Dydra lay melted into the cozy mattress, her gaze fixed on the wooden ceiling above. The room was quiet, save for the faint crackle of dying embers from the hearth. Her fingers clenched tightly around the locket in her fist, the metal pressing into her palm as her mind replayed the scene at the dining table over and over again.
"That locket—take it off. Never wear it in public."
Oryen's words cut sharply through the memory, just as they had earlier that evening. Dydra's brows knit together as she recalled how abruptly the command had been delivered, without explanation or softness. She had looked down at the locket then, confusion knotting in her chest.
"Why?" she had asked, her voice hesitant.
Even now, the image of Oryen's face made Dydra uneasy. The dark tear-like streaks trailing from the woman's eyes had unsettled her deeply. Why couldn't she simply wash them away? The question had echoed in her mind ever since. There had been something strange about the raven-haired woman that night—a heavy, unspoken tension lurking behind her ocean-blue eyes, flickering in and out like a warning.
Oryen's lips had twitched, her jaw tightening. "Do as I say, child," she had hissed. "Or you'll have your head detached from your neck."
The gentleness that once softened her features vanished instantly, replaced by a cold sharpness that pierced straight through Dydra. Those ocean eyes, once warm and steady, had turned glacial.
The threat had shaken her to her core. What did she mean by that? It was only a simple locket—or so Dydra believed. The look in Oryen's eyes had been enough to silence her questions.
"Ahem…" A dry cough escaped her lips as her trembling fingers reached behind her neck. She had carefully unhooked the chain, catching the locket in her palm before it could clatter onto the table. The rest of the meal had passed in suffocating silence. Dydra had wanted to speak, to lighten the mood, but the oppressive aura surrounding Oryen made every word lodge painfully in her throat.
Afterward, when Dydra offered to clean up, Oryen had turned sharply toward her, dismissing her with a glance so severe that she immediately withdrew. That, too, replayed vividly in her mind.
Now, alone in bed, Dydra lifted the locket closer to her face, studying it beneath the dim light. A small snap sounded from the fireplace as warmth spread through the room. What was happening? Why had Oryen suddenly become so hostile? And how could a mere locket possibly bring death?
Perhaps it was because it was gold, she reasoned. Gold had value, after all. But no—Oryen's reaction had gone far beyond concern for theft or attention. There had been fear in her eyes. Fear and something else Dydra couldn't name.
For reasons she couldn't explain, Oryen reminded her of her grandmother.
The realization settled slowly, creeping into her thoughts now that she was no longer distracted by survival and exhaustion. The way Oryen carried herself, the gentleness she had shown when they first met, the subtle warmth beneath her stern demeanor—it all felt painfully familiar. The resemblance hadn't occurred to her before, but now she saw it clearly. Raven hair, pale skin, sharp features shaped by age and wisdom. The only difference lay in their eyes. Her grandmother's had been dark, nearly black, matching her hair, while Oryen's were a striking ocean blue.
Despite the woman's sudden shift in attitude, the fact remained—Oryen had taken her in without a single question. She hadn't asked who Dydra was, where she came from, or why she wore strange clothes and peered through cottage windows like a frightened animal. That kindness alone weighed heavily on Dydra's heart.
She knew better than to overstay her welcome.
Tomorrow, she would leave.
The thought comforted her enough that her eyes gradually slid shut, and she slipped into a deep slumber.
High above, the moon stood proudly in the night sky, casting silver light upon the world below. Beneath its glow, a shadow moved quietly, cloaked in darkness. It glided through the forest with careful, soundless steps, its presence barely disturbing the earth beneath it.
As the towering trees swallowed the moonlight, the figure blended seamlessly into the shadows. It stopped beside a tall oak tree and crouched low. Slender fingers emerged from the cloak's sleeves, pale against the dark fabric. Using bare nails, the figure dug into the soil with deliberate determination, carving out a deep hole in the earth.
From within the cloak, a book was drawn forth. Its wooden cover was worn with age, carved intricately with heart-shaped lockets of gold and silver. Without hesitation, the book was placed into the hole and buried beneath layers of dirt, concealed from the world.
Rising to her feet, Oryen turned away and returned silently to the cottage.
Miles away, within the cold walls of the Thelmond mansion, Agatha lay motionless on her bed. Her eyes were swollen and red, the gentle glow that once lived within them long extinguished. Two days had passed since her husband dragged her daughter out of the house, and neither of them had returned.
Her stomach gnawed painfully from hunger, her throat raw with thirst. Not a single crumb of food nor drop of water had touched her lips since they left. Every attempt by the maids to tend to her had been refused. She had locked herself away, rejecting all help.
The servants were terrified.
Never before had such a thing occurred in the household. A male servant had been sent to search for the Master and the missing child, but he, too, had failed to return. Fear crept through the halls like a living thing.
In the kitchen, the maids gathered in a tight cluster, whispering anxiously among themselves.
"Why is Madam refusing to eat because of a creepy maid?" a brunette muttered, breaking the silence.
"That witch must have cast a spell on her," another replied sharply. "Why else would Madam lock herself away like this?"
"You really think so, Mary?" the brunette asked, her voice trembling. "That bizarre-looking girl is a witch?"
"Of course," Mary scoffed. "Didn't you all notice how she used to sneak around the house? Always hiding her face whenever the Master was home."
Nods followed her words.
"She cast spells on Madam?" a blonde maid asked eagerly. "Why would she do that?"
Mary's eyes gleamed with resentment. "Everyone knows Madam wanted a daughter desperately, but her health wouldn't allow it. That calculating b*tch saw her weakness and took advantage of it. She made Madam see her as the daughter she always longed for."
Jealousy burned clearly in Mary's gaze. She had never liked the strange girl. Her odd features, her silence, her isolation—it all unsettled her. One day, when the Master was away, Mary had seen Dydra slip into Madam's room. Curious, she had waited outside, listening.
Then she heard laughter.
Madam's laughter.
"Call me mother, you stubborn child."
The words had stunned her. Unable to make sense of it, Mary had begun following Dydra closely, searching for answers. But the more she observed, the more convinced she became.
With her strange appearance, secretive behavior, and unnatural closeness to Madam, there was only one conclusion.
Dydra was a witch.