The Witch's Supper
Back at the Keep, the necrotic lines on their skin had not appeared yet. That would come later. For now the party had bruises, a map with more filled squares than before, and a growing certainty that whatever the cult was doing had its heart somewhere east of the Tamarack Stand.
They spent a few days in the Keep, resting and gathering information. Elaazar was at the temple most mornings, speaking with the old priest who listened carefully and said useful things in measured doses. Cylia was at the castle, which had been happening with increasing frequency over the last two weeks. Winvarle, the Keep's leader, had the kind of quality that makes people come back — steady authority, no pretension, genuinely interested in what the party had found and genuinely useful with what she knew in return.
She told them about the caves. Adventurers had gone there looking for treasure over the years — the mountain face was riddled with openings, everyone assumed there was something worth finding. Most never came back. The ones who did came back changed. The cult had a presence there, she suspected. She didn't know how deep.
"We'll go," Cylia said.
"I know," Winvarle said.
But first: the hermit's hut.
The party had been back to the woods twice since that first visit and the hut had stayed in the background — a reference point, a source of useful information, a warm stop. Arya wanted to ask the elf some direct questions now that they had more context about what the cult was doing in the surrounding area.
The hut was the same as always. The elf answered the door before they knocked. The fire was going. It smelled like herbs and woodsmoke.
Arya asked her questions. The elf answered with the measured helpfulness of someone who knew more than she was giving but was giving what she chose to give. The conversation was useful, not complete. Arya noted both things.
Evening came while they were talking. The walk back through the dark forest was not ideal — it was longer in the dark, the paths less certain. Elaazar and Arya prepared to go. Cylia looked at the distance, the failing light, the fire behind her.
"I'll stay," she said. "Head back in the morning."
Arya paused. There was something at the edge of her attention — some quality in the elf's stillness when Cylia said that, some small thing that didn't fit the rest of the picture. But it was small, and she was tired, and she told herself she was reading too much into it.
"We'll come back for you at first light," she said.
The door closed. The forest went dark.
At first light, Arya knocked and the door swung open.
Cylia was wrong. That was the only way to describe it — standing in the middle of the room with blank eyes and a posture that was Cylia's posture and wasn't Cylia, with the elf standing at the back of the room watching from a different face than yesterday.
The fight was fast and personal and went one direction. All of Cylia's skill was there, every bit of it, the same techniques Arya had watched for weeks — but without the person behind them, without the restraint and judgment that made the difference between a fighter and a weapon. She put Elaazar on the ground in seconds. She drove Arya back against the wall and didn't stop.
The elf worked at the back of the room with her hands moving in the pattern Elaazar had seen at the statue, the same overlapping rhythm, building to the same conclusion.
Then they were all on the floor and couldn't get up.
The bell started ringing.
Somewhere outside, not inside. A single bell, low and slow, spaced with the patience of something being done to completion. Not an alarm. A funeral bell. The rhythm of it pressed through the walls of the hut and through the trees.
The elf stood over them and completed the ritual with the focused economy of someone finishing a job. She believed it was done — that was visible in how she moved, in the satisfaction of a task completed. She walked out of the hut and into the dark trees, laughing quietly, and was gone.
The woods went quiet. The bell stopped.
In the silence, Elaazar prayed the only way he had left: no words, no structure, just address and need.
The answer arrived without announcement — a quality in the air, a presence, a colour that was almost blue. Tyr. Not a vision, not a voice from outside. A communication between a god and a cleric who had pledged to him, direct and complete.
You are not done yet.
Justice must be served. The Blue Flame awaits. But you must hurry.
Then it was gone.
They came back to themselves over the next few minutes — confused, damaged, breathing the cold air of the hut floor. The ritual had left marks: fine black lines spread from the entry points across their skin like cracks in old stone. Not wounds exactly. A signature. A timer.
Arya looked at her own hands with the detachment of her training. Necrotic damage over time until the caster was dead or the magic was dispelled. She knew enough to know that dispelling it was harder than it sounded and would not last.
"We need to find her," she said.
"We will," Elaazar said. He was already looking at the tracks by the door. They led east. Through the trees, toward the mountains.
Toward the caves.
Next episode: A goblin birthday party, a captive dwarf, a hired ogre, and a door that should never have been opened.