CH. 70 The Witch in the Heart of the Forest
The Dark Forest has many paths.
Some are friendly.
Some pretend to be friendly then try to eat your boots.
And some—the one we’re walking now—should simply not exist.
The trees grow closer the deeper we go, their branches twisting overhead like ribcages trying to swallow the moon.
Fog slithers between the roots.
Every breath tastes like old magic and older grudges.
The Supreme Witch leads the way, her cane tapping rhythmically on the earth.
Behind her follows Drew’s accidental fan club: a handful of witches armed with broomstaffs, potion pouches, and deeply concerning enthusiasm.
And me—Drew—currently clutching the front of my cloak so hard it might tear.
I’ve never gone this far into the forest.
Aunt Agitha always warned me:
“Never step beyond the Black Willow. Nothing past it loves you.”
We stepped past the Black Willow twenty minutes ago.
And now?
Now the trees change.
They stop growing outward.
They start growing away—bent, warped, recoiling from something in the clearing ahead.
The Supreme stops.
“We’re here,” she says.
I swallow hard.
“Where is she?”
A voice answers.
“Behind you, child.”
---
I spin.
There she stands.
The Witch Who Cursed Me.
Not a hag.
Not a monster.
Just a woman—beautiful in a way that’s sharp, wrong, and sad.
Her hair curls like smoke.
Her eyes burn green and furious.
Beside her crouches the gargoyle from before, wings folded, claws twitching for the command.
My stomach drops.
“You,” I breathe.
She smiles.
Not kindly.
“You’ve grown,” she says. “Shame you look like her.”
Her attention flicks to my face—my beautiful face, the face I never asked for—and rage coils in her jaw like a snake ready to strike.
The Supreme steps between us.
“You have no right to approach my coven—”
“Oh hush, old crone,” the witch snaps. “I’m here for her.”
Her gaze pins mine.
“You want the curse gone? Then undo what your mother did.”
My throat goes tight.
“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even know her!”
“Exactly,” she hisses.
“Exactly. My love was meant to be mine. But she—your perfect mother—stole him.
She took him.
Married him.
Had you.”
Her voice cracks like glass.
“My life shattered because you were born.”
The air grows thick.
Magic and grief mix like poison.
My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
“I didn’t choose to be born,” I whisper.
“I didn’t take anything from you.”
The Supreme raises her cane.
“Enough. Your quarrel is with the dead. Do not lift a hand against the living.”
The cursed witch’s eyes narrow.
“Oh, I intend to fix exactly that.”
She flicks her hand.
The forest screams.
---
Wind explodes outward.
The ground cracks.
Trees twist violently, bark flaking like burning parchment.
The witches beside me spread out, conjuring shields of emerald, violet, and gold.
The Supreme slams her cane into the earth, anchoring us as the storm hits.
The gargoyle launches, fangs bared.
“Fall back!” the Supreme orders.
But I step forward.
“WAIT—”
The cursed witch snarls.
“Still defending her? How noble. How STUPID.”
“I want the curse lifted!” I shout.
“I want my life back! My face—my magic—my choices—NOTHING was mine! So why—why punish me for something I didn’t do?!”
She pauses.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then—
Her smile twists.
“Because you look like her.”
The spell leaves her hand before I can blink.
A spiraling mass of green-black flame.
It screams toward me like a living thing.
The Supreme intercepts it with a blast of violet power.
It COLLIDES—shockwaves ripping leaves from branches, sending sparks into the air.
Witches scatter into defensive circles.
The gargoyle lunges again.
The cursed witch stretches her arms wide.
“COME THEN!” she roars.
“Let us finish what began when she stole everything from me!”
Magic erupts.
My hands burn—literally—my fireblood roaring to life.
This isn’t a curse.
Not anymore.
This is war.