CH. 57 The Witch, the Curse, and the Worst Possible Timing
The courtyard should be calming down.
Guards picking themselves off the ground.
Hegar gasping like he ran a marathon through wet pudding.
Sorien still standing in front of me, tense, sword raised, searching for whatever voice we just heard—
But then the temperature drops.
Not cold.
Not warm.
Just wrong.
A ripple of shadow slithers across the stone.
Out of it steps her.
The witch.
Tall.
Gaunt.
Horribly beautiful in a way that makes the world dim around her.
Cloaked in tattered gold-threaded silk.
Her eyes gleam like poisoned honey.
Behind her, the gargoyle dust twitches—
and begins to knit itself back together.
“Oh COME ON,” I groan.
“Is NOTHING ever dead?!”
The witch smiles, slow and cruel.
The kind of smile that says I have waited a very long time to ruin your life personally.
“Andromeda,” she sings.
“My, my… you’ve grown into your mother’s face.”
Sorien stiffens at my side.
Hegar whispers, “Be careful. Her magic is older than the Kingdom.”
The witch glides closer, her shadow crawling over the stones like ants.
“You’ve caused me trouble,” she says. “Running around the kingdom, undoing my curse with your little… heroics.”
“I wasn’t trying to undo anything!” I shout.
“I was trying not to die!”
“So dramatic,” she croons. “You witches always are.”
Sorien steps in front of me.
Sword drawn.
Voice icy.
“Stay away from her.”
The witch’s smile widens.
“Ah. The prince.”
She taps her cheek mockingly.
“Do you like her face, little royal?”
Sorien doesn’t answer.
His silence is answer enough.
Her grin sharpens like a blade.
“Lovely. Then watch closely.”
She flicks her fingers.
My blood ignites.
Red fire bursts through my veins.
My vision blurs.
My skin prickles.
“No—no, no, NOT NOW!” I gasp, clutching my arms.
Sorien grabs me, steadying me.
“What’s happening?!”
“It’s the curse,” Hegar rasps.
“She’s forcing it.”
The witch raises her hand theatrically, humming.
A familiar, haunting tune.
Grandmama’s tune.
But twisted.
Wrong.
The fire inside me surges—
then collapses.
With a sound like tearing fabric, my body jerks forward.
And in broad daylight—
before the prince, the guards, the entire palace—
I change.
My hair shrivels and tangles.
My skin erupts in warts.
My spine hunches.
My nose hooks.
My eyebrows achieve new heights of chaos.
My entire face rearranges into the crooked, familiar mess I thought I left behind.
I am Drew.
Ugly Drew.
In Sorien’s arms.
The courtyard goes silent.
Even the gargoyle stops rebuilding itself.
Sorien stares down at me, horror flickering across his eyes—
not disgust,
but shock.
“…Drew?” he whispers.
My heart slams against my ribs.
“I—can explain—”
The witch throws back her head and laughs, a long, triumphant cackle that shakes the courtyard windows.
“Ahhh, finally,” she hisses.
“I was wondering how long you could pretend, little doll.”
Sorien turns toward her, voice dark with fury.
“What did you do to her?”
The witch’s eyes gleam.
“Nothing today. This—”
She gestures at me like a disgusting trophy.
“—is the curse she was ALWAYS meant to wear. The ugliness, the warping, the delightful rot—her mother should never have meddled. But the Trials… they weakened my spell.”
She leans closer.
“And now I’ve put it back.”
I shove Sorien’s hands away and stand on shaking legs.
“You want a medal?” I snap.
“Should I clap for you? Toss confetti? Maybe a gargoyle limb?”
The witch only laughs.
“You won’t be so bold later,” she purrs.
“You are mine again, little Andromeda. And when the Trials end—your spirit will be the price.”
Sorien raises his sword.
The witch vanishes into smoke.
Her parting whisper coils around us:
“See you soon… child of fire.”
The courtyard falls still.
I stand there panting, hideous and trembling, my heart sinking into my stomach.
Sorien turns to me.
His face is unreadable.
I brace myself.
He steps closer.
And in a low, steady voice, he says:
“…Drew. Why didn’t you tell me?”
My throat closes.
My curse burns.
My eyes sting.
“I—I didn’t think you’d want to know.”
He looks at me for a long, quiet moment.
Then—
“…But you’re still you.”
It breaks something in me.
And for the first time since childhood—
I cry.