Chapter Five: Smoke and Ashes

The cure would take three days.

Anne said it plainly, as if she weren’t crafting it from ingredients that hadn’t seen sunlight in a century. As if she weren’t working with magic most had forgotten existed. Augustin, who had expected some sort of miracle—or failure—found himself watching her in quiet disbelief.

She moved like a storm contained in skin.

In the corner of her cottage, herbs hung from low rafters: wolfsbane, night violet, dreamroot. Bottles and vials glowed faintly, some with light, some with shadows. It was nothing like the holy sanctuaries of the Church—no gold, no hymns. Just earth, ash, and a quiet kind of power.

Anne stood over a boiling cauldron, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, arms dusted with soot. Augustin sat in the chair she had reluctantly offered, his sword leaning against the wall nearby.

“You’re staring again,” she muttered, not looking up.

“I’m watching,” he corrected.

She glanced sideways. “There’s a difference?”

“Yes. Staring means I don’t see you. Watching means I want to understand.”

That surprised her.

Anne stirred the pot with the end of a carved bone rod, avoiding his gaze. She hated how he said things like that—like he saw deeper than she wanted him to. Like *he* was the one reading *her* story now.

“Is this how you treat all your witches?” she asked, voice light but edged.

“You’re the only one I’ve met.”

She smirked, finally. “Lucky you.”

---

As the day wore on, Augustin found himself studying not just her work, but her silences.

She didn’t move like someone born into magic. She was graceful, yes—but it was learned, not inherited. Her hands were steady, but her eyes flicked too often, as though always calculating, always doubting. At times, she would pause mid-motion, like someone remembering a step she hadn’t taken in years.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said, quietly.

She glanced up. “Neither are you.”

That stopped him.

He leaned back slightly. “Oh? What *did* you expect, Lady Ravenshade?”

“A king,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Spoiled. Cold. Distant. The kind who throws lives away like coins.”

Augustin didn’t smile. “I had to become something colder than fear to survive.”

“And yet,” she murmured, “you warm your people like fire. Even I can feel it.”

That silenced them both.

---

Later that night, Anne stepped outside to gather moonroot—its petals only bloomed under starlight. She found Augustin already there, staring into the woods, his cloak catching the wind like a flag at half-mast.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked.

He didn’t turn. “Don’t sleep. Not much, anyway.”

Something about the way he said it made her throat tighten. She stepped beside him, clutching the small basket of herbs, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then he asked, quietly, “Do you know what it’s like? To be born into a role you didn’t ask for?”

Anne’s heart stuttered.

“Yes,” she said. Too quickly. Too honestly.

Their eyes met in the dark. No flicker of magic. Just two people wrapped in the ache of lives that weren’t their own.

In that moment, something subtle shifted between them—not trust, not yet—but a shared silence that meant more than words.

---

Back inside, the cauldron boiled low, giving off a blue glow that pulsed gently, like a heartbeat.

The potion was taking form.

And outside, beneath the whispering trees, the old world watched—aware now that the witch and the king had found each other.

The story was no longer what it had been.

It was becoming something *new*.

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