're all the same to me. Tricksters whining about who has the better cursed method." She walked ahead of the group, her breath steaming in the icy air, her boots crunching over frozen ground.

The forest of the Hornet stretched out before them, its trees stripped bare by the biting wind. Their branches were skeletal against the pale winter sky, the ground littered with auburn leaves and patches of snow. The Hornet tribe—known for their solitude and their horned men and women—claimed this land as their nest, but they rarely bothered outsiders. The only ones who entered the forest freely were merchants on "fair" trade missions and the Creeping Dolls, though what their relationship was with the Hornet was unclear to El Ritch.

The boy trudged along behind them, his new coat swaying with his every step. It was heavy and cumbersome, but it was warmer than anything he'd ever owned. He felt guilty wearing something so rare and expensive, but Zana had thrown it over his shoulders and barked, "Wear it, or freeze to death. Aldric won't care if you're stubborn, but we'll have to explain your frozen corpse." That had been enough to convince him, though the mention of Aldric again made him wonder just how much power the man truly wielded.

Flower's whining hadn't stopped. "This isn't just about some petty dispute, Zana," she snapped, her tone venomous. "You don't understand what witches are like. They're worse than us, far worse."

"They're far worse than you? In what way? Do not make me bring up what happened in Evandria," Zana shot back, her voice dripping with disgust. Flower raised a finger to counter but found herself at a loss for words. Her usual quick wit faltered under the weight of Zana's pointed retort. Instead, she opted for an exasperated huff as they continued their trek through the woods of Hornet, their bickering a constant accompaniment to the crunch of leaves beneath their boots.

The two women argued almost the entire journey, pausing only when the sight of a small hut came into view. Black smoke curled up from its crooked chimney, a dark plume against the winter-gray sky.

"I'm betting my room she's burning a body," Flower said with an eager grin, reigniting the spat.

"Fine," Zana replied, her tone dry as kindling. "If I lose, I'll give you that sword you've been pestering me about."

The wager seemed to liven Flower's mood, but El Ritch's curiosity grew. When they reached the hut, they stopped in front of a crude barricade made of thin vines draped over branches that stuck into the frozen earth. Yet none of them moved to enter.

"Why aren't we going in?" El Ritch asked, glancing between them and the ominous structure ahead, extremely curious to see the witch.

"Because," Zana replied, her tone practical, "the witch needs to give us permission. She knew we were coming the moment we stepped into the forest. That's the only reason we found her hut at all."

Before El Ritch could respond, a gruff voice—ancient, cold, and laced with scorn—cut through the air. "This hut is far better than the fake grandeur you parade about with, that much is certain."

They turned to see a middle-aged woman approaching from the woods. Her movements were unnervingly silent; not a single crunch of frost or brittle branch gave her presence away. She stopped a few feet from the group, her dark eyes scanning them with a predator's disdain.

"Move," she said sharply, though Flower was already out of the way. The witch made a show of holding her nose in exaggerated disgust. "Your kind makes me sick. Why don't you bathe in some herbal incense and rid yourself of that Conjurer stench?"

She stepped past Flower, pushing through the barricaded vines with ease. As she reached the flimsy wooden door of the hut, she held it open long enough to beckon Zana and El Ritch inside.

"Hey!" Flower protested from outside when the witch let the door close behind them. 

"Conjurers have their own hands, do they not?" the witch replied flatly, her tone implying she didn't care whether Flower entered or froze to death. She opened it herself and entered.

The inside of the hut was far simpler than El Ritch had expected. It wasn't grand like the palaces or manor houses he had seen in his travels, nor did it hold the rustic charm of the caves he had slept in. It was functional, almost sparse, though it had a warmth to it. A bed rested in one corner, and a single table sat near the center, cluttered with an assortment of oddities: feathers of varying sizes, berries in little wooden bowls, and skulls—some animal, some... not.

The chimney stood in the middle of the room, its fire radiating heat and filling the space with an almost unbearable warmth. The smoke that rose from it carried an acrid scent, turning black as it drifted up into the flue.

"What's in there?" Flower asked immediately, the door slamming behind her as she finally entered. "A human body?"

"How barbaric—no, of course not," the witch replied with a dramatic roll of her eyes.

"I win," Zana said, flashing a grin that barely lasted before fading into a scowl.

"It's a moose," the witch continued, ignoring their antics. "Rare delicacy."

Flower punched the air in triumph, celebrating her victory in the most obnoxious way possible. "I told you she wasn't that crazy!"

Zana groaned, muttering something under her breath as she leaned against the table, her patience wearing thin. El Ritch, meanwhile, stood silent, his gaze flitting between the three women and the unnerving contents of the room.