The woman was old and haggard, draped in a heavy cloak that pooled around her like a second shadow. A wide-brimmed hat slumped over the side of her head, revealing a few curled strands of white hair.
She didn’t acknowledge her visitors at first. Her sharp, hooked nose remained pointed downward, her attention fixed on the potted plants lining the windowsill of her cottage. Long, thin fingers hovered over the petals of a wilting flower before plucking one free and letting it drift to the ground.
Only when Vell and the others drew near did she finally look up.
She scoffed, then waved them inside.
It took time. Another witch had collapsed, and the rest, weakened and shaking, struggled to carry her. Sonder could barely move. Her limbs felt distant, as though she were watching someone else use them.
Her thoughts waded through thick fog, heavy and sluggish.
Inside, the cottage was sparse. A wooden table, worn smooth by time. A few plain chairs. The smell of dust and something older still.
Sonder could barely register the conversation, the words slipping past her like water through trembling fingers. If she struggled to hear, the other witches had no chance at all.
She forced herself to listen.
“…r presence, Targe. These girls can barely stand,” Vell said.
The witch of Targe plucked another petal from the flower, rolling it between her fingers before flicking it away.
“The weak falter, the strong endure.
It’s the same now as it was before.
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Things you cannot alter; there is no cure.”
Her voice rasped like dry leaves, light yet sharp, as if the words were meant more for her own amusement than to answer him.
Vell exhaled. “A riddle?”
Targe’s lips curled. “A game. And yet you play so poorly, old one.”
Sonder, caught in the haze of exhaustion, watched their exchange in a daze.
Targe’s pale eyes flicked to Sonder for a brief moment before settling back on Vell.
“You bring children to my doorstep,” she mused, tilting her head. “But you were never one for nurturing, were you? No, always running—toward something, from something. Tell me, what’s changed? Seeking favors now?”
Vell’s voice remained steady. “I seek neither—only passage.”
“Passage, passage, through the trees,
On shaking legs and trembling knees.
The path is lost, the night is deep,
And children in the darkness weep.
But where to? Where does the lost dog go when there’s no home left to return to?”
She tutted, shaking her head. “I should throw you all out. Leave you to the forest.”
“Enough,” Vell said.
“Enough?” Targe’s smile widened. “So quick to bristle. Do I finally see your age? Do I see crow’s feet and silver in your hair? No, you remain young. As stubborn as ever. But still clinging, still searching for something.” She sighed, exaggerated, almost weary. “How exhausting it must be.”
She reached out, dragging a single finger across the tabletop. A fine layer of dust lifted, spiraling briefly before vanishing.
“None of you should be here.”
“But they made it,” Vell countered. “They deserve answers for their questions.”
Targe scoffed. “Deserve?” She gestured at the others. “Look at them. They can’t stand. They can’t speak. They cheated their way here—through you. What, exactly, do they deserve?”
“They made it,” Vell repeated, his voice firm.
“They could have died. Should have died,” Targe said, unbothered. “Ripped apart by wolves. Eaten by the women. Lost in darkness forever. Or perhaps they’d have drunk from the stream—now that would have been a sight.” She leaned forward slightly. “Any one of those would have been their doom, if not for you. They didn’t make it here, Vell. You did. And you don’t want answers. You could find them yourself.”
Silence stretched between them. Then, with a sigh, Targe spoke again, almost bored.
“I mark the end, yet I’ve been here so long,
A final path of wisdom strong.
Some seek me in a time of need,
Others fear where I might lead.
What am I?”
She leaned back, waving a hand toward the door.
“You say you want passage?” Her pale eyes gleamed with amusement. “Then take it. Go, then. Your feet still work—for now.”