Della wore a long black coat over her dress, the edges swaying in the soft wind as she adjusted the gloves covering her hands. Her breath misted slightly in the air, unusual for West Hill.
"Are you certain this is the place, Father?" she asked, glancing at Fredrick beside her. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his overcoat, shoulders tense.
Though Black Bridge was part of West Hill, a land known for its oppressive afternoon heat, this village was oddly cold. Clouds hovered low, and the ground felt damp beneath their boots. Autumn was nearing, and the shift in air made it hard to guess what the weather might hold.
Fredrick gave a distracted hum. "We need to be quick, Della."
She tilted her head. "Are you meeting someone here?"
He didn't answer, and that silence told her everything.
As they moved deeper into the village, Della felt a strange heaviness settle around her. Not the energy of the stones...but something else. A quiet dread that seemed sewn into the very soil.
Though Della had never studied magic properly, being born a witch had gifted her with intuitive abilities. She could feel impressions left behind—echoes of memories, auras, or unspoken pain in a place. At times, when her skin brushed another's, she could disrupt or even erase fragments of their memory. That gift, or curse, had first surfaced by accident. Since then, she had worn gloves religiously, afraid of the power she couldn't control.
There was more to her. She could feel it. Power lying dormant inside her, silent and watchful.
"We'll walk through the village first," she said softly. "You said you had work here?"
Fredrick nodded. "Yes. I'm to meet the magistrate."
"Then let's see him," she replied.
Black Bridge was unsettlingly quiet. Most homes had their shutters drawn, and barely a face peeked from behind windows.
"Do the villagers always stay hidden like this?" she asked.
"A witch was found here recently," Fredrick answered. "They're likely still shaken by what happened."
"Did the witch harm anyone?"
Fredrick hesitated. He'd heard the tale, but details were sparse. There'd been no clear crime.
"That's what the magistrate will explain," he said, stopping in front of a pale brick house.
Della frowned, her voice lowering. "This place feels... wrong."
Fredrick had already knocked.
A moment later, the door swung open. A girl stood there, no older than seventeen, with suspicious eyes and a permanent scowl.
"Who are you people?" she asked bluntly.
"Is this the home of the magistrate?" Fredrick asked politely, ignoring the attitude.
She rolled her eyes without answering.
"I am Councilman Fredrick, and this is Councilwoman Cora," he said, assigning Della a false name. The real Cora was another councilwoman stationed far from West Hill.
"Hold on," the girl muttered, slamming the door.
Della arched a brow. "Is this what your workday is usually like?"
Fredrick chuckled. "No. Ignorant ladies are a new development."
The door opened again, and this time a round man emerged. He was short and balding, with a thick mustache that perched awkwardly between nose and lip.
"You're Councilman Fredrick?" he asked, squinting.
"I am."
"Come in, sire," the man said with an eager smile, his demeanor now entirely different. "And who is this lovely lady with you?"
"Councilwoman Cora," Fredrick said flatly, stepping a little closer to Della.
The magistrate gave her a longer look than necessary. Della shifted toward her father's side, uneasy.
"My daughter will bring some refreshments," the man offered, then turned to bark an order at the girl, who disappeared into the house.
The interior was surprisingly well-decorated. Velvet cushions lined the seats, paintings hung in gold frames, and polished wood gleamed beneath their feet. It was far more opulent than Della had expected in such a small village.
"No need for refreshments," Fredrick declined kindly, but the magistrate waved a dismissive hand.
He led them into a side room—his office, from the look of it. A wide desk sat at the center, with bookshelves along the walls. The girl returned shortly with two cups of tea, placing them carefully in front of their guests before leaving again.
"Please, enjoy," the magistrate said, sitting and folding his arms with a genial smile.
"Thank you," Fredrick offered, but his expression remained unreadable.
Della lifted her cup and brought it to her lips.
"Forgive me for asking," Fredrick said after a pause, "but I find myself curious. A magistrate's salary alone wouldn't account for this level of finery."
The man stiffened. His fingers curled into the arms of his chair. "My wife passed some years ago. I inherited her estate and built what you see. Am I not allowed a little comfort?"
His tone was defensive, but Fredrick didn't push.
Then Della, quiet until now, tilted her head.
"Is your daughter pregnant?" she asked.
The magistrate's head snapped in her direction. "No," he said sharply.
Della said nothing. But she had sensed it—a second heartbeat, faint and small, clinging to the girl like a whisper.
The magistrate's tone grew cold. "My household isn't the reason for your visit, surely?"
Fredrick returned to the matter. "We'd like to understand how the witch captured here was apprehended. And her crime, if any."
"I was under the impression your council already received that report."
"I haven't been briefed. And considering how swiftly the case was closed, I came myself."
The magistrate looked between the two of them. "Perhaps your colleague here knows more," he said, addressing Della again with a too-smooth smile. "Were you absent as well, Councilwoman?"
"Yes," she answered coolly.
He said nothing for a while, then shrugged. "I'll gather the documents for you. You've barely touched your tea."
"It's quite fine," Della said, taking another sip.
Fredrick merely stared into his cup. "Not to my taste."
A few minutes later, the magistrate took them outside for a walk through the village.
"The people are still frightened," he said with a dry laugh. "Can't blame them."
"The witch...did she harm someone?" Fredrick asked again.
"She killed a child."
Fredrick froze.
The magistrate pointed to a crooked old cottage near the edge of the square. "That's the home of the parents."
Della stared at the little house. Its windows were shut, and no candle burned inside.
But something about the story didn't sit right.
The fear in the village wasn't born of grief. It was born of something much older... and more deeply buried.