Chapter Four: When Fire Meets Fate

The door creaked before the knock came.

Anne stood frozen in the center of her cottage, heart pounding like war drums in her chest. Her fingers were stained with crushed sage and powdered crystal. A charm circle lay broken at her feet, forgotten the moment she felt it—*him*.

The man from the story. The King she was never meant to meet.

The knock came again. Firm. Measured. Regal.

Anne swallowed the scream rising in her throat. She had dreamed of this scene, back when she was just Rosie reading under flickering lamplight in her shoebox apartment. Back then, she had fallen for his character—Augustin, the stoic king with eyes of steel and a soul that never bowed. But this wasn’t fiction now.

This was flesh.

She smoothed her robe, tied back her wild black hair with shaking hands, and opened the door.

There he was.

Tall. Clad in dark armor that had seen real war. A heavy fur cloak draped over one shoulder. His eyes—colder than the winter wind—met hers instantly, and for a moment, time itself seemed to hold its breath.

“Anne Ravenshade,” he said.

She blinked. “You know my name?”

“I read it in a book,” he replied, without blinking.

Her heart stopped.

Was he… joking?

No. His expression was unreadable, but not unkind. Serious. Curious. Haunted, perhaps.

“You came looking for a witch,” she said softly. “You found one.”

He stepped into the cottage without waiting for permission, his boots echoing against the wooden floor. The soldiers outside did not follow. He came alone.

“I came seeking a cure,” he said. “For my people. For my kingdom. They die by the hour. And all I’m given are tales of a woman buried by time and fear.”

She closed the door behind him. “And you believed them?”

“I had no choice left,” he said, voice sharper now, edged with desperation. “Do you?”

Anne looked away. “No.”

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For a moment, silence ruled the room. He stood still, like a lion deciding whether to trust. She moved cautiously, like a deer deciding whether to flee.

Then, softly: “Your people are dying,” Anne said. “And you would ask a woman like me to save them?”

“I don’t care what they call you,” Augustin said. “Witch. Healer. Demon. If you can stop the dying, I will kneel before you myself.”

Her breath caught.

This man—this king, made of command and crown—was willing to bend for his people. There was pain in his voice, but also fire. And that fire was not aimed at her. Not yet.

But it would be.

Because she wasn’t part of the story anymore. She had changed everything just by waking up. The Saintess wasn’t coming. The King wasn’t supposed to be here. And Anne Ravenshade—the true witch—had been silent for far too long.

Rosie swallowed and finally met his eyes. “I can help,” she said. “But you won’t like the price.”

He didn’t flinch. “Name it.”

She stepped closer, and for the first time, Augustin saw that she wasn’t just beautiful—she was *other*. Like someone who didn’t belong here. Like someone who had walked from another world.

“You will not control me,” she said. “You will not order me like a soldier or burn me like a threat. I help you… and in return, you protect me. From your church. From your court. From the plot you don’t yet see unraveling.”

He studied her, as if weighing the soul behind her eyes.

“Done,” he said.

She didn’t smile. “Then let the story begin again.”

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