Chapter 8: The Witch

  Darkness didn't greet him with pain.

  It greeted him with warmth.

  A steady crackle. The scent of smoke and something herbal. And softness--beneath his back, against his

  hands. A blanket?

  He jolted upright.

  Pain flared through his side. Dull. Wrapped.

  Not dead.

  His breathing came fast at first, but the room didn't shift. There was no cold. No wind. Just quiet. And

  firelight.

  He was inside somewhere.

  Wooden walls. A fire pit nearby. Shelves. Jars. A kettle steaming.

  The scent was familiar. Not food. Not rot.

  Roots. Burnt herbs.

  A figure moved in the corner of his vision. Slow. Measured.

  He turned fast, winced again.

  A woman.

  Not the one from before.

  Middle-aged, with a youthful face untouched by time. No wrinkles, no tired lines. Beautiful--refined. Her long

  hair was dark, touched lightly with silver at the edges. She wore a simple, dark coat lined with fur, sleeves

  rolled to the forearm. Her eyes were a striking blue--not cruel, not kind. Just deep. Like looking into a well

  with no bottom. She moved with a quiet grace, her figure full but poised--slim waist, curved hips, steady eyes.

  She didn't startle. Didn't rush.

  "You're awake," she said, voice calm, clear. "Didn't think someone'd survive the ice."

  He stared at her, throat dry. Tried to speak. Couldn't.

  She poured water from the kettle into a clay cup and handed it to him. Her fingers brushed his. Warm. Steady.

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  He drank.

  He didn't trust it. But he drank anyway.

  Warmth spread through him. Not the burn of fire. The calm of safety. Temporary, maybe--but real.

  "Where am I?" he finally asked.

  She sat across from him, folding her hands in her lap.

  "Past the Frozen Vein," she said with a quiet chuckle. "I think you've heard of it. Death. Skjraheim. The

  Shardlands. Gelure. The Bleeding Frost."

  His hand tightened around the cup. "You're the Witch."

  A faint smile. Not denial.

  "Some call me that."

  He looked around again, more carefully now. The room was simple. Lived-in. A strange comfort in the middle

  of nowhere. Bones hung from strings above the door. Not human--small. Bird. Fox. Maybe.

  He lowered his voice. "Why save me?"

  "Did I?" she asked.

  He didn't like the way she said that. Not cruel, not sarcastic--just... factual.

  "You crossed a place not meant to be crossed," she continued. "Few survive that. Even fewer arrive with blood

  still warm."

  "I wasn't looking to die."

  "No," she said. "But you didn't care if you did."

  The words sat in the air for a moment.

  Nikolai stared into the fire.

  "I came to ask for something."

  "You all do."

  "I was told--"

  "Don't finish that sentence," she said gently. "You've earned a warm fire and a night's rest. But you haven't

  earned answers. Not yet."

  He stared at her, the cup still in his hand.

  She stood.

  "Sleep. Eat. Tomorrow, we speak. If you still want to."

  She walked out, the door closing behind her with a soft click.