Chapter 4: Shadows in the Village
The village lay before them like a sleeping beast, unaware of the storm creeping toward it. From their vantage point on the hill, the rooftops shimmered under the pale moonlight, and the flickering torches lining the cobbled streets barely held back the darkness. It was late, and most of the villagers had already retired to their homes, oblivious to the past stirring beneath their feet.
She stood still, her gaze locked on the heart of the village, where the remnants of the old chapel still stood. Once a temple where her name was both feared and revered, it was now reduced to ruins, used by the town elders as a gathering place for their empty councils—a fitting metaphor for her legend, now relegated to whispers and cautionary tales told to keep children from straying into the woods at night.
Elias shifted beside her, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. "Are you certain about this?" he asked softly. "You've been gone for centuries. Do you think anyone will even remember you?"
She exhaled slowly, her fingers tracing the faint scars that still marked her wrists—the ghostly reminders of the iron shackles that had once bound her. "Oh, they remember," she murmured. "Even if they do not speak my name, even if they pretend to have forgotten, fear lingers in the blood."
A soft gust of wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant smoke. The night was still, yet the weight of the past pressed down on them like an ever-present specter.
"What do you intend to do?" Elias asked.
She turned to him, her eyes gleaming with something ancient and unreadable. "I intend to remind them that nightmares are real."
With measured steps, she began her descent down the hill, her cloak billowing behind her like a wraith in the night. Elias followed, hesitant but unwilling to turn back—caught between the familiar world he had always known and the unfolding reality before him, a reluctant witness to history repeating itself.
They entered the village through the side streets, keeping to the shadows as they weaved between buildings. The aroma of freshly baked bread still clung to the air, mingling with the faint traces of damp wood and livestock—a simple, untouched life, for now.
She paused abruptly in front of a small house with drawn wooden shutters. Though the sign above the door had faded with time, she knew who lived within. Elias frowned. "What is this place?"
She lifted her hand and pressed her fingers against the rough wood of the door. A pulse of old magic whispered beneath her touch—a remnant buried beneath years of dust and neglect. "The home of someone who still remembers," she replied softly.
Without knocking, she pushed the door open. The hinges groaned in protest as the warm glow of a dying fire spilled out. A gasp followed by the rustle of fabric. An old woman sat in a chair near the hearth, her frail hands trembling as she clutched a woolen shawl. Though her hair had turned silver and her face was etched with the marks of time, her eyes shone with recognition.
"You remember me," the woman said, tilting her head slightly as if testing the reality before her.
The witch's smile was cool and unyielding. "I have returned," she said simply.
The old woman's lips parted, but no further words came at first. Tears welled in her eyes as she whispered, "I was just a girl when they… when they took you. My grandmother told me stories—said you would return. I never believed..."
A bitter smile flickered on the witch's face. "And yet, here I stand."
Elias shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting between them. "Who is she?" he asked quietly.
The old woman exhaled a shaky chuckle. "She is the beginning and the end. The storm and the calm. She is the witch they tried to destroy." A heavy silence fell as the words sank in.
"I have returned," the witch declared, her voice steady and even. "And I will not be buried again."
The old woman shuddered and nodded slowly. "They will come for you—the elders, the Order. They will not allow you to exist."
"They allowed me to burn once before," she replied, her tone resolute. "And still, I am here."
Elias stepped forward cautiously. "The Order… who are they?"
The old woman turned to him, her eyes filled with sorrow and memory. "They are the ones who condemned her. The ones who keep the past buried."
A flicker of understanding crossed Elias's face. He had heard whispers of an ancient sect dealing in secrets and shadows. "They have grown weaker in your absence," she noted thoughtfully. "They believe themselves safe, untouchable."
The old woman's fingers dug into her shawl. "They will not fight fair."
"They never have."
After a long pause, the old woman pushed herself up from the chair, her movements slow but determined. She turned toward a small cabinet near the hearth and unlocked it with trembling fingers. From within, she retrieved a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Cradling it for a moment, she then turned back, offering it reverently. "This was kept hidden for years," she murmured. "I was told to burn it, but I could not."
With care, she unwrapped the bundle to reveal a dagger with a blackened hilt, its blade etched with ancient runes. The air around it hummed with unseen energy. "What is it?" Elias asked, his tone laced with both awe and apprehension.
"A relic of a time before their lies," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. "A reminder of who I once was."
The old woman's voice trembled as she added, "They will know you have returned now."
The witch turned the dagger over in her hand, feeling its weight and the legacy it carried. "Good," she said, eyes dark with promise. "Let them know."
Outside, the village remained silent, yet something had shifted. The air was charged with an energy that had been absent for centuries—a warning, a challenge. The Order would come, and the old forces would rise, but this time she would not be caught unaware. She was ready, and soon, the world would remember her name.