Till

My feet ache as I trudge up the hill, branches snapping against my skin as I march through the forest and centering me on my mission. Moving forward through the dense wood is the only option I have if I hope to return with the witch’s gold.

I’ve been climbing for some time, pushing higher and higher up the mountain as I force myself forward.

Birds caw in the distance, and the sun begins to hang low in the sky.

Keep moving forward, Till. Keep going.

The last thing I want to do is return to the guild empty handed, just to see Fergus’s smug face when I fail to bring back a legend.

Is a pissing contest really worth the hassle? I suppose it has to be, or what does the title of Master Thief even mean?

Weeds and branches snap against my legs as I climb higher and higher. The only way through is to go up. These mountains are treacherous, but there’s nothing compared to the danger awaiting me in the witch’s tower.

Here’s hoping that she’s out of town.

My feet stumble against loose rocks as I make my way up the hillside.

A sudden chasm drops off before me, and I take a step back, gritting my teeth. A rickety rope bridge sways on the wind, having little to offer in the way of comfort or stability. It sags over a chasm, taunting me with its danger.

I look over my shoulder, seeing no other clear way across, and sigh. I’ve seen better stitching on a child’s sweater. This bridge cannot stand much weight. It bobs in the wind, the eerie creaking of the rope hitting the wood pallets scrapes across my mind.

A familiar excitement builds in my chest as my heart thunders, ready to throw myself into peril once again.

Creak.

Oh, well. If I didn’t fear for my life, how would I know that I’m still alive?

I slowly put my foot on one of the wood planks, gripping the rope in my hands.

The rush from this is incredible, but it will be nothing compared to the high when I stride into the guild hall with the witch’s gold in tow.

I can still scarcely believe it’s real, and that I will be the one to bring it home.

Sucking in a deep breath, I walk plank by plank, testing my weight against its surface.

Tingles spread across my skin, energy coursing through my body, reminding me how alive I am.

My weight shifts, and the bridge creaks ominously. My heart jumps into my throat. Can I even make it across? Is this really worth the risk?

Of course it is. Glory and fame wait for me if I can bring home the witches gold—besides, if I don’t, Fergus will never let me hear the end of it.

Finally, my feet touch ground, and once I’m safely on the other side, I look back over my shoulder. I can’t believe the rickety old thing lasted long enough for me to cross.

Before me, the dark forest looms, uncaring about my triumph over the sad excuse for a bridge. None of that will matter anyway if the witch catches me in her home—it’d take a miracle to survive.

The best thing I can do is not get caught.

There are trees in every direction, and their shadows hang over me like harbingers, making it difficult to see very far in front of me.

As I approach where I think the tower should be, trudging along with map in hand, I stumble, just barely catching myself against a scorched tree before I realize exactly what it is that I tripped over.

Gods.

I pale, my stomach flipping involuntarily as I see the skull staring back at me, its flesh melted away to reveal bone, some bits of charred skin still clinging on.

“A palace guard,” I murmur, inspecting the tarnished red and gold of the uniform. “Must be getting close.”

For the first time, I start to sweat in a way that makes me question what exactly I think I’m doing. I’m risking a whole lot more than a prison sentence, and a worse death even than the gallows, if I’m caught.

“There it is.” I swallow my fears as a clearing comes into view.

I’ve robbed mage towers before—they’re not my cup of tea, often coming with their own dangers that I am less equipped to deal with, but this. . . this is entirely new territory.

The witch’s tower looms over me, wrapped in vegetation as though the forest itself is trying to pull the structure back into the ground. Twisted limbs and sick, gnarled roots creep up the weathered stone.

It wasn’t built by modern standards. There are no once-finely-shaved bricks or decorative lanterns, only the earth’s perverted branches reaching for the sky.

This is the work of magic, created in nature’s image.

A sense of foreboding courses through me as I look upon the witch’s tower. An unease I haven’t felt in years takes root in my gut, as if everything wrong in the magic before me is cautioning me to turn away and run.

Lest I end up no better off than the soldier in the woods.

No, I’ve stolen risky goods before, and I can do it again. After scoping out the base of the tower, however, I realize that there’s no door, there are no obvious entrances to the tower, only a window far above, well out of my reach.

I shake my head and pull my pack off my back. A coil of rope unfurls as I toss it against the ground.

I have to climb.

Scaling the walls, I swallow thickly, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. What if there’s no treasure up here, and I spent days trudging through the woods and all this effort to climb the tower only to find nothing of value?

Or worse, a homicidal witch?

When I reach the top, I scale through a window, dropping down on the hard stone floors with a soft thud.

To my relief, I seem to be alone, at least at first glance.

It’s just one large circular room, though a curtain is draped over one section, so I decide to move silently as I appraise my surroundings, in case the witch herself happens to be sleeping in the sectioned-off area.

I don’t see a bed otherwise, so that’d make sense.

My brow furrows in frustration as I slowly case the room—there are rows and rows of books, many in titles I can’t even read, and likely brimming with magic.

I should have held off on my journey until Iscar returned from his trip, he could have told me how much of this is actually valuable. Magic doesn’t come cheap, after all.

Granted, that mad mage likely wouldn’t have wanted to set foot in this place anyway, given how fearful wizards tend to be over the Witch of the Wilds.

The glasswork would probably be worth something. . . the crystal ball especially, but I resist the urge to put my hands on any of it.

No sense in setting off any kind of magical wardings before I find what I came here for.

But I don’t even know what the witch’s gold really is.

I certainly haven’t found anything golden, save for gold-colored embroidery on the bindings of some of the more extravagant books.

My attention returns to the curtain, dark and heavy.

Something’s in there—and the gold very well could be, too. In my experience, many noble ladies keep their most prized jewels hidden beneath their beds, where they’d be difficult to find without waking them. . . why should a witch be so different?

A lump builds in my throat as I pull the curtain back, peering into the wide bed.

Holy shit. I shake my head, stepping back.

Blankets drape around the shape of a woman. Her skin is pale, and a halo of fiery red hair billows around her on her threadbare pillow.

From what I understand, the Witch of the Wilds is supposed to appear as a decrepit hag of a woman, though the accounts of her actual features are sparse.

Perhaps this is an apprentice—how else would legends of the witch span back centuries? Surely it hasn’t always been the same witch.

If that’s true, she’s a pretty thing, for a woman living in the heart of the woods. . . still, if she’s here, she’s dangerous, and I would do well not to wake her.

Unfortunately, when I crouch in an attempt to look under the bed, my knee betrays me with a painfully loud popping sound, and the woman’s eyes shoot open, turning my blood to ice.

But it’s not just animal fear that has me rooted in place, it’s the color of her eyes, a brilliant blazing gold only belonging to the Soltemni royal family.

This is no mere witch’s apprentice! This is the lost princess.