2 more days had passed since the witch burning.
Alya spoke less than usual. She often woke at night, crying into her pillow. Akira, on the other hand, pretended nothing had happened. Only once did he whisper quietly to Eliot:
"Why didn't she scream when she burned?"
He didn't know how to answer.
Lily grew quieter. She spent hours reading their father's old notes, whispering with their mother, and glancing at her brothers as if she wanted to warn them but didn't know of what. More and more, Eliot caught himself bracing for another blow. Something new. A sign. The old man. A regression. But nothing happened. Only in his dreams did he hear that voice. The witch's. "Thou art not yet lost..."
He couldn't forget her eyes. Or the inquisitor's face nearly identical to the old man he'd met that evening. It couldn't be a coincidence. He had been there. Watching. Smiling. As if he already knew everything. And so, Eliot couldn't take it anymore. He left. He said he was going to the forest to gather berries. But step by step, he followed a familiar path to the Witch's Mountain. The place where time had first cracked that night.
The air grew quieter the higher he climbed. The rustling leaves fell silent; the birds stopped singing. Only the grass underfoot remained, and a dull ache in his chest, as if his heart still hadn't decided whether to race or stop entirely. Eliot paused at the hill's crest. From here, the village looked like a tiny town. A thin ribbon of river glittered under the sun. But he didn't turn back. He stood among the dry grass, where he'd first heard the ringing. "Why am I here?" he whispered to himself. "What am I trying to find?" There was no answer. But the feeling of someone nearby returned.
He walked a little farther, to an old, gnarled, nearly dead tree with roots jutting from the earth. Only then did he notice, at the very edge of the shadows, near the slope's base someone sitting there. A small figure. Cloaked in ash-gray, as if woven from smoke and cinder. Hair of deep red, warm and vivid, like embers under ash, slightly curled, falling softly over her shoulders. Even from a distance, it looked warm. She sat with her legs tucked under her, back to him, listening to the wind. Eliot stopped. He didn't know who or what this was. But for the first time in a long while, he felt no fear. No cold. Only true silence.
The figure turned. A girl, no older than him. Pale skin, a faint blush on her cheeks. Her face was calm, almost serene, but not lifeless. Her eyes were bright green, deep, like spring leaves after rain. They looked straight at him but without judgment. Her mantle slipped carelessly from her shoulders. Light, almost translucent, embroidered in places with symbols he didn't recognize. Along the edges were threads shaped like white feathers and golden crescent moons.
"You took a long time," she said softly. Her voice was like wind through tall grass. "Who are you...?" he finally managed. She didn't answer right away. Instead, she turned her face to the sky. "My name is Celia. But now just the witch. It's simpler that way." He clenched his fists. Wanted to ask: Why are you here? Were you waiting for me? Are you dangerous? Are you like the one who burned? But he couldn't. Because in her gaze was something no one else in his world had: peace. As if the village, the ashes, the inquisitors none of it touched her. "Aren't you afraid?" Eliot asked instead. "I'm tired of being afraid," she said simply. "And you?" He didn't answer. Just sat beside her. And for the first time in many days, he didn't tremble.