For him to live, a witch must die.
Driven out of his village for the curse he possesses, Tavor is alone. With nowhere else to go, he must venture into the Eylderfell to hunt down the witch who cursed him.
But the forest is dangerous, wild with magic...
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The witch walked towards him, moving wraithlike across the cobbles.
Every instinct screamed at him to run. But fear bolted the boy's feet to the floor. His knuckles whitened against the dagger's hilt.
Come on, he thought. This was his chance. This was what he came for.
So why wouldn't his legs move? He was dimly aware of the dagger, tightly clenched in his hand. But he couldn't bring himself to even raise his arm, to drag his eyes from the gaze blazing beneath the shrouded hood.
The witch drew closer still. Moonlight hair spilled from beneath the hood of her tattered cloak. Her eyes gleamed like a cat's, glowing golden with power that seeped through the dark lines spiderwebbing across her face, shimmering like ash and fire over her cheeks. Whispers shivered through the air in her wake, dark spells and eerie magic that chilled his blood. The same sounds that echoed through his nightmares night after night.
Dread rose up in a dark wave and engulfed him, constricting his throat until he could barely breathe. The knife slipped from his trembling hands. He looked down and saw dark lines veining up his arms. Shadows ringed his vision, and a terrible tingling buzzed over his skin.
His back hit the wall. Breaths piled up in his throat. The witch stretched her arm forward, pointed fingers reaching for his throat—
The boy's voice cracked from his lips in a desperate croak. "No—"
He squeezed his eyes shut and braced for pain.
An empty second ticked by. Then another.
A burst of harsh laughter sounded from the rafters above. The boy glanced up and saw the crow hopping along the beams above him, cackling.
"What's the matter? Imagination playing tricks on you?"
The darkness faded from his vision, and at last he saw that the witch no longer stood before him. In her place stretched a cat, sleek dark fur rippling in the moonlight.
The boy's shoulders sagged against the wall, chest heaving. It took a long time for the words to form in his throat. "You..."
The cat leapt up and turned into a tall human woman, as typical a villager as he'd meet at the Market Square. She twirled before him and winked.
"Nestani has two familiars," she said. "I guess you didn't know?"
He didn't. Shame stung his face, burning hot and heavy in his chest. "You tricked me."
The crow hadn't stopped laughing. "We merely showed you the truth. If Nestani had been here, you would be dead where you stand."
Perhaps that would have been the kinder fate, the boy thought bitterly. He unclenched his hands, staring at his bloodied palms. The shame bubbled away, simmering until it boiled over into quiet fury — at the crow and the cat, for humiliating him; and at himself, for his cowardice.
"It'll be different next time," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
"Empty words," the crow sneered. "Humans are all talk. Brave sayings and nothing to show for it." He fluttered back down to sit on the book. "Go home, boy. There's nothing for you here."
He was right, the boy realised. There was nothing for him in this cottage, in this village. Killing Nestani was his only hope if he wanted to return home. And when it had come down to it, he couldn't even lift the knife against her.
The cat returned back to her feline form, nodding. "We won't tell her you were here. It's for the best."
The boy sagged back against the wall. The rage inside him had burnt out now, leaving him hollow and hopeless. And again came the darkness, his vision blurring. Something rose like a silent scream inside him, a force he couldn't contain or control.
The cat backed away from him, a low growl in her throat.
Too late, the boy tried to suppress it. But it was no use. Shadows seeped from his skin, snaking down his body, then fanning out across the cobbled stone floor.
"No, no, no—"
The tendrils touched the table and the wood rotted at once, blackening and splintering until the legs crumpled. Potions, books and ink tumbled to the ground in a cacophony of broken glass and scattered papers.
The crow fluttered into the air with a cry of surprise. "What on...?"
A sputtering from the ground cut him off. The potions pooled and mingled between the cobbles, and vile smoke curled up from the floor.
"Look out!"
The cat jumped in front of the boy as an eagle, wings spread wide to shield him. A moment later, electric light burst from the ground. Air rushed past him, debris stinging his arms as he flung them up over his face. Finally, the explosion settled, leaving just ringing in his ears and the stench of smoke.
"What did you do?" the crow demanded.
The boy recognised the undercurrent in the crow's hoarse voice: that all-too familiar cadence of fear. He saw it in the eyes of the people in the village. The way they avoided him on the streets. The whispers that followed as he passed by.
Bile rose in his throat. The boy trembled. He couldn't look at the decayed table.
"My curse," he muttered. His hands clenched around his ankles. "What she did to me."
He saw the swift look shared between the familiars, but before he could say anything, the door was flung open. Flickering light spilled into the hut. Bodies surged in, blocking the doorway. The boy's heart sank. The faces were all familiar: the baker, the blacksmith, the woman who used to look after him when he was younger and his parents were away.
Up until a few hours ago Tavor had considered them a community. Now, their faces were fearful and pitiless in the dancing torchlight.
The crow hopped back a step. "Friends of yours, I presume?"
Hastan, the village chief, stood at the head of the crowd. He stepped forward, huge figure towering over the boy.
"It's over, Tavor," he said. "No more running."
˚☽˚.⋆
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