For a moment, neither of them moved.

The inside of the church was brighter than expected.

Tall pedestals lined both sides of the room, each one holding a softly glowing crystal. The crystals were like the ones from Sable's dungeon, except that they looked slightly different, much thinner and muted in color. Each light cast long shadows between the rows of wooden chairs.

Everything inside was… clean. From the outside, the place looked decrepit and abandoned, yet the inside was a different story. Not everything was spotless, but it was well maintained.

Both of them hurried over to the cracked glass window.

Outside, the atmosphere of the village had changed.

The streets were clearing. Villagers who had once gathered in perfect silence were now drifting away. Some returned to doorways. Others resumed walking, baskets in hand, heads bowed low. The leader was gone. And so was the shadowed thing that stood beside him.

The young girl with the brown cap was also walking away. Pell's arm was no longer stuck in her face, but was now in her hand. It left marks on the ground as it dragged along the dirt like a child's teddy bear.

None of them looked back. None seemed interested in chasing them anymore.

"They're leaving?" Enya asked, puzzled.

"Or pretending to. I'm not sure. Something is way too fishy here."

Enya turned around. Her eyes scanned the building. "What is this place?"

Pell moved away from the window and began to slowly walk toward the altar.

"This is a church. An old one." Pell moved over to a seat and swiped his bony finger across the seat. There was no dust.

"Not old enough though. Seems like someone keeps this place in good shape."

Enya walked alongside him, looking around. "What is a Church?"

"A place of worship, I guess. For religious people. Though, almost no one believes in religion anymore. Not the real kind where you devote yourself to a God," he explained. "There are some people that believe in their own gods or beliefs or whatever. But not the old-fashioned religion that this place would be built for."

They passed the empty pews and reached the sanctuary—a raised space near the altar. There were unlit golden candle fixtures, a remnant from the past. Recent times seemed more in favor of light altars.

In the center stood a small reading pedestal. Upon it rested a book.

Enya stepped closer to inspect it.

The cover was worn, but not ruined. Wrapped tight in knotted string, wrapping twice around the cover. Gold lettering, curled with age, spelled out a title in looping-style script.

"Witchcraft and the Soul's Flame."

She didn't recognize all the words, but she could read some of it. Though, there was no meaning behind these words to her.

She looked ahead.. Pell had wandered to the far side of the church and was inspecting something tucked into the wall. He didn't seem to notice her anymore, so she turned back and untied the cord, flipping over the cover.

The first page bore no author's name. Just an introduction, printed in elegant but slightly crooked handwriting:

"To call oneself a witch is not to claim a title, but to accept a weight. We are not born into witchcraft. We bleed into it."

She blinked, and reading, flipping the page.

Chapter I: Of Witches and Their Will

Witchcraft is not magic.

Magic is a structure. A cage made of symbols, numbers, mana flow, and limitation.

Witchcraft is not a cage. It is not measured by one's level or mana pool. It does not care for stats. It does not scale. It answers only to potential. A witch's strength comes from what she carries.

Her burden. Her memory. Her hate.

From the moment she curses the world for the first time, she begins to change. And once a soul changes—it cannot return to what it was.

She continued reading, her fingers leaving faint smudges across the old parchment pages.

Witchcraft is not a gift. It is a burden made useful. You are not chosen. You are pressed into shape by suffering. Others use mana; you will use memory. Others wield light; you will carry fire beneath your heart.

She read the next page.

A witch does not grow by leveling or learning, but by enduring. A witch's power comes from what she can carry without breaking. Anger, grief, fear, spite—these are not curses to be cleansed. These are tools to be sharpened.

The book seemed strange. It was very personable. Like the writer was speaking directly to whoever was reading it. It was even more captivating than the necromancer books she had read. It was less of teaching, but more of strong encouragement to remember.

She turned the page again. There were smaller entries.

To twist a soul, one must know its shape. To poison a heart, one must first understand kindness. To lay a curse, you must be willing to carry it too.

"Witchcraft…" Enya murmured. It was intriguing. Witchcraft seemed to be something different from mana. Was it like a power? A resource like her soul-energy?

She read one more passage, a short one centered on the page.

The world will not reward your power. But it will learn to fear it.

On Pell's side, he had finished exploring the sides. The back rooms were empty and lifeless. He returned from his little inspection and headed over to the confessional booth. He leaned down to pull the curtain aside.

As he peered in, his soul-flames widened.

A sharp jolt passed through his core—like someone had grabbed him by the chest and crushed inward. No sound escaped. His bones dropped in a pile onto the floor. They didn't fall and crash, but fell gently . Though, it wasn't like Pell could notice. His consciousness had slipped away instantly.

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Enya was still reading the book, too distracted to notice. Only until the voice came, did she realize something had happened.

"It is quite rude," someone said, voice calm and cool, "to be looking through another's belongings without permission, hmm?"

Enya jumped and flinched. Her eyes snapped up, then down as she stared at the source of the voice.

A woman stood in the center aisle of the church.

She was tall. Her clothes were old-fashioned—long layers of deep plum and black, stitched with silver thread in curling, unfamiliar patterns. Her sleeves were wide, hands hidden beneath them. It was difficult to tell if she was thin or large. A pointed collar flared slightly over her shoulders, and her hair, a pale gray-blonde, hung loosely around her face like a veil.

Her eyes were dark. Dark and heavy, with an almost piercing glare that reminded her of Celeste. The most notable thing though, was the large, rounded black hat she wore.

Enya's first thought wasn't to speak.

It was to find Pell.

She looked around. He wasn't at the confessional booth anymore. She spotted a pile of bones, but she couldn't see anything else. His skull wasn't there. There were no soul-flames, no presence, just emptiness.

Her heart skipped.

"Looking for this?" the woman asked, tilting her head.

She lifted a single finger.

From behind her, floating just above the church pews, Pell's skull drifted forward. It moved gently, slowly rotating with the motion of her hand, as if dangling on an invisible string.

Enya's eyes went wide. "What did you do to Pell?!"

The woman smiled.

"Oh. So his name is Pell?" she said softly. "Interesting name. It doesn't quite suit him."

She twirled her finger in a circle. Pell's skull followed, spinning once in the air like a toy.

"I suppose if you're going to flip through my personal reading," she added, "it's only fair I get to play with your belongings, too. No?"

Enya didn't spend time to think; thinking about what to do was useless. She needed to act. Her fingers began forming a spell circuit. Invisible mana flared in the space between her hands.

The woman's gaze sharpened.

"Nuh-uh-uh," she taunted. She pointed at Enya—a quick and quiet flick of her finger. Yet what it did, spoke volumes.

Pell's skull stayed suspended behind her. But Enya's body—it locked.

The magic in her hands fizzled out instantly. It wasn't just dispelled, but completely shut down. Her circuits seized mid-pattern. Her arms wouldn't move. Her knees buckled slightly, but she couldn't fall. She couldn't even blink. The chill in the church deepened around her.

"Can't have violence in here," the woman said gently. "This is a special place."

Enya tried to speak, but her voice wouldn't come. Her throat moved, but no sound escaped.

Inside, her mana tried to surge again, but nothing moved. She was completely locked from trying to use any spells. Only her thoughts remained.

The woman stepped closer.

Her slippers made no sound on the church floor. Her sleeves swayed faintly with each slow, steady step. She stopped at the edge of the central aisle, just a few paces from where Enya stood, still frozen behind the altar.

Her gaze flicked briefly to Pell's floating skull, then back to Enya.

"You have an interesting companion," she said, examining her with faint curiosity. "Not many people travel with sentient skeletons. Quite rare, actually. Most people hate monsters. The undead, too. So being with one is quite the oddity."

Her eyes shifted. She moved a little more to the left, to get a clearer view of her.

She scanned Enya from head to toe. Not with hunger or an ever-reaching malice, but instead curiosity and attentiveness. Like someone examining the well-being of an invited guest.

"And especially with nobles," she added, tone casual. "Unless things have changed outside more than I expected."

Her words trailed for a moment. She seemed to reminiscence, feeling a long-lost nostalgia as she spoke.

Enya clenched her jaw. She didn't answer.

The woman tilted her head.

"You knew to come here," she said. "To the church. To escape them—the death remnants. I find that very curious. How? How did you know?"

Still frozen in place, Enya glared as best she could. "Did you kill Pell?" she managed to choke out. The words were tight. Pressed through a half-locked throat.

The woman blinked, slow and unfazed.

"Kill him?" she echoed. "He's already dead, so no—I didn't kill what's already dead." She chuckled at her own joke. "No. I simply extracted his soul."

Enya's body tensed again, but only mentally. Her arms still wouldn't move.

"Can you give it back?" she asked.

The woman hummed softly.

"Maybe," she said. "If I'm in the mood."

Enya stared hard at her, chest rising and falling slightly faster. She hated this feeling—being stuck. Being trapped.

Eventually, she caved in and answered the questions.

"I have some skills that make it easier to notice things. I can also make my senses stronger. I tried to find an exit from the village, but... everything made me feel dizzy. Like something was twisting my head around. Only when we got here did the dizziness go away. That's why we came here."

"I see. Curious—did you happen to meet the village head?" the witch asked, voice light. "Or drink the tea he offered?"

"No," Enya said. Her voice was tight.

"I see," the witch repeated.

With a simple wave of her hand, the hold on Enya's body released.

She almost collapsed; her knees wobbled from the sudden return of control. Her muscles throbbed with soreness from how hard she'd tensed. She stumbled slightly, then caught herself and looked down at the woman again.

The witch turned her head, eyes flicking to the corner of the room.

The pile of bones near the wall stirred.

They lifted, floating gently toward the center aisle. One by one, each piece reassembled. Ribs locked into spine. Legs clicked into hips. Arms spun, shoulder blades rolling into sockets. Finally, she commanded the skull to levitate toward the top of his shoulders.

Then, with a snap of her fingers—

Pell's eyes reignited.

A violet flame burst to life in each socket, and he staggered upright with a sharp breath.

"Pell!" Enya cried.

She ran forward without thinking, muscles still trembling. She jumped off the sanctuary steps and wrapped her arms around him from the side.

"W-what the—?" Pell stammered.

His senses rushed in all at once. One moment he'd been crouching near the confessional, inspecting the space behind the curtain. The next, he was standing in the middle of the church with Enya clinging to him—and a stranger watching nearby.

A very strange stranger.

He blinked.

"Witch?" he asked, confused.

The woman smiled, slow and wide. "Flesh and soul."

The witch turned her head slightly, her pale hair drifting across her shoulders as though touched by wind that wasn't there.

"Felicity," she said, finally offering a name. "You may call me that."

As the name left her lips, the space around them shifted again.

The church dissolved.

It didn't crumble. It didn't collapse. It simply shifted—as though space had been peeled back and something else had always been underneath.

In an instant, they were no longer standing near pews or stained glass windows. The cold marble floor gave way to dark wooden planks. The walls curled inward and narrowed, forming a cozy, candlelit room lined with shelves, faded books, and a soft red carpet. Old lavender filled the air.

The light was warm, but the shadows were too long. Nothing about it felt bright. The edges of the room flickered like paper in a dying flame. Still, it was comfortable. Gloomy for sure, but not hostile.

Pell narrowed his sockets.

"Yeah," he muttered. His guard was still up, and if he had a heart, it would be pounding. "Certainly suits a witch's taste, alright."

Behind them, two cushioned chairs appeared out of nothing. They didn't crash or drop; they simply were. An unseen force nudged Pell and Enya both backward. Before they could react, they were seated—gently, but firmly.

In front of them, a long rectangular table materialized. Polished, narrow, and empty, until a single chair formed at the other end, where Felicity took her seat with casual ease. She crossed one leg over the other and rested her arms lightly on the table.

A teapot appeared.

Then a tea set.

It popped into existence with a soft clink; it was made of white porcelain, slightly mismatched. Steam curled from the spout, and the teapot poured itself into the cups. One cup slid toward Enya. Another slid toward Pell.

Their posture stiffened immediately.

Neither of them moved.

The last time someone had offered tea, it had been a trap. Pell remembered the way the village leader smiled, the shadow by his side, the death remnants slowly approaching out of their homes, and the misty fog that curled forth.

Enya hadn't touched her cup then—she didn't now.

Felicity watched their expressions.

"Oh, come now," she said with a small laugh. "It's just Earl Grey. Nothing sinister in this one."

In this one, Pell thought. So the other tea was sinister.

She tilted her head toward Pell.

"For you, I steeped it with Malytus spirit leaves. They're attuned to spectral resonance. Dipping a bone into the brew will allow your soul to interpret the taste just fine. Better than staring at it, I'd wager."

Pell didn't reply He looked at Enya.

She looked back.

Then, her expression tightened. Her yellow eyes flared slightly as she activated absolute focus. Her pupils narrowed, her gaze sharpening to a level only she could maintain.

She stared at the tea for a full ten seconds. Enya didn't know what to look for, but if anything stood out, she'd notice. At least, she'd hope she'd notice.

Her eyes focused. There was no flickering mana. No unusual heat bubbles. No possibly poisonous residue pooling at the edge of the rim. No shifting layers. No engravings hidden in the cup. Just tea. Honest, clear, and freshly brewed.

Eventually, she glanced over at Pell and whispered, "It seems okay. I don't sense anything wrong with it."

Pell exhaled, or something close to it. It was more like a grunted exhale. "Fine."

He reached out and dipped the tip of his bony finger into the cup. For a moment, nothing. Just an empty dampness on his bones. But then, his soul-flames pulsed.

Flavor—there was an actual flavor.

The taste bloomed through his core. It was subtle, floral, smooth. A tad bit of a citrusy punch. This wasn't cheap. It was Earl Grey, real Earl Grey. A blend nobles favored; it was hard for peasants to acquire or much less enjoy.

Pell didn't speak. But his eye sockets lifted slightly.

Enya tilted her head. "It's... real?" she asked.

Pell nodded slowly.

Felicity smiled. "Of course it is," she said. "If I wanted you dead or poisoned, dear, we wouldn't be having tea. Your souls would have already been shoved into some of my dolls."

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