Chapter 9: Ash and Memory

  The fire was cold ash now, and the chill had crept into his bones.

  Nikolai opened his eyes to gray light bleeding in through the cracks in the wooden wall. The warmth from the

  night before was gone, replaced by a low chill that settled into his bones like a warning.

  He sat up slowly.

  The blanket slid off. His bandages had been changed. His coat was folded beside him. His knife -- cleaned -

  rested on top.

  He stared at it for a long moment before picking it up.

  Outside, wind pressed softly against the walls. Not harsh. Just present. A sound that whispered you weren't

  alone.

  The Witch was nowhere in sight.

  But something was cooking again -- this time, it smelled like meat and herbs. Real meat.

  He stepped toward the door, boots thudding lightly on the wooden floor, every movement slow and measured.

  He was still alive. That had to count for something.

  When he opened the door, the world outside didn't feel like the same place he'd passed through days ago.

  The trees were too still. The sky too pale.

  And at the edge of the clearing, the Witch stood with her back to him -- hands behind her, hair swaying gently,

  like even the air was cautious around her.

  She didn't turn at first, but her voice carried easily.

  "How are you feeling?" she asked, as if they were old acquaintances instead of strangers surrounded by frost.

  Nikolai hesitated, then said, "Not bad."

  A faint chuckle drifted back to him. "You're either lying, or you've forgotten what good feels like."

  He didn't answer.

  She finally turned, her blue eyes catching his. They were unreadable. Ancient, maybe -- or just very, very

  tired.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  Then her gaze dropped to the faint tremble in his hands. The way his shoulders curled slightly inward. Cold.

  Still worn thin by the wind.

  She sighed -- not unkindly -- and nodded toward the cabin.

  "Come on," she said. "You have questions. Let's talk inside."

  She walked back toward the cabin without waiting.

  Inside, she led him to a room just off the main entry -- a sitting area, sparse but strangely intact. The furniture

  looked handmade, worn but sturdy. A low table, two mismatched chairs, a bench set beneath a frosted

  window. A faded rug covered part of the floor, its fibers dulled with age. Dried herbs hung in bundles from the

  rafters, their scent mingling with the faint aroma of broth.

  She walked to a battered counter and set a kettle on a metal tray over a small iron burner -- makeshift, but

  clever. Heat radiated from it in steady waves.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Tea?" she asked, almost absently.

  She didn't wait for his answer. Her hands moved with practiced ease, preparing two chipped cups and pouring

  from the kettle as if the question had only been a courtesy.

  She turned, cups in hand, and set them gently on the table.

  Then she looked up at him and said, "You don't have to stand there like a ghost. Sit."

  Nikolai sat, slow and cautious, his eyes never leaving her.

  She didn't flinch under his gaze. She lifted her cup and sipped, calm and composed, like his stare didn't weigh

  on her at all.

  It went on like that -- silent, still -- until she finally raised an eyebrow and set the cup down.

  "You don't have to look at me like I'm going to eat you," she said, dry amusement curling in her voice.

  She leaned back slightly. "Go on. Ask away."

  Nikolai didn't reply immediately.

  He watched her for a while, studying every subtle movement. Then, finally, he asked, "Are you the one they

  call the Witch?"

  She huffed -- not in surprise, but in familiarity, like she'd heard the question too many times to take it seriously

  anymore.

  "Yes," she said simply.

  Nikolai looked at her more intently, jaw tight. He tensed, because the next question would decide whether his

  journey had been a fool's errand -- or not. Then again, it didn't really matter. He was here now.

  "And you grant desires?" he asked, voice low. He paused. "Any desire?"

  He watched her carefully. Not just her face, but her hands, her posture -- waiting for any sign, any flicker.

  For a long moment, her expression didn't shift.

  Then came the faintest crease in her brow. Barely noticeable. A flicker of something. Her eyes were cold.

  She stared at him without blinking.

  "I refuse no one," she said.

  He didn't breathe for a second.

  Then, after a beat, her expression softened and she let out a bitter breath.

  "You didn't even ask my name. Is this what men are like now?"

  Nikolai looked embarrassed. He scratched the back of his neck. "What... what is your name?"

  She looked at him with mild amusement, eyes glinting.

  "I am Wanda," she said.

  Then, before he could speak again, she added, "And you're Nikolai."

  Not a question. A certainty.

  His eyes narrowed slightly in surprise. He nodded.

  And then Wanda reassessed him, just for a second.

  *This boy is not simple,* she thought.

  Then in a solemn tone, she asked, "What is it that you want?"

  Nikolai didn't hesitate. His voice was firm. "I don't want to die. Not from hunger. Not from iron-forged

  swords, or injuries, or sickness. I don't want to be scared of the night anymore, hiding like a rat."

  He met her eyes, steady now.

  "I want immortality."

  Wanda didn't flinch.

  She only stared.

  And for the first time, the silence felt dangerous.