Chapter 148: Finding the Witch
{Elira}
~**^**~
After dinner at the cafeteria, I returned to our dorm room with Cambria and the others to prepare for our study session.
And I had just slipped my notebooks into my backpack when my phone buzzed on the desk, the screen lighting up with Lennon’s name.
I hesitated a second, wondering what he had to tell me, before answering. "Hello?"
Then I walked towards our room’s balcony for more privacy.
Several seconds later, the line went dead, and I found myself staring at the dim screen of my phone, the corners of my lips still curled upward.
Lennon always had that effect on me—teasing, shameless, but never failing to make me laugh even when I tried to resist.
But almost immediately, I remembered what was important and found myself walking back into the room.
Nari was sprawled across her bunk with her tablet, Tamryn flipping through notes, and Cambria tying her hair back neatly. Juniper emerged from the bathroom, drying her hands.
Then I cleared my throat lightly. "I have news."
They all glanced up immediately.
"My training this Sunday has been cancelled," I said simply. "So... I can finally go out with you all."
The second the words left my lips, Nari shot upright, her eyes wide. "Wait—so you are free this Sunday? For real?"
I nodded, smiling at her eagerness.
"Finally!" she squealed, flopping onto her back in victory. "Our missing piece is back. Now we can do it all—smoothies at the café, then the record shop outside town. Don’t even try to escape this time."
Cambria’s face lit up, her usual calm carrying a spark of excitement. "And the bookstore."
Juniper leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but her grin tugging free. "It’s decided then. Café, record shop, and bookstore. We are going to have a proper Sunday."
Nari clasped her hands dramatically, tilting her head toward me. "Don’t you dare cancel this time, Elira Shaw, or I might actually cry."
"I promise," I said, the words slipping out like a vow. "I won’t cancel on you ladies."
Their laughter and chatter filled the dorm as we gathered our things for the study hall.
***---***
{Rennon}
The road stretched endlessly, a ribbon of dark asphalt cutting through forest and shadow.
Hours had already bled away, but silence clung to the car like another passenger.
Zenon sat forward, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if he could will answers out of it.
Lennon slouched beside me, restless energy emanating from him in waves, his fingers drumming against his thigh like sparks searching for tinder.
And me—I listened to the hum of the tires, to the faint creak of leather seats, but mostly to the quiet pulse of what waited ahead.
The witch wasn’t gone. I could feel it like the ghost of a heartbeat just beneath the earth.
Magic never died cleanly. It clung, even when the body that wielded it turned cold.
At the thought of the witch, something shifted inside me. Elira thought tomorrow was hers again, a simple Sunday with friends. But she didn’t know what we were risking to give her the freedom she had been waiting for.
I adjusted my glasses, leaning back into the seat. "If the witch is alive, she will be expecting us. Witches like her don’t survive by accident."
Zenon’s eyes flicked toward me in the mirror, sharp and unreadable. "Then we make her regret it if she tries anything funny."
I let my gaze drift to the blur of trees rushing past the window.
Beneath the steady rhythm of the road, I could almost hear the whisper of what waited ahead—smoke curling through broken shutters, a house standing too still, and Elira’s voice, faint, warning where she shouldn’t have been able to reach.
’Don’t go inside.’
My hands stilled against my lap. The vision wasn’t clear, but it was enough to coil unease through me.
Lennon caught my expression, his grin sharpening. "Did you see something?"
"Not clearly." My voice was even, though the weight pressed harder on my chest. "But she isn’t gone. Of that I’m certain."
"Then good," he said, his fire sparking bright. "I’ve been waiting to put her in the ground myself."
Zenon didn’t answer. His silence was already sharpened into a blade.
The sun dipped low by the time we turned off the main road. Asphalt gave way to gravel, gravel to dirt, until even the sound of the tires changed—grinding, uneven, like the earth itself was warning us back.
The witch’s dwelling came into view slowly, almost reluctant to show itself. A crooked house crouched at the edge of the forest, its roof sagging under the weight of years, its windows boarded from the inside.
No smoke rose from the chimney, and sound stirred the air. But silence didn’t mean emptiness. Silence meant waiting.
Lennon sat forward, a wolfish grin tugging at his mouth. "Finally."
Zenon raised a hand before the driver could inch closer. His eyes scanned the surroundings, sharp and dissecting every shadow. "Stop here. We will continue our journey on foot."
The car rolled to a halt, the engine cutting into stillness. For a moment, the only sound was the tick of cooling metal.
I stepped out first, the evening air heavy with the faint scent of burned sage and something older—coppery, metallic, lingering like a stain on the wind. My skin prickled.
"She’s been here," I murmured, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. "Recently."
Zenon’s gaze never left the house. "Dead or alive, we will confirm it."
We advanced through the undergrowth, each step deliberate. Lennon’s energy vibrated beside me, reckless and impatient, but even he stayed silent now.
The trees leaned too close, the air too still. Every instinct in me whispered caution.
And then I saw it—runes carved deep into the wooden fence posts surrounding the property. Old symbols, twisted and crude, meant to repel, confuse, ensnare. My breath caught.
"Wards," I said softly. "They are not defensive, but they are traps."
Lennon smirked, completely unfazed by the look of things. "Good thing traps are meant to be broken."
I caught his sleeve before he could take another step. "Not carelessly." My voice was sharper than usual, but visions don’t lie.
In my mind, I had already seen fire licking along the posts, seen the wards explode outward like shards of glass. "One wrong move and this entire place might burn."
Zenon’s eyes narrowed at the carvings, then at the house looming beyond. His jaw tightened, but his voice was steady. "We are not retreating."
The three of us stood at the threshold, shadows pooling at our feet, the runes glinting faintly in the dying light.
The house stood silent and watchful, as if it knew exactly who had arrived.
"She is in there," I confirmed.
Zenon gave a single nod. Lennon’s grin grew sharper. And together, we stepped forward.
The wards crackled faintly as we crossed the fence line, the air buzzing against my skin like static.
The closer we drew, the heavier the air became—thick with old magic, clinging like smoke.
Lennon exhaled low, a grin tugging at his lips. "Smells like rot and lies."
Zenon didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the door, every step measured, every muscle coiled to strike.
I arrived first, lightly brushing my fingers over the runes carved into the doorframe. They flickered faintly beneath my touch, alive despite their age.
"She is not even hiding," I whispered. "It feels like she is waiting."
"Then let’s not keep her." Lennon’s hand shot forward, fingers curling around the handle.
"Stop." My voice snapped sharper than usual, halting him mid-motion. I narrowed my eyes, listening—beyond the silence, beyond the hum of the wards.
There. A faint rhythm, not a heartbeat or a breath, but something deeper. A pulse within the wood itself.
"It’s rigged," I said. "If you open it blindly, the wards will collapse inward. Fire first, then binding chains."
Lennon’s grin faded, though the fire in his eyes burned fiercer. "So, what? Knock?"
"Not knock," Zenon said flatly, already moving past us. His boot slammed forward, splintering the door with a single strike.
The wards screamed, light searing through the cracks before fizzling into ash.
Inside, the house breathed out the scent of sage and old wood.
We entered as one, every instinct sharp. Lennon’s fire flickered faintly at his palm, eager, reckless.
Zenon moved like a blade drawn, all focus and silence. I stretched my senses wide, waiting for the backlash of hidden traps.
But none came.
The room was dim but not deserted—shelves laden with jars, herbs drying in tidy bundles, a kettle still warm on the hearth. No dust. Someone lived here, carefully.
"She is here," I said quietly.
Just then, a chair creaked. And a few seconds later, she appeared—not from shadow, not from some trap, but simply stepping forward as though she had been waiting all this time.
A woman weathered by years, hair streaked silver, robes worn but clean. Her eyes carried the weight of a storm but not the malice of one.