CH. 69 The Prince, the Hermit House, and the Stew Incident
Sorien had never been fond of the Dark Forest.
Too many whispers.
Too many glowing mushrooms.
Too many trees that looked like they wanted to file a restraining order against him.
But today?
Today the forest looked worse.
Because Drew wasn’t answering her door.
He knocks again — firmly, politely, absolutely-not-panicking—
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
No answer.
He knocks harder.
KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK—
“Your Highness,” Hegar mutters, “if you break the door, Drew will turn you into a snake and make you fight rodents for food.”
Sorien ignores him and tries the latch again.
Locked.
Hegar sighs. “Allow me.”
He taps the lock.
It pops open immediately, because Drew’s house is secured with exactly the same level of magic as a mildly tricky picnic basket.
They step inside.
The cottage is empty.
Too empty.
The potion bottles are still warm.
The chair is still rocking.
And Leonardo the axolotl gives Sorien a blank salamander stare that could mean anything from hello to I have witnessed horrors.
“Where is she?” Sorien murmurs.
Hegar, ever practical: “She probably went to gather herbs.”
Sorien: “Then why is her cloak still here?”
Hegar: “Perhaps she—”
Leonardo lets out a distressed gurgle-bloop.
Sorien stiffens. “He says she’s in danger.”
“He didn’t say that,” Hegar replies.
“He implied it.”
“He is an axolotl.”
“He is a highly expressive axolotl.”
Hegar massages his temples. “Fine. Let’s… ask around.”
---
The path winds deeper into the forest until the trees gather like gossiping old women leaning too close.
Smoke curls above crooked rooftops.
Cackling echoes between mossy huts.
Something explodes in the distance.
“That,” Hegar mutters, “is never a good sign.”
They approach a group of witches stirring a cauldron the size of a bathtub.
The oldest one turns first — wrinkled, hunched, and grinning with precisely three teeth.
“Well, well, WELL,” she croaks. “If it isn’t a little prince lost in the big forest.”
Sorien straightens. “Have you seen Drew? She—”
“Too late!” the witch shrieks, delighted.
“She already got cooked for stew!”
The other witches burst into cackling laughter.
One actually falls backward into a bush.
Sorien turns dead white.
“WHAT?”
“Oh yes!” she howls. “BOILED! SIMMERED! TENDERIZED! Deliiiicious little witch bits floating in a pot—”
Hegar slaps a hand over Sorien’s chest to keep him from lunging forward.
“She’s lying,” he says flatly. “They’re just teasing you.”
“You SURE?” Sorien demands, voice higher than usual. “Because she sounded VERY SPECIFIC—”
Another witch, tears in her eyes from laughing, wheezes out:
“If we cooked her, boy, the entire forest would smell like chaos and glitter!”
“Or frogs,” adds another.
The first witch smacks her spoon against the cauldron.
“Now then, what do you really want, princeling?”
Sorien steels himself.
“I need to know where she went.”
The witches exchange glances.
One shrugs.
“She went that way. Toward the Supreme’s domain.”
“She wasn’t alone,” another says. “Looked like her coven had business to discuss.”
Hegar nods. “See? Drew is fine.”
Sorien does not look convinced.
His jaw is tight, eyes sharp.
“She could be in danger.”
“She IS always in danger,” the toothless witch cackles. “It’s her favorite hobby.”
Sorien glares. “This isn’t a joke.”
The forest quiets.
Even the witches sober slightly.
The oldest one pats Sorien’s cheek with a bony hand.
“Then you better hurry, young prince.”
Sorien’s expression hardens.
“I’m going,” he says.
Hegar sighs but follows. “Of course you are.”
The witches wave their spoons like wands.
“brING HER BACK ALIVE!”
“AND IN ONE PIECE!”
“AND IF YOU FIND ANY INGREDIENTS ALONG THE WAY, brING ‘EM BACK TOO!”
Sorien and Hegar disappear into the shadows of the Dark Forest.
Behind them, the witches cackle again.
“Look at him run,” one giggles.
“Ah, love,” another sighs.
“No,” the oldest corrects.
“That’s panic.”