The Witch's Prophecy

The witch's hut was unlike any place Derek or Diva had ever seen. It stood crooked on thick, twisted roots that curled out of the forest floor like claws. Moss dripped from its slanted roof, and the air around it smelled of burnt herbs and old secrets. The path leading to it was narrow and lined with bones—some animal, some not. As they approached, the wind fell silent. Even the birds refused to sing.

Diva’s hand curled tighter around the hilt of her dagger, though she wasn’t sure what good steel would do against whatever lived here.

“You sure about this?” she asked Derek.

He didn’t answer at first. His gaze was fixed on the door, where a symbol carved in ancient language pulsed faintly with light. Then he nodded.

“She’s the only one who might know how Ronan did it.”

They stepped through the creaking doorway into a room lit only by flickering blue candles and the glow of a fire that burned black instead of red. Strange jars lined the walls, filled with eyes, feathers, and other things best not named. And in the center of the room, seated on a chair made from antlers and vines, was the witch.

She was old—older than the forest, it seemed. Her hair was white but full, falling in tangled coils down her back. Her skin looked like parchment, cracked and folded in ways that mapped centuries. But her eyes... her eyes were young. And they saw everything.

“I felt your coming,” she rasped without looking up. “The wolf and the storm. Sit.”

They obeyed, neither questioning the names she’d given them.

“Ronan sent the killer,” the witch said before they could speak. “You know this. But what you do not know is that he didn’t just want the Seer dead. He wanted to end the bloodline that could unbind his fate.”

“Why?” Derek asked. “Why would he go that far?”

The witch turned her gaze to him, and for a moment, Derek felt as though she were staring through him, peeling back every layer of thought.

“Because you are his tether,” she said. “You think the bond between you is destiny, fate, the gods’ cruel joke. It is none of these things. It was forged. Forced. And like any chain, it can be broken.”

Diva leaned forward. “How?”

The witch’s voice dropped to a whisper. “At a cost.”

Silence filled the room.

“What cost?” Derek asked.

The witch looked at Diva, eyes narrowing. “Hers.”

Diva recoiled slightly. “What do you mean?”

“You are the fulcrum on which the bond balances,” the witch said. “Your blood anchors the curse. Your death would unravel it.”

“No,” Derek said immediately. “That’s not an option.”

The witch smiled sadly. “Most things are not. Until they are.”

Diva’s heart pounded in her chest. She didn’t know what she had expected—but not this. Not that her life might be the only thing keeping Ronan’s curse intact.

“There must be another way,” she said.

“There may be,” the witch said. “But it lies in the hands of forgotten things. Magic buried deep. If it exists, it will not show itself easily.”

Derek stood, pacing. “So we’re cursed. Tied to Ronan by something neither of us chose. And the only way to break it might be to—” He couldn’t even say the words.

But the witch wasn’t finished.

“There is more,” she said, and her voice grew colder. “Someone in your house will cause ruin. Calamity wears a familiar face.”

Diva looked up sharply. “What?”

“There are two guards,” the witch said. “One watches. One waits. And a maid—she holds a secret that could tear everything open. You must find them before the moon turns full. Or it will be too late.”

Derek’s blood ran cold. “Do you know who they are?”

The witch shook her head slowly. “I know what they carry. I do not know their names.”

“But how will we know?” Diva asked.

“They will show themselves, in time,” the witch said. “But be careful. Trust wears many masks.”

The fire in the hearth flared suddenly, and shadows danced violently across the walls.

“There’s more,” the witch murmured. She rose with surprising speed, moving to a basin filled with water so still it looked like glass.

She passed her hand over it, and images swirled to life—flashes of Ronan cloaked in darkness, standing before a gathering of hooded figures; Derek writhing in pain, a mark burning on his shoulder; Diva screaming as light erupted from her hands.

Diva gasped. “What is this?”

“Possible futures,” the witch said. “Each one seeded by the choices you will make.”

“And that one?” Derek pointed at an image of Diva lying still, pale as snow.

“That,” the witch said quietly, “is what happens if you choose to break the bond the wrong way.”

Diva turned away. The vision burned into her mind. She wasn’t ready to die—not now, not like that. But the idea that she might have to? To stop Ronan? It clung to her like cold mist.

The witch let the basin go still, and the room seemed to exhale.

“You should leave now,” she said. “You’ve stirred enough truths for one night. And the forest grows restless when secrets rise.”

Derek didn’t argue. He helped Diva to her feet, and together they turned to go.

But before they reached the door, the witch called out:

“Storm-child.”

Diva stopped.

The witch’s eyes glowed faintly. “You were not born of chance. You carry blood that once commanded stars to fall. Do not let the world make you small.”

Diva stared at her, throat tight. Then nodded once and stepped into the night.

The forest felt colder than before. Colder, and darker. Even the wind didn’t dare speak.

They walked in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts. When they were far enough from the witch’s hut, Derek stopped.

“I won’t let it happen,” he said.

Diva looked at him. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” he said. “I don’t care what the witch says. We’ll find another way. We always do.”

Diva wanted to believe him. But the weight of the prophecy, of the vision in the water, pressed down on her.

Back at the estate, they would have to look at everyone differently now. Guards who had once been trusted allies were now suspects. And a maid—someone they probably passed by every day—held a truth powerful enough to destroy everything.

Diva touched the letter from the Seer. His words echoed louder now than ever:

"When the blood moon rises, the cursed will remember."

She didn’t know what it meant yet. But she knew they were running out of time to find out.