A witch.
The irony didn’t escape me. I, who had outlawed magic in every corner of the realm, now stalked through cursed woods in search of it.
“Pride makes fools of us all,” I muttered, pushing aside a curtain of moss that dripped cold despite the absence of rain.
Cabal had refused to go further nearly an hour ago. He had frozen mid-step, snorting and trembling until I was forced to dismount and continue this treacherous trip on foot. Perhaps he was wiser than I.
The path—if it could be called that—wound deeper into the heart of the Whispering Wilds, where even my most seasoned hunters refused to tread. These were elder woods. Primeval. Untouched by axe or flame. The trees here had stood since before men walked upright. Some trunks were wider than three men with arms outstretched.
Some bled when cut.
I paused, suddenly aware I’d lost all sense of direction. The canopy above had closed in entirely, choking off the sun. Yet an eerie green light filtered through, throwing the undergrowth into a sickly glow. It meantsheknew I was here.
“Blodeuwyn!” I called out, my voice thin and brittle in the oppressive air. “I seek your counsel!”
Nothing.
Return to the castle!the dragon ordered. I would do no such thing.
Only the forest whispered in reply—rustling leaves without wind, words without mouths. She was playing with me, toying with me.
I pressed on, drawn by instinct or something more sinister, until I reached a massive oak whose trunk had split wide open, forming what resembled a doorway into shadow.
“I know you're here, witch,” I said, resting my hand on the hilt of my sword. It was a gesture of habit, not threat. Steelmeant nothing here. “I wouldn’t have come if the need weren’t dire.”
A dry, rasping chuckle echoed from within the tree. The sound was brittle, like dead leaves crushed beneath boot heels.
“The great Arthur Pendragon,” came a voice stitched from bone and rot. “Come to beg what he once condemned.”
Laughter erupted—not from one direction, but from all. The forest itself seemed to mock me.
I steeled myself and pushed forward, following the voice until the trees began to thin, the path widening like a throat preparing to swallow.
And then—there it was.
The clearing lay before me, untouched by time. The hovel stood at its center, just as I remembered from seven years ago when I first came to her—when my father lay dying and I feared what might occur should death free the dragon from his control. I hadn't been alone that day. Merlin had been at my side. And he had made a promise, just as I had. A promise to never speak of the dragon, lest it awaken. That promise was witnessed in blood and magic. It was a promise sealed. And one that Merlin had broken. It was the only reason the dragon was stirring.
We do not trust her!
The shack looked less like a dwelling and more like something the forest had grown around and forgotten. The thatched roof sagged under the weight of years, nearly caving in the middle. Windows—dark and hollow—stared like blind eyes, revealing nothing of what waited within. Brambles twisted around the foundation, their thorns gleaming silver, as if warning me to keep away.
I moved toward it slowly. Every step I took stirred ghosts I’d attempted to bury deep.
The last time I’d stood here, seven years ago, I’d been half the man I was now—idealistic, naïve, still believing power could fix things. That justice could be enforced like law.
The crown had long since disabused me of those illusions.
The door hung askew on rusted hinges, swollen with rot and time. I raised a hand to knock—then hesitated. Something ancient stirred beneath the threshold, something that told me not to wake it.
“I know why you’ve come,” she rasped from within.
The voice was rougher in person—gravel in the throat, dry leaves underfoot—but unmistakably hers.
My hand froze midair.
“Then you have the advantage of me, Bloduewyn,” I said, steadying my tone. “For I’m no longer certain myself.”
She laughed—dry and brittle. Then came the sound of something heavy dragging across the floor.
