CH. 7 The Witch in the Sunlight
The ride to Gazaar is bumpy, smelly, and entirely unbecoming for a witch of my excellence.
I sit between two barrels of apples and a sack of potatoes that's been staring at me suspiciously since we left Yakor. "Don't look at me like that," I mutter, poking its potato eye. "I'm a prisoner, not your entertainment."
Outside, the soldiers hum some grim marching tune. The moonlight filters through the wagon slats, dancing on my hands. Beautiful hands. Perfectly cursed. I flex my fingers and consider my options.
They didn't bind me — foolish. Probably because I looked too delicate to cause trouble. They think I'm some merchant's runaway servant. If only they knew.
"Leonardo would've called them idiots," I whisper fondly.
The wagon hits a bump, jostling the barrels. One of them tips over, leaking cider that smells dangerously flammable. I glance down, grin, and tap my fingertip against the wood.
A single drop of my blood hits the spill.
The cider bubbles, hisses, and in the next second — BOOM.
The wagon bursts into a spectacular display of flaming fruit. Soldiers shout, horses rear, chaos erupts. I crawl out of the wreckage before anyone realizes the flames are harmless — just an illusion. My illusion.
Aunt Agitha always said: "If you must run, run with flair."
Smoke swirls like a curtain behind me as I sprint into the forest, hitching my skirt up to my knees. My heart drums faster than the Lunar Parade cymbals. Branches snag my hair, mud splashes my ankles, but I keep going.
Behind me, I hear Hegar shouting orders, his voice calm but sharp. "Don't pursue her. Let the night take her. It always does."
He knows. Of course he knows.
But I don't stop until the noise fades into the distance and the only sound left is the rush of the wind and my own breathing.
I collapse by the roots of a great tree, grinning through the ache in my legs.
"I did it," I pant. "I escaped."
Then I look up at the sky — the horizon already paling to dawn.
"Oh no. Not again—"
The transformation begins.
It's always the same: a crack here, a pop there, as if a thousand invisible hands are rearranging me into what the world calls "hideous.
" My hair dulls to matted black, my nose stretches proudly into a magnificent curve, and my glorious warts bloom like tiny flowers.
My teeth sharpen. My skin itches as the last trace of that cursed moonlight beauty melts away.
I take one look at my reflection in a nearby puddle and grin.
"Ah, there she is! My true magnificence."
I twirl dramatically, cloak fluttering behind me. "Missed you, darling. You never disappoint."
A croaking voice interrupts.
"Good heavens!"
I turn.
A farmer stands a few feet away, pitchfork raised, eyes wide. His mouth opens and closes like a fish.
"Morning!" I chirp, waving. "Lovely day to be... hideous!"
He faints.
I sigh. "Humans. So dramatic."
After ensuring he's breathing, I steal his hat, mutter a quick glamour to keep flies off him, and stroll toward the nearest road. My plan is simple: head east until I find a forest deep enough to hide in, then think of a better plan.
Of course, nothing ever goes that smoothly.
By midday, I'm trudging through a tiny village where the streets smell like goat and bad decisions. Every step earns me stares, gasps, and at least one child throwing a shoe at my head.
"Witch!" a woman shrieks.
"Correct!" I reply cheerfully. "Ten points to you."
I duck into a tavern to escape the mob and find the innkeeper pale as parchment.
"You—you can't be in here," he stammers.
"Relax," I say, plopping down on a stool. "I'm just here for soup. And possibly emotional support."
He scurries off, muttering about exorcisms.
A minute later, he returns with a steaming bowl. I sniff it suspiciously. "Is it poisoned?"
He blanches. "N-no!"
"Pity. I like surprises."
As I sip my soup, I can't help but think how exhausting it must be to maintain beauty all the time. Powder, perfume, posture. Humans love to pretend it's divine, but it's really just hard labor.
I glance down at my wrinkled hands and smile. "Honesty looks better on me anyway."
By sunset, I've made it out of the village. The horizon glows gold and violet, and the first silver edge of the moon peeks through the clouds. I should feel calm. Instead, I feel... hunted.
The forest hushes. Leaves rustle, soft as whispers.
Something's following me.
"Whoever you are," I warn, "I bite. And I haven't brushed."
A figure steps out of the shadows.
Black cloak. Familiar posture. Those eyes.
"Hegar," I groan. "Don't you have anything better to do? Like minding your Prince?"
"I am minding him," he says flatly. "He sent me to find you."
"Well, you found me! Congratulations! Go tell your master that the witch has turned into her glorious self and would like to be left alone."
He studies me — my warts, my wild hair, my entire charming catastrophe — with unnerving calm. "So this is what you look like by day."
"Yes. Isn't it magnificent?"
He tilts his head. "Different."
"That's a compliment where I come from."
The moonlight grows stronger, washing over us. I feel it prickling against my skin — the curse waking again.
My chest tightens.
"Oh, come on, not now—"
Hegar steps closer, watching in silence as the blemishes fade. My skin smooths, my hair shines, and before I can finish protesting, I'm glowing like some ridiculous celestial doll.
When it ends, I stand there panting, ugly and miserable.
He exhales through his nose. "So... that's new."
I hide my face with both hands. "You weren't supposed to see myface!"
He blinks. "You mean this one or the other one?"
"Ugh! Both!" I snap, stomping my foot. "Why are you people obsessed with faces?!"
"Because faces get princes killed," he says simply. "Come on. He's waiting."
I glare at him, but my heart stumbles at the thought of Sorien waiting. Whether it's curiosity, fear, or stupidity that makes me follow, I'm not sure. Probably all three.
As Hegar leads the way back through the forest, I mutter under my breath.
"Sun by day, moon by night... if this curse doesn't kill me, humans surely will."
Behind us, the forest rustles again.
Something unseen moves through the trees, slow and deliberate. Watching.