Targe tapped a long, bony finger against her lips, considering. The green witch held her breath.

“A good question,” Targe mused. “Can you become powerful? Is there a path?”

The air in the room thickened, charged with something unseen. The other witches shifted uneasily, but the green witch remained still, waiting.

Targe’s lips curled into a knowing smile. She raised a single, gnarled finger. “Yes. There is a path.”

The green witch’s fingers twitched. “What is it?”

Targe tilted her head, studying the girl as if weighing her worth. Then, with a slow exhale, she pointed to the ground.

“It begins here.”

“Power,” Targe continued, pacing in slow, deliberate steps, “isn’t something given. It’s something taken. Something built. It is born from knowledge, sharpened by will, and tested by sacrifice. It is not an easy path.”

The old witch had a grim look on her face. “Everything costs something, child. The only question is—what are you willing to pay?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” the green witch said.

Targe chuckled. “Will you, now? Brave words.” She turned to the others, her sharp gaze sweeping across them. “You hear that? She is willing.”

A pause. Then, Targe leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Power has many doors. Some open with time. Some with talent. Some with blood.” Her smile darkened. “Choose wisely.”

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The green witch exhaled slowly. “What must I do?”

Targe straightened. “Very well. Here is your first truth, and it is for all of you: this thing you call a coven.” She gestured toward the door. “If you seek power, follow the man outside.”

The green witch frowned. “Him?”

“Yes.”

“What? How? Why?” she asked, all in a row.

Targe shrugged. “I point you to him. He points you to power. Easy as that.”

She pointed to each of the young witches.

She turned to the rest of the witches, pointing a finger at each of them in turn. “You will follow. You will, too. And you—” she pointed to another, “—you will leave in six months to strike out on your own. And you—fifteen years from now, if you crave even more strength.”

The green witch’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Why him?”

Targe cackled. “Because fate is funny like that, little sprout. You want power? You follow him.”

The witches exchanged uneasy glances. Some looked skeptical. But Sonder? She was curious.

The green witch crossed her arms. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you don’t,” Targe said simply, with a dismissive wave. “You’ll live a life, maybe even a good one. But power? True power?” She leaned in, her breath cold against the girl’s cheek. “That will never be yours.”

The green witch’s fists tightened.

“I don’t understand,” another witch murmured.

Targe’s grin widened. “He cares about you all plenty. He just chooses not to show it. He’ll help you; don’t you worry.”

The green witch exhaled, steadying herself. “Fine. If this is the path, then I’ll take it.”

Targe’s eyes gleamed. “Good. Then go.”

The witches hesitated, waiting for something more—another riddle, another warning. But Targe only turned away, already losing interest.

One witch stepped forward, then another. Slowly, uncertainly, they made their way outside.

The green witch lingered the longest, glancing back at Targe one last time. “You better not be lying.”

Targe’s laughter echoed through the room. “Oh, child,” she purred, “I never lie.”

With that, the green witch turned and stepped outside.

A beat of silence.

Targe turned to find Sonder still standing there, watching her.

“And you, little one?” the old witch mused. “I don’t think power is what you seek most.”

Sonder’s mind stirred. She had always known her question.

“Do I get my revenge?”