The house stood silent in the moonlight, its candy-coated walls glowing faintly under the silver sky. Inside, Hansel and Gretel slept soundly, their dreams carefully guided by Rosina to be soft and comforting. The bear lingered somewhere deep in the forest, a silent sentinel guarding the house’s perimeter.
Rosina sat by the hearth, her oakwood cane resting across her lap. Her sharp eyes were fixed on a shimmering bowl of caramel she had conjured earlier, its surface swirling like a pool of liquid gold. She had been preparing for this moment since the children had first spoken of their abandonment. Tonight, the time had come.
Rosina leaned forward, murmuring an incantation under her breath. Her voice was low and melodic, the words twisting through the air like ribbons of silk. The caramel in the bowl shimmered, its scent growing impossibly sweet, like the memory of a childhood feast. It carried far beyond the walls of the house, drifting through the forest like a siren’s song.
Deep in the forest, Ruprecht stirred. The man, haggard and gaunt, had been wandering aimlessly, his heart heavy with guilt. The sweet scent of caramel filled his nostrils, tugging at him like a child pulling on his sleeve. It was irresistible, a call he couldn’t ignore. His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him toward the source of the scent.
When he reached the clearing, the house seemed to glow, its sugar-glass windows shimmering in the moonlight. The sight of it made his mouth water and his stomach ache with longing. He hesitated at the door, but the scent—so warm, so inviting—urged him forward.
The door creaked open before he could knock.
“Come in,” a voice said, smooth and welcoming. Rosina stood in the doorway, her silver curls gleaming and her violet cloak flowing like a shadow behind her. Her smile was sharp but warm, her eyes glinting with something unreadable.
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Ruprecht’s gaze darted around the room as he stepped inside. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely. “What is this place?”
Rosina tilted her head, her smile widening. “A sanctuary. You must be hungry.”
Ruprecht didn’t answer, his eyes drawn to the table laden with sweets: gingerbread men, sticky caramel, molten fudge, and crystalline candies that sparkled like gemstones. The aroma was overwhelming, filling the air with a sweetness so thick it seemed to seep into his very skin.
“I—” Ruprecht began, but Rosina cut him off with a wave of her hand.
“Sit,” she said gently. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days. Take what you need. Everything here is freely given.”
Ruprecht hesitated only a moment before sinking into the chair. His hands trembled as he reached for a piece of gingerbread, devouring it in seconds. Then another, and another. The sugary treats seemed endless, and the more he ate, the more his exhaustion faded. His guilt, his sorrow—all of it melted away under the flood of sweetness.
Rosina watched him carefully, her expression unreadable. As he ate, she moved quietly around the room, murmuring incantations under her breath. A soft, shimmering haze began to form around the children’s beds, obscuring them from sight. The magic cocooned them like a protective shell, ensuring they would remain undisturbed.
As Ruprecht reached for yet another candy, his movements grew sluggish. His eyes drooped, and his head lolled forward. The sugary haze of the feast was more than just food—it was magic, a spell woven into every bite. It wrapped around him like a thick blanket, pulling him deeper and deeper into an enchanted slumber.
Rosina stepped closer, her voice low and soothing. “Rest now,” she murmured. “Dream of sweetness and warmth, of everything you abandoned. You will sleep, Ruprecht, until the forest itself decides your fate.”
Ruprecht’s body slumped against the table, his breath slowing into a deep, rhythmic pattern. The glow of the sugary feast dimmed, and the room fell silent once more.
Rosina stood over him for a long moment, her sharp features etched with something between anger and sorrow. “You gave them up,” she whispered, her voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You had the chance to protect them, and you failed.”
She turned away, her silver hair catching the light of the dying fire. “But you won’t harm them again,” she murmured, her tone steely. “Not while I’m here.”
She glanced toward the children, still obscured by the shimmering haze of her magic. Satisfied, she returned to her chair by the hearth, her cane resting across her lap once more.
The fire crackled softly, the only sound in the stillness of the night. Outside, the bear prowled the edge of the forest, its glowing eyes keeping watch. And inside, the house stood quiet, its magic thrumming faintly as it settled into the calm of another sleepless night.