Tilda drew in a sharp breath. Two gaunt fingers pressed against Ash’s chest before the witch murmured something incomprehensible to the ear. It was a language foreign to the Winter Kingdom, a diction unlike any throughout the entire Valley of Seasons. She had to have come from outside the barrier’s walls, but that wasn’t possible. Not a single outsider should’ve come through without permission from the Great Seasonal Fairies.

The barrier existed to keep a horrific force out. That was common knowledge to all four kingdoms.

Very little information of the lands that existed beyond the barrier reached them, only passed along through word of mouth by passing caravans from the Mysteria Veil and groups of travelers going on mass exoduses trying to escape the war waging in the Weylands. From the spells Tilda conjured, she couldn’t have been from the Mysteria Veil, the land of fairies and nobility. No, she had to hail from the Weylands— scorched territory ruled by dragons, fearsome beasts filled with wrath.

For an Outsider to somehow bypass the barrier, she had to be a powerful magi. Except if that were the case, the Seasonal Kingdoms would’ve been on high alert; the Great Seasonal Fairies demanding to find the intruder. Neither had occurred lately, so that couldn’t be the case.

Unless…

Before Ash could question it further, a bright glow manifested from Tilda’s fingertips. It pulsed from her bony hand, radiating flecks of gold and white; wisps of orbs swirled around, chasing one another like mischievous children.

The walls shook. Pots, bowls, and bottles clattered.

Windows rattled.

Bernard squeaked.

Stray strands of hair hung in the air, lifted by an unknown force. A far cry from the bellowing winds outside.

All at once, the glow simmered to a faint spark. Tilda’s eye shone a brilliant white glow; with each incantation, the glow brightened, her words grew louder and louder.

The shaking intensified.

Deep within Ash, something stirred deep within her very core. A sharp pain pressed against her chest to the point she couldn’t breathe. Each beat of her heart thumped against her ribcage, over and over, pounding like a bass drum, ready to burst at any moment. She clenched her teeth, chair arms cracking under the grip strain. It was overwhelming, enough to evoke strangled screams.

It felt like hours before the pain finally stopped. Visions danced before Ash’s eyes.

A large ballroom filled with guests.

A clock chiming at midnight.

Apples… bright red, juicy goodness.

Pointy teeth and sharp claws.

A warm smile that shifted in and out of focus.

Snow.

A manor shrouded through its haze— a sanctuary hidden deep in the woods.

The light vanished in an instant. Ash gasped as if her life depended on it; rough coughs expelled from her throat. Such a resonate feeling that burned from the inside, her stepmother’s abuse could never compare.

As her breathing steadied, her gaze drifted to Tilda.

The clouded eye no longer glowed, the witch once again held a finger to her chin. Each stroke of her wrinkled jaw made an odd smile creep up.

“Interestin’. Very, very interestin’.” She pointed to the window, finger angled toward the east. “Fate awaits ye o’er yonder. Past the thicket and through the gate.”

“A gate? Out here?” Ash shook her head with a scoff. “That’s nonsense. Few have ever returned from these woods. If there was a gate out here, they would’ve said something by now.”

“Yet yer here. In my house.” Tilda’s smile didn’t falter. “Strange thing irony is.”

As much as Ash hated to admit it, the witch had a point. If Tilda could live in these woods for who knows how long, someone else could’ve done the same thing. Perhaps a wizard, or a fairy, lived in that direction.

Ash stared out the window.

“Will I find Flake that way?” she asked.

Tilda shrugged, both hands brushed down her apron. “Ye’ll find somethin’ worthwhile. Be it the path ye seek or the answers ye’ll keep is up tah ye.”

“You have no intention of being straightforward with me.”

“What fun is there in thah?”

Ash sighed.

“Fair enough,” she said. “Now would you kindly release me?”

Tilda snapped her fingers. The weight that held Ash down no longer hindered her; she stood without further issue. After a short stretch, she held her hand out to Bernard.

Despite some hesitance, the mouse scrambled to her shoulder with ease.

“It’s yer funeral if ye faint again,” said Tilda, arms crossed with a stern stare. “Tilda Pembroke won’t do ye another favor fer free next time.”

So this was a one-time kindness. That was fine.

“I won’t be needing it.”

“Yer thah confident, are ye missy?”

Ash nodded. Her determination carried her this far, despite the setback. It was all she needed to survive.

“At least bring Oakly with ye, then.” Tilda knocked on the window. The deer familiar outside snorted in agreement as it peered inside. “She’ll bring ye as far as the gate. The rest be up to ye, child.”

“It always is.”

With that, Ash opened the door. The wind still billowed about, though the storm itself no longer raged as before. Pulling her cloak close, she stepped out of the warmth of the cottage and into the crackling snow. With each step she made, the deer kept pace.