Chapter 5 — The Deal

Zeph awoke with his throat on fire, as if he were swallowing burning embers.

A sweet, rotten stench—a sickening mixture of dried herbs and decaying flesh—clung to the back of his mouth even before he could open his eyes.

When he finally managed to lift his heavy eyelids, he realized he was lying on a bed of filthy, dry straw scattered across a hard surface of old, cracked wood.

Where am I?

It was impossible to tell how many hours—or perhaps days—he had spent unconscious there; his entire body felt as though it belonged to someone else.

The surrounding walls were made of ill-fitted wooden planks adorned with hanging bundles of dark herbs, human and animal bones bound by rotted twine, and dozens of dusty glass jars filled with liquids of logic-defying colors.

Further along, crude shelves and bookcases displayed rows of macabre jars: eyeballs that seemed to spin slowly in murky fluid, shriveled tongues, and misshapen chunks of flesh he preferred not to identify.

Upon a makeshift table of twisted planks rested ancient books bound in thick leather with yellowed pages, open to entries filled with dark ink annotations and disturbing anatomical drawings.

Zeph brought a trembling hand to his head, feeling a throbbing pain with every single thought.

As he shifted, a sharp discomfort in his arm forced him to look down: a bandage made of coarse cloth was tied there, stained with dark, dried red.

Nearby, resting on a crude stool, sat a rustic wooden pot with crusts of dried blood caked along its inner rim.

As if someone had drained a portion of his blood while he slept.

In the center of the room, a massive black cauldron bubbled over a fierce flame, exhaling a thick, greenish smoke that rose in slow spirals toward the ceiling.

“Where…” His own voice came out like a dry, painful raspy scratch, sounding foreign to his ears.

Propping himself up on his elbows with extreme difficulty, weakness weighing down every muscle in his aching body, Zeph dragged himself across the floor until he reached a small, loose-fitting window in the side wall, through which a thin, ice-cold beam of moonlight filtered.

What he saw outside made his blood run cold.

It can’t be… I think I’m remembering what happened… Zeph thought, bringing a hand to his head as if recalling something painful.

Standing in front of the shack’s entrance, the hooded figure was talking to the witch. Their shoulders were tense, their dark cloak blending into the blackness of the night.

The witch was small and hunched—the very same woman with sunken eyes and cadaverous features he had seen before losing consciousness.

“Here is what you demanded,” she hissed, her sunken eyes gleaming with a sickly greed as she pressed a cloth sack against her bent chest.

The creature extended a rigid, bandaged hand and slowly wrapped their fingers around the small, dark vial they had just received.

“Use it wisely. At the right moment,” warned the witch. “The process is painless and will not erase your memories. It will merely leave you disoriented and confused at first. It may last a few hours… or even days.”

The creature remained silent, studying the vial between their fingers.

“Furthermore, I haven’t had the time to fully test it. I don’t know if the proportions are ideal for your body. I made the calculations as best I could.”

“I am well aware of the risk… as long as I do not die,” answered the creature, showing no reaction whatsoever.

The witch offered a crooked smile.

“In any case, remember that you will be left vulnerable. It is a point of no return.”

The creature had no choice.

They had spent months watching that village.

They knew the names. They knew the faces. They knew where everyone usually was and which paths they took. They knew their habits. Their schedules.

They were willing to take the risk.

Then, the witch held out her wrinkled palm toward the creature, as if waiting for something.

Under the thick folds of their cloak, the creature fumbled for a moment before revealing the payment: a kind of small flute shaped like a dragon’s head at its tip, marked with symbols of a script unrecognizable to human eyes—it looked like an artifact that did not belong to the real world.

The witch raised her face, a greedy smile spreading across her lips, and extended her withered palm to receive it.

But the creature did not hand it over.

Instead, they brought the artifact to their lips. A short, raspy, sharp breath cut through the silence of the night—an impossible melody composed of notes that seemed to scrape the soul and freeze the surrounding air.

In that exact instant, time seemed to stand still.

Inside the shack, Zeph’s body froze completely. He tried to pull back, but his muscles refused every command; he couldn’t even blink his eyelids. Only his mind remained awake, a prisoner inside a body of stone, while the macabre music echoed in his ears like an overwhelming weight, slowing every beat of his heart down to pure agony.

Outside, the witch suffered the same fate. The greedy smile froze on her face. She tried to move, but her limbs stiffened like stakes driven into the ground. Her sunken eyes widened in horror, trapped by the sound of that flute that paralyzed the very breath of the world itself.

Only a few seconds passed—a deadly quiet eternity—before the melody abruptly ceased.

The spell broke along with the final note, restoring control of their bodies to both of them in the same breath.

Without hesitation, the hooded creature took the small flute and tossed it high into the air toward the witch.

Free to move again, the witch raised her head, the greedy smile returning to her lips, her eyes following the glimmer of the object rising in the darkness.

Then came a sharp sound.

Shhick.

The creature had already drawn a small, black-bladed sword from beneath their cloak.

“Here is your share.”

The object continued to fall, spinning slowly through the air above her.

For a moment—a moment far too long—nothing happened.

She felt only a strange lightness.

Confused, she brought a hand to her neck, trying to comprehend the warm wetness trickling beneath her chin.

Thick, black blood dripped into the mud.

A wet gurgle took the place of any scream she attempted to let out.

Desperate, she pressed firmly against the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.

Yet, her legs gave out.

A scream-less death.

The creature leaned down slowly, bringing their face close to her ear, and cold-bloodedly whispered:

“There is no deal with the dead.”

Zeph’s heart hammered against his chest.

Crouching quickly as he leaned against the wall, he thought:

I need to get out of here right now…

He backed away from the window slowly, still crouching, his legs still wobbly. His eyes scanned the small room, searching for anything that could lead him outside.

There was no time to think.

He had to get out.

In his desperation, his shoulder clipped one of the shelves.

CRASH!

Jars plummeted and shattered against the floorboards.

Liquids spread across the wood, trickling slowly toward the full cauldron.

He barely noticed.

His eyes had caught sight of a narrow wooden door, almost hidden behind a few boxes at the back of the room.

He sprinted toward it.

The door was held shut only by a rotted leather strap.

Zeph grabbed the leather and pulled.

Nothing.

He pulled again, this time with all the strength he had left.

SNAP!

The strap snapped.

The door burst open, letting in a gust of freezing air.

Zeph didn’t look back.

He ran.

His legs ached with every step, but fear was stronger than pain. Branches tore at his skin, roots tried to catch his ankles, and his lungs burned with every breath.

Still, he pushed forward.

Without direction.

Without a plan.

Just away.

To anywhere that was far from what he had just witnessed through that window.

The silence that followed the witch’s death was almost total.

Only the wind swept through the trees.

Every now and then, a drop of black blood fell from the witch’s corpse and dissolved into the mud.

The hooded creature remained motionless before the dead body.

Then, slowly, they knelt down.

Their fingers searched the damp earth until they found the small object that had been thrown into the air moments earlier.

The creature retrieved it.

Studied it for a brief moment.

Then, stowed it carefully beneath the folds of their cloak.

They stood up.

Their eyes turned toward the old witch’s small wooden house.

Taking slow, calculated, and completely silent steps, the creature approached the entrance door.

They pushed it slowly.

The old hinges let out a drawn-out groan.

Creeeeak…

The black blade was raised, ready to strike.

The creature stepped inside.

Yet the interior of the room was empty.

The cauldron still bubbled over the fire, releasing small bubbles against the dark surface of the liquid. A greenish smoke rose slowly, gathering under the ceiling.

Zeph was gone.

For a second, the figure paused.

Then their eyes swept across the interior of the shack.

The window.

The shelves.

The floor.

That was when they noticed the scattered shards.

And, further back, the rear door.

Wide open.

The creature walked toward it.

On the floor, an irregular trail of dark liquid snaked through the shattered glass.

A small flame beneath the cauldron flickered.

The liquid kept advancing.

A single drop reached the flame.

Tsss.

The flame shifted color for a moment.

The creature stopped.

Their eyes drifted slowly down to the floor.

Another small drop of liquid touched the fire.

TSSS…

This time, the flame surged.

The creature took half a step back.

Too late.

The fire swept along the trail of liquid at a terrifying speed, racing across the floor until it reached the fragments scattered around the cauldron.

The air seemed to shudder.

The cauldron began to vibrate.

A crack formed on one of the nearby jars.

Then—

BOOOOM!

A violent explosion of fire and greenish smoke consumed the room.

The creature was thrown backward with brutal force.

The explosion could be heard from far away.

Their body crashed right through one of the wooden shelves, splintering the wood before colliding violently against the wall.

Jars flew through the air.

Glass shattered across the floor.

Flames engulfed the ceiling for an instant before being smothered by a thick cloud of smoke.

Part of the wooden ceiling structure collapsed on top of the creature, burying them beneath the debris.

No human would have survived such an impact.

Everything went quiet.

Then, among the rubble, a movement was heard.

The creature began to rise.

Slowly.

A piece of wood had torn open part of their cloak, and a cut had split open near the corner of their mouth. A thin line of blood trickled down their face.

They leaned one hand against the wall.

The other went to their ribs.

As they breathed, a sharp pain shot through their chest, and their breath came out in a short wheeze.

They coughed.

Once, twice.

Dark blood stained their lips.

The creature wiped their mouth with the back of their hand and looked at what remained on it.

More than expected.

Even so, they smiled.

“Was this a trap… or just many years of bad luck for killing an old witch? Or is it simply a stroke of fate trying to stop me?”

The voice came out raspy, interrupted by another deeper cough that forced them to double over.

When they straightened up, their hand reached beneath their cloak.

The vial was still there. Intact.

They exhaled slowly.

They looked around, taking in the damage. Then, their gaze returned to the back door, still standing open, beyond which the forest plunged into darkness.

Their hand tightened around the hilt of the sword.

Their fingers trembled.

For a few seconds, they stayed like that, motionless, counting their own breaths.

Then, they relaxed.

It wasn’t necessary to eliminate him. Especially not in this state.

He is already condemned to death.