The carriage rumbled steadily along the narrow road, its wooden wheels thumping softly over stones and shallow ruts. Each uneven patch sent a gentle jolt through the vehicle, causing the worn couch inside to rock back and forth. Dust filtered in through the open window, clinging to the air and carrying with it the sharp scent of grass, leather, and horses. Outside, the countryside stretched endlessly—rolling fields kissed by early sunlight, scattered trees swaying lazily, and distant hills fading into a pale haze.
Dydra sat upright, her back straight despite the discomfort of the ride. Her hands rested quietly in her lap, fingers interlaced as though holding herself together. Her ocean-blue eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, watching the world slide past with an intensity that suggested the land itself held answers she did not yet understand. The wind brushed her face, lifting a few strands of her reddish-brown hair, but she hardly noticed.
Across from her, Oryen sat calmly, her sharp gaze never straying far from the young girl. There was something unreadable in the aged woman's eyes—concern layered beneath caution, curiosity shadowed by restraint. She still hasn't come to terms with it, Oryen thought. The events of the previous dawn lingered heavily between them, unspoken yet ever-present, like a storm waiting to break.
Only hours ago, Dydra had woken late in the morning, still dressed in her black gown. Her head had throbbed dully, her throat dry as though she had cried herself hoarse. Confusion had washed over her as she blinked at the ceiling, memories of the previous day rushing back all at once—the forest, the magic, the fear, the old woman's words.
Her heart had leapt violently in her chest.
Without hesitation, she had thrown herself off the bed and rushed straight for the door. Whatever spell Oryen had used to trap her before—she prayed it had worn off. Her fingers had trembled as they closed around the doorknob. Slowly, cautiously, she turned it.
A faint click echoed in the silence.
The door budged open.
Dydra had leaned forward, peeking through the narrow opening. The small passage beyond lay empty and dim, illuminated only by a few flickering candles mounted along the walls. Shadows danced softly against the wood. A shaky breath escaped her lips in relief.
Pulling the door open fully, she hesitated.
What if she stepped through and found herself back in the room again? What if she screamed and cried until her voice failed her once more? Her brows had drawn together as she bit down on her lower lip, frustration and fear warring within her. She never imagined her life would spiral into something like this—being told she was a witch, of all things. How could that be possible? She had never cast a spell. Never summoned fire or light or anything unnatural.
Taking a deep breath, she placed one bare foot onto the threshold. Then the other.
Her eyes squeezed shut as she took another step, her fingers slipping free from the doorknob. She braced herself, heart pounding.
Nothing happened.
She opened her eyes slowly.
She was still in the passage.
A relieved smile spread across her face, shaky but genuine. She stepped fully into the hallway, moving as quietly as she could, her feet barely brushing the wooden floor. Each step felt like a victory. When she reached the opening that led into the main room, she paused and peeked inside.
Empty.
No sign of Oryen.
Her smile widened as she slipped into the room, her gaze darting immediately to the front door. Freedom stood only a few steps away. Her ears strained for sound as she crept closer, excitement bubbling in her chest. She was finally getting out.
Her fingers brushed the doorknob—
"Oh, dear. You're up."
The calm voice behind her shattered the moment.
Dydra froze.
The smile vanished from her face as she slowly turned around. Oryen stood a few steps away, her pleasant expression touched with unmistakable mischief. She had sensed the girl's energy the moment she awoke and followed silently, curious to see what she would do.
Dydra swallowed hard.
What should she do? What could she do?
A wild thought surged through her mind—run.
Without another second of thought, she twisted the doorknob and flung the door open, sprinting forward. Her bare foot struck damp earth—
—and instantly the ground beneath her changed.
Dry wood.
She stumbled and found herself back in the room.
Her heart skipped violently. "No… no, not again."
Her breath came uneven as she turned toward Oryen, fear and frustration burning in her eyes. "O-Oryen, you have to stop doing that." Her voice wavered, and she avoided the woman's gaze. Something about looking directly at her unsettled her deeply.
"Doing what, dear?" Oryen asked lightly, feigning innocence.
Dydra frowned, anger flashing briefly through her fear. She stepped toward the door again—and again found herself pulled back into the room. She tried repeatedly, desperation mounting, until she finally stopped, chest heaving.
"I don't know who you are," she said quietly, "or why you're doing this. But you owe me a reason."
Oryen studied her in silence before turning and sitting down on the couch. Her posture was calm, deliberate.
"You have to know who you are, Dydra," she said at last. "Whether you choose to believe it or not, the blood running through your veins is the same blood all witches carry—including mine."
"I can't be a witch," Dydra snapped immediately. "I'm not." Panic churned inside her. If she were a witch, wouldn't she know? Wouldn't she feel something—anything?
"I believe you are," she continued, voice softer now, "but I'm not."
Oryen's eyes hardened slightly.
"Raise your index finger," she instructed calmly, "and say these words: Ino koi jaide lutu owo mi."
Dydra hesitated. "Oryen, you see—"
"Say them," Oryen cut in firmly. "If nothing happens, I'll let you leave."
After a long pause, Dydra sighed. What's the worst that could happen? She raised her finger and muttered the words with annoyance laced through her tone.
The air shimmered.
A small flame bloomed above her fingertip, floating—alive.
Dydra gasped.
Her heart thundered as she stared at the dancing flame, its warmth gentle, controlled, obedient.
She was shaking.
And for the first time, she could no longer deny it.