Warmth embraced every fiber of her being. Boiled carrots, seasoned potatoes, and savory broth filled her nostrils as she rose. She held her head, trying to recall what happened. The only thing she remembered was tending to the deer; everything was hazy after that. Still, one way or another, she survived.

Chittering squeaks caught her attention. Skittering up the wooden frame and plush mattress covered in thick furs was Bernard; he didn’t stop until he was right at her fingertips. His head nuzzled her hand, every other squeak came out in frantic bursts.

Ash smiled, stroking his head with her index.

“Sorry I worried you,” she said. “Do you know what happened to me?”

“Ya nearly froze yerself to death, tha’s what ‘appened!”

She jumped at the gravelly voice, turning until she was face to face with an old woman who dressed in adornments of black and blue hunched over a bubbling pot, wooden spoon in hand stirring its contents. One cloudy eye, much too wide for her face, flicked up and down while the other squinted. A single mole protruded upon her lower lip— an obvious detail.

Ash held back a gasp.

“Whacha starin’ at?” the woman asked. “Ne’er seen a witch in yer life?”

Ash shook her head. She’d heard about witches from history books; how nations rose or fell as a result of their spells and curses. Every deed, good or bad, resulted in varied reputations among each individual witch. Intentions and trustworthiness were difficult to discern as a result.

This witch was an elder— old enough to be potentially powerful.

The witch snickered out a cackle.

“Well, proud tah be yer first!”

She raised the spoon to her lips and sipped at the stew. A small pinch of salt followed by a dash of some type of red powdered spice was added before tasting again. The woman nodded.

“Perfect!” With a single finger snap, a ladle dipped into the cauldron, scooping up a good fill of both. It poured into an empty wooden bowl the witch held. “Don’ jus’ sit there, eat up. Ne’er waste a drop.”

Ash stared as the bowl was handed to her, raising a brow before accepting the gesture.

“Why are you helping me?” she asked.

The witch shrugged. “Ol’ Tilda Pembroke don’ need a reason,” A smirk curled up. “Or does she?”

“I’ve been told that witches don’t do favors for free. What price will I need to pay for your generosity?”

Tilda scoffed.

“Ne’er mind thah.” The witch tapped the side of her cauldron. “Ye took care of Oakley, it only be righ’ tah take care of ye in return.”

“Oakley?”

It took a moment before Ash gasped.

“The deer. It’s your familiar, isn’t it?”

“Ye gonna ask more questions or are ye gonna eat ‘fore the soup runs cold?”

Accepting kindness from a stranger, especially a magical one wasn’t easy to acknowledge. It was too good to be true. In the Forbidden Wood, Ash needed to be cautious.

However, there was a childlike glint in Tilda’s clouded eye. One that evoked mischief with a kindness hidden beneath. An odd witch for certain, but so far she’d been upfront with her intentions.

Ash scooped up a spoonful of the stew, a single carrot and part of a potato floated in the broth. The moment she brought it to her mouth, her eyes lit up.

The beef stock had a soft kick of spices that mingled well in even scales. Combined with the sweetness of carrot, the squishy texture of potato, and the light crisp of onion mixed in, it was the best stew she’d had in a long time. There was a distinct lack of meat in the soup, but that didn’t matter. It was a simple dish made with the utmost care.

Between spoonfuls, Ash took the time to glimpse at her surroundings. From the wooden walls to the thatched roof, she appeared to be in a small woodland cottage. Assortments of herbs, vegetables, and roots hung from the ceiling on thick strings, surrounding the pot that dangled over a quaint fireplace. Tilda hummed to herself as she hobbled about the room, snapping her fingers to make a broom sweep the floors and the spoon constantly stirring to maintain the stew’s consistency. Magic always intrigued Ash, though she wished she understood it better.

The ladle hovered over her, ready to pour another serving. Ash held up her hand. This was more than enough.

“Eat what ya can,” said Tilda. “Ye’ll need yer strength fer the road ahead.”

Ash stopped mid slurp.

Out the window, another snowstorm raged on. Every tree in a mile radius of the cottage surrounded it on all sides like a fortified wall. Strong gusts of wind rattled the glass, one blow away from ripping it off the sill. Out there, Flake was alone, lost and afraid without guidance.

And here she was, so entranced by Tilda’s hospitality that she’d almost forgotten why she was in the Forbidden Wood in the first place.

“I have to go,” Ash said, setting the bowl down on a nearby table. “Thank you for your kindness, but I can’t—"

There was a snap, then a click. Ash tried to pull open the door to no avail. It was shut tight, unyielding to her raw strength.

Tilda clicked her tongue a few times.

“Yer not goin’ out dere.”

“What?”

“Ol’ Tilda Pembroke already saved yer life once,” The witch waggled a bony finger to and fro. “Ye won’ be so lucky th’ next time.”

Ash gritted her teeth. “So I’m to be your prisoner then?

Tilda snickered.

“Ah ne’er said tha’.”

With another snap of the fingers, a chair pulled up behind Ash, knocking her into the seat. Another snap, she was dragged over to a table in the far corner. Ash tried to get up but it wouldn’t budge.

Once again, the fingers snapped.

Now Ash couldn’t get up at all. No matter how many times she tried to pry herself upward, her rear remained glued in place.

Bernard skittered over to the table, quick and precise. However, all he did was stare up at her. This behavior wasn’t like him; he usually tried to help her out of sticky situations back home. For him to not do so…

Perhaps this was similar to when he tried to stop Ash from striking the deer familiar. Animals had good senses; if Ash were in any danger, Bernard wouldn’t be this calm. There was no other explanation otherwise.

She turned back to Tilda.

“What do you hope to gain from keeping me here? I have nothing to offer you.”

Tilda smirked, a soft chuckle rose up her throat.

“Oh, ye ‘ave plenty to offer me. After all,” she said. “yer a child of twisted fate.”

All fell silent. Only the wind battering against the windows and the simmering of the cauldron seeped through it.

Ash blinked once. Twice. Three times. “What?”

“Ye ‘eard me right.”

Tilda strode up to her, turning to chair around with a single finger swish before grasping Ash’s chin. She tilted her head from side to side, observing every soot covered detail. The squinted eye would open on occasion, though didn’t grow wider than a copper piece.

“Quite an odd case ye be,” she said. “Yes, yes. Very odd indeed.”

Ash scoffed, yanking her head back. “What are you talking about?

“Naw if I tolja e’erythin’ there’d be no room for secrets, wouldn’t ye say?”

The way the old woman rose her brow, cracked a crooked toothed grin, almost giddy about the situation. Whether she mocked Ash or not, it was irritating to say the least.

Ash dug her nails into the arms of the chair, still unable to lift herself off, let alone stand up. Even her feet were glued to the floorboards. She wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“It doesn’t make sense,” She ground her teeth together, trying once more to break free from whatever spell Tilda put on her to no avail. “How can anyone’s fate be twisted?”

Tilda scratched her chin, letting out a low hum.

“Tha’ depends on what ye be.” The Cheshire grin returned. “Are ye a ‘prentice seekin’ out a trade, or are ye a puzzle missin’ it’s piece?”

Her hand waved in dismissive fashion.

“Such things be wasted on endless endeavors.”

“I’m in no mood for riddles ma’am. Either tell me what you know or let me go free.”

Tilda clicked her tongue. “Where be yer manners, missy? Sharp tongues ten’ tah get sliced ‘emselves.”

As much as Ash hated to admit it, the witch had a point. She wasn’t getting anywhere talking back to Tilda. This wasn’t the palace, nor was she viewed as a servant.

“I’m sorry,” She glanced toward the window, focused on the maelstrom of snowflakes gliding past in their fervent dance. Each push of the wind rattled the sills, the very wood of the cabin itself. Her fingers grasped the arms tighter. “But please understand. My dog is out there without a musher to guide her. She must be so scared and alone right now. If I—”

She drew in a breath before turning back to Tilda.

“If I don’t leave now, I might never see here again. She and Bernard are all I have left!”

Ash hated how much her voice shook, how pathetic she appeared to this old witch. Without Flake, how would she get through this world?

How would she move forward?

How would she be able to live?

There was no one to help her anymore. No sense in going back now.

“Please…” Her head hung low, desperate to hold back tears. “Please let me find her.”

Tilda stroked her own chin, drawing out a hum this time. The creak of each floorboard as she paced back and forth sounded out in thoughtful steps. With both eyes closed, an unsettling chill ran down Ash’s spine, knuckles going white from how tight her grip on the chair’s arms was.

Before long, the pacing stopped. A smile curled upon the witch’s lips. Her clouded eye focused on the former princess— a crystal ball of strange wisdom.

“Would ye like tah find ou’ if she still lives?”

Ash’s eyes widened. “You have that kind of power?”

“All witches ‘ave abilities unlike any ye ‘ave ever seen!” Tilda’s eye twinkled a small shimmer. “Bu’ fer a child of twisted fate like ye? It migh’ lead ye tah yer fate.”

Her bony fingers lifted, a soft glow swirled around each digit.

“’owe’er… heed this.”

The clouded eye went wide. Tilda’s expression fell as the room began to pulse with energy— more intense than it should be.

“Whether it leads ye tah good fortune ‘r certain doom lies in yer ‘ands.” Her face drew much too close for comfort. “E’en I know not what the future ‘olds fer someone like ye. Knowin’ thah, do ye still wish tah know?”

This had to be a test, or some kind of challenge. If the stories of magic folk being able to see tethered prophecies were true, then perhaps Ash had a future after all. Whatever kind of prophecy it was, twisted or not, it was still something.

No way was it a Royal Prophecy, though. Their stories were perfect, foretold to the letter. A guaranteed happy ending, or so she was told. If she had a Royal Prophecy, Tilda never would’ve called her fate ‘twisted’. As it stood, Ash was an ‘odd case’— whatever that meant.

Regardless, fate was fate. Wherever her prophecy led her, it had to lead to something good in the end.

It had to.

She nodded.