To the sound of a crackling fire and a blade being sharpened, Hector rouses. He blinks once. His attention trails past the intricate patterns on a rug that has been posed next to him, and follows the figure of the witch, seated before her cauldron on a wooden stool.

The knight finds with relief that he isn’t trapped anymore. He tries to stretch his arms, only to realise with horror that they are in fact, not his arms. His limbs have shortened in length. His hands are now tiny, feeble and delicate—definitely not the ones he trained to have for so long. He screams. The voice he hears is familiar, but inadequate to the man he has become.

The witch turns around, still inhibiting the body of the boy she had shown Hector earlier on, though, somehow, he thinks that he seems older, more of a young man than a child this time.

For a split second, Hector wonders if, perhaps, the witch has an underling. It would explain why she has not returned to her original form yet, he thinks. However, his thought is quickly covered by another: How will I turn back now? Is she going to cook me like they do in the stories father read to me long ago? “What have you done to me?” he shouts, all the while trying to rise to his feet and being met by an invisible source that pulls him down and keeps him in his spot. He limbs are shaking, and yet! Hector is surprised to find that the aches in them which used to live on are now gone. Even his arm—which had given him trouble ever since the fight he’d gotten into with this brother—feels a little less stiff than the usual.

The young man snickers as the fire continues to dance in a corner of the room, painting shadows of crimson shades across his face, the bridge of his nose peppered in freckles. “My fair Knight,” he starts, all the while adding a melodramatic sigh to the end of his sentence, and standing, kicking the wooden stool he’d used as a seat up until now. “If, we are being honest with ourselves here, it is clear—even written in the stars I’d say—that you truly, honestly, really only did this to yourself.”

Hector’s grip around the soil tightens. He continues to push against the ground, as if it were possible for it to crumble, release him, under his now weakened strength when it already wouldn’t budge beforehand. He grunts, the pitch of it is high, and the knight detests it. “Is talking in riddles all you know how to do, coward?” his voice booms throughout the cave. “Why don’t you let me out of—” He pauses. “Whatever this trickery is…and fight me head on instead of using your dirty tricks!”

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The young man steps forth. He watches with a chuckle as Hector backs his head away, slightly, on instinct. He reaches for the knight and captures Hector’s jaw between his index and thumb. “It’s funny you mention dirty tricks when you’re the one who snuck into my home in the first place, don’t you think?” He tilts Hector’s head to the left, the right. “Now,” his smirk grows wider, “why don’t we talk about what I’ve ever done to you, Knight, to deserve this.”

The young man releases Hector from his hold. He kneels until they are eye to eye, says, “I dealt with the impostor in my home.” His voice is lower now, raspier than before, resembling more of a growl void of mercy and any pity one could possibly own—a tone that isn’t human. “I was kind enough to keep you alive in a form where you wouldn’t be much of a bother.” He motions to Hector, before he rises once more and turns his back on the knight.

The young man huffs. “I even took the time out of my day to heal your wounds.” He glances up to the ceiling, then peeks at Hector from over his shoulder. “What in the world are you complaining about, Sir Knight?”

“Turn me back then,” Hector blurts. “I-if you’re that nice, then agree that you’ve gone too far with this, and turn me back.”

The young man snorts. “I don’t believe you’re in a position to bargain right now.” His shoulders shake as if he has just heard the funniest of jokes. “But! If you apologise for—"

“Apologise?” Hector is outraged at what he is hearing and cannot help but scoff. “Who in the blazes do you think you are? You’re the one who’s been terrorizing my village!”

The young man’s foot collides with the stool. He sends it flying across the room. A murderous glint returns within his gaze. “You people are the ones who won’t leave me alone,” the fact that the young man’s words aren’t spoken with anger is what sends chills up Hector’s arms. “Either you apologize, or—”

“Or what?” Hector challenges, figuring he has nothing to else lose since all he has worked for is already gone. “You’ll cook me?” His laugh is a broken one.

The young man hums. He spins around on himself and jumps with a finger glued to his chin as if a burst of electricity has jolted through him. “What an excellent idea!” he exclaims. “That’s exactly what I’ll do!” He smiles and turns to the knight. “If you don’t apologize within three days, I’ll turn you into stew.”

Hector’s eyebrow twitches. Hold on a minute, he thinks, agape as he stares at his enemy—with his heart sinking, his gut wrenching—the young man who walks away with happy steps, who whistles a joyful tune that would have been familiar to a certain nearby village, had its people been here to hear it; he can’t possibly be serious.