Saved By The Mad Duke
Chapter 109: You Should Never Trust A Witch

Chapter 109: You Should Never Trust A Witch

Ahspid settled into a chair positioned behind a small, round wooden table, its surface painted a deep, matte black. He then lowered the hood of his cloak, revealing his features to the dim light of the witch’s cabin. He still hesitated to fully shed the cloak, knowing the biting cold outside mirrored the frigid atmosphere indoors.

Surveying the interior of Bjarna’s secluded house, a structure she had meticulously crafted over years of solitary existence, Ahspid could not suppress a pang of nostalgia.

’Even during her days in the Capital, her dwelling bore this same familiar semblance. She does not like change. It is as if she’s woven from the very fabric of resistance, an unyielding force tethered to her essence.’

The witch’s cabin, though small, exuded an atmosphere far from cozy. Enveloped in ominous darkness and haunted by the chilling howls of drafts, it remained a place miles away from comfort.

Tiny windows nestled under the roof were tightly shrouded in dark purple cloth, casting the interior into a perpetual gloom. The blackwood floors stretched like an abyss beneath, swallowing any semblance of warmth or light. Strange trophies adorned the walls - tiny animal carcasses, bird skulls, and the pelts of bizarre beasts unfamiliar to Ahspid. Meanwhile, tall black candles stood sentinel in every corner, their feeble orange flames flickering in harmony, guided by the icy fingers of the draft.

’Dark and cold, akin to the embrace of death. It suits her well,’ Ahspid reflected, his gaze drifting to Bjarna, who was engrossed in the preparation of herbal tea.

Like any witch across the realms, Bjaran maintained an obsession with her appearance. Despite the passage of many decades, she retained a youthful face that mirrored Ahspid’s memories.

Standing among the shorter women he’d encountered, Bjaran’s slender frame was accentuated by the persistent black attire she favored. Her complexion resembled freshly fallen snow, yet it was her striking features that left an indelible mark - from the flawlessly shaped pink lips to the thick black lashes framing her deep silver eyes.

Yet, two distinct attributes set her apart from her witch brethren: the cascade of long, flowing gray hair and a multitude of runic tattoos. These intricate markings, her personal witchcraft etched upon flesh and face alike, served as a barrier, safeguarding her soul from the ominous powers she wielded.

Balancing two mugs delicately in her pale, slender hands, the witch placed them on the table before Ahspid, then settled into the chair opposite him, her smile a subtle dance of shadows.

"If not for the color of your mana, I might have mistaken you for another," she remarked, her voice a soft murmur laced with intrigue. "Are you not weary of constant metamorphosis? And do you truly believe she would find solace in your youthful facade when it betrays the essence of who you are?"

Ahspid curled his long, cold fingers around the warmth of the steaming herbal brew, his expression twisting into an irritated smirk.

"Coming from one who wastes her witchcraft to defy time and cling to youth, despite the passage of decades," he retorted coolly, "your words hold a bitter irony."

The witch lapsed into silence for a brief interlude before emitting a derisive scoff, her tone laden with a mixture of resignation and bitterness.

"How many cycles of the moon have waxed and waned? I long surrendered to the notion of our paths never crossing again, never anticipated your return until the hour of your demise."

Ahspid savored the invigorating warmth of the tea, relishing its distinct minty essence, before nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders in response.

"I, too, harbored no desire for our paths to cross anew, yet fate interceded with pressing matters that demanded your urgent assistance."

Bjarna’s slender, ash-colored eyebrows arched in surprise at his response. Their encounters were never merely a reunion of old acquaintances; deeper currents always coursed beneath the surface, a truth she should have recognized sooner.

"Is that so? If your inquiry revolves around her once more, Ahspid, I’m afraid there’s no good news to offer. She is not dead. I cannot help you meet her."

A shadow passed fleetingly over the man’s features, betraying the tumult of emotions stirred by the witch’s words. His brows furrowed in a futile attempt to regain composure, though the effort proved futile. Finally, seeking refuge in the comforting embrace of his tea, he took a generous sip before exhaling a weary sigh and pressing forward.

"The matter at hand diverges from her, I assure you. It’s of utmost complexity and significance. You are the only one who can help and... you are the only one whom I trust."

Bjarna’s laughter bubbled forth once more, tinged with a hint of irony.

"Trust? A mage ought to know better than to place faith in a witch!"

The witch’s words offered a semblance of relief, coaxing Ahspid into a state of cautious relaxation. With a resigned curve of his lips, he conceded defeat, his nod a tacit acknowledgment of the tangled history between them.

"Indeed, when the paladins of the Holy Church drove you to the other side of the power control, the feud between our kinds ignited so I agree that there can hardly be any trust between us, even if we once were something of friends."

He paused, fixing his piercing eyes on the witch’s face, and added in a rather cold voice,

"This is why, before I will even start telling you anything, you will have to sign the magic contract to prevent you from talking about this with anyone else."

Bjarna leaned back against the back of her chair, her gaze a probing, silent examination of Ahspid. A grin danced across her lips once more.

"You understand my methods now, mage. I have forsaken altruism for the realm of business," she declared.

Ahspid released a weary sigh, then retrieved a small canvas bag, and placed it on the table with a resounding jingle.

"I’ve come prepared. One hundred golden coins. Will this suffice?"

The witch leaned forward, drawing the canvas bag towards her, her slender fingers delving within to inspect its contents with meticulous care. Satisfied with the offered payment, she set the bag aside, her smile widening in approval as she addressed the mage,

"Very well. This sum shall suffice to make me leave this forest. The remainder shall be expected upon the completion of my task. Now, present your contract, mage. I shall affix my signature for your peace of mind."