Alira's insatiable curiosity gnawed at her as she contemplated the need to ascend the plateau. Each attempt to unravel the purpose of the climb only left her more bewildered. With the sun sinking below the horizon, she found herself perched on the edge of her refuge, a mixture of hunger and nervous anticipation churning in her stomach. With careful movements, she adjusted her pack, offered a silent prayer to Aethra, and then swung out onto the face of the plateau.

Her hands immediately began to sweat as she felt between the rocks for purchase. A fall from this height was not guaranteed to kill her but it was likely. She shuddered; it was far worse to not die from the fall. It would mean a death at the hands of either the slavers or some other vicious animal. Alira shook her head and shrugged her pack higher up on her shoulders. She had to get her mind back into the climb.

As Alira clung to the sheer rock face, her muscles screamed in protest with each movement. Sweat slicked her palms, making it difficult to find purchase on the jagged surface. Every upward step felt like a battle against gravity itself, threatening to pull her down to an uncertain fate below. With each passing moment, however, she found the fear slipping off her and replaced it with a single-mindedness that drove her further up the cliff. Her mind continually emptied itself of the absurdity of her actions and filled with the drive to reach the summit.

It was only about ten minutes of climbing before she realised that she had to finish the climb in one attempt as there were no resting places between the cavern and the top of the plateau. She tilted her head back and looked up the side of the plateau, trying to judge by the moonlight how much further she had to go. She was halfway there from the cavern. It would take just as much effort now to go back down as it would to finish the climb, she reasoned. Gritting her teeth, she resumed.

As she reached a particularly treacherous section of the climb, her foot slipped on a loose rock, sending her heart plummeting into her stomach, erasing the haze of blissful determination that had fallen upon her. With a desperate cry, she flung out her hand, fingers scrabbling for a hold on the unforgiving surface. For a heart-stopping moment, she dangled on the precipice of oblivion, her entire world reduced to the struggle for survival and the consequences of failure.

With trembling limbs and a racing heart, she pulled herself back into a firm position, her breath coming in ragged gasps. With every beat of her heart, the resolve hardened, the shroud of peaceful uncaring descending further, blanketing her in a preternatural calm that urged her further upward.

As Alira continued her ascent, a strange sensation washed over her, distorting her perception of reality. Shadows danced at the edges of her vision, whispering secrets that she couldn't quite grasp, urging her to move, promising safety at the top of the plateau. The rock face seemed to undulate and shift, blurring and coalescing. The drive to climb intensified and somewhere in the back of her mind, Alira wondered at the otherworldly pull on her to ascend.

“There’s rope up here,” a voice called out from above, startling Alira so badly she almost let go of the rock. She looked up to see a figure perched on the edge of the plateau, barely visible in the darkness of the humid summer night. “If you’d like, I can let it down for you.” Alira's heart raced as she realised someone was physically present atop the cliff, offering assistance.

“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice quivering with fear.

“Is that a conversation you want to have while you cling perilously to the side of my prison?” The voice held a trace of sardonic curiosity, its source now clear as Alira peered up at the figure above her.

If the person was going to kill her, he would likely wait until she had her entire weight on the rope before letting go. Alternatively, he could shove her off when she reached the top. Either way, she was sure that the fall would kill her. The strange sense of liquid uncaring washed over her mind and she found herself suddenly unsure why she shouldn’t let the voice help her.

“Or you could continue to cling to a perilous piece of rock, hallucinating,” the voice said, knowingly. Was he connected to her pull upwards?

“Fine,” she mumbled.

“Good, miracles do happen.” The voice, deep and sarcastic, sent a heavy rope down to her. Alira grabbed it, testing its strength with a few tugs. Whoever had tossed it down tugged back playfully. She continued her climb, aided by the rope and was at the top in a short time.

Breathing heavily and sweating with nervousness, Alira pulled herself up and stood, careful to edge away from the deadly fall behind her.

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“You’re thinner than I thought you’d be,” the voice said but Alira could not see where it came from in the gloom. The moon had drifted behind a cloud, throwing the broad top of the plateau into inky shade.

“I’m sorry?” she replied, confused.

“It wasn’t a compliment, either. You’re scrawny and…” the voice wavered, clearly searching for a word. “Bedraggled,” he concluded smugly, satisfied.

“Where are you?”

“That’s a lot less interesting than your first question, so I’ll answer that and get it out of the way.” Alira turned her head, trying to get the clouded moonlight to reveal her companion. She turned around, facing out toward the forest below. While looking she heard a twig snap and turned back, her long braid slinking across her shoulders and making her shiver.

“Here I am.” The voice belonged to a whip-thin young man, his age a mystery in the dimness. Alira couldn’t make out any of his features but he was just taller than herself and from the creaking he made she deduced he was clothed in leathers of some kind. His light boots made a soft crunch as he took a step closer and held out a hand, beckoning to her. She could see a heavy cloak wafting in the breeze.

“Who are you?” Alira asked, the question bubbling up into her mind suddenly.

“In due time,” he replied. “Now, before you let your pride ruin this, let me see your wounded hand.” The figure silently held out his hand a little longer before sighing and dropping it.

“My pride?” She asked as she clutched her wound. “Why do you say that?”

“Because, in my experience, witches are often too proud to accept the help they are offered. Maybe it’s because you’re untrustworthy or…” He let the sentence drop, unfinished.

“I’m not a witch,” Alira insisted, stepping forward. The figure laughed, catching her off guard.

“You are,” he said with glee. “And I’ve never met one that was so…” he paused again and shrugged. “I know I already said bedraggled but I’ve literally just put down a novel by this horrid author and the word is just stuck in my head.” He motioned to a small bed roll and a stack of books next to it. He crouched and lit the lantern beside his encampment and turned back to look at Alira.

“I’m not a witch,” she insisted. “I was raised by one but I myself was never indoctrinated.” She looked down at the man’s face and blinked in surprise. He was freckled and had reddish gold hair that brushed the tips of his short pointed ears. His dark eyes were pools of mirth and mischief and his slightly pointed teeth were alarming when he smiled.

“Yes, and my mother was Queen Mab.” He grinned at her and patted his bed roll. “Sit, Not-a-Witch, and tell me how you aren’t a witch but carry a Witch Knife.” Dutifully, she sat, her mind giving off silent alarms but the hazy uncaring rolling across her in soft waves.

“Who are you?”

“This again?” He huffed and sat next to her, pulling his knees up and resting his arms on them. He shook his hair off his forehead and sighed. “You can call me Henry.”

“But what’s your real name?” Alira asked, frowning. “I can call you Henry but not your real name?”

“You can’t pronounce it.”

“Try me,” she said, unconvinced. He made a bizarre whistle and screech sound followed by a whistling hiss.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” he said as grinned at her again. He tilted his head in anticipation. “No? Ok, so Henry it is.”

“Alright…Henry. I’m–”

“Alira, yes. I know. Who do you think has been calling your name for weeks? You took long enough.”

“Sorry, what?” She blinked and frowned.

“I said,” he repeated, raising his voice. “I have been calling your name for weeks!” He leaned into her face, shouting the last word.

“I heard you. I just didn’t understand what you meant,” Alira said sullenly.

“I know. I was being purposefully obtuse.”

“And could you not raise your voice, please? There’s hunting parties looking for me. Slavers–”

“They won’t find you, besides there’s no sound or light that can escape from up here. It’s protected fairly well, though I do need to patch some areas that are wearing thin.” He picked up the book that laid closest to him and opened it, the leather spine creaking comfortingly. “Have you read this? It’s sometimes very dark but Mother take me, I am addicted.” He shoved the book at her and stood, his energy suddenly uncontainable.

Alira turned the book over and read the cover.

“The Tales of Bardia?” She looked up at him and shook her head. “Never heard of it.”

“Oh, Aethra, it’s beautiful. I can’t recommend it enough. He actually denies the existence of the Divine.” His scandalised glee shone in his eyes as he faced the moonlight. Alira set the book down and cleared her throat.

“Sorry, could you explain to me how you knew my name? And how you were calling my name for weeks?”

“Gods, you’re annoyingly hard to distract. Bedraggled and determined. Those aren’t very appealing qualities in a woman, you know.”

“You’re very rude for someone who sleeps in a threadbare bed roll on top of a plateau.”

“You’re talking, in your torn tunic and dirty knees.” He glanced down at her disdainfully and she bristled.

“I don’t have time for this. I’m not going to sit here and–”

“Your mother was Erin, the Witch Who Fled.”