Pell and Enya sat on cushioned chairs, staring at Felicity, a mysterious woman that had ambushed them inside the church. To Pell, it was obvious the type of person she was. The large black hat left nothing to the imagination.

A witch.

They were people that used witchcraft, abilities and powers that differed from the system. In the past, they were a mysterious group; their abilities were couldn't be explained by those out of their coven. Since they didn't use the system, they were branded as an almost heretical force, those that went against the general belief and norm.

Even these days, witches were legends, a bed time story; a folk tale of real people that no longer existed.

"It's not often that I get to use this type of tea. But I suppose now would be a perfect time, if any." Felicity picked up her own cup, drinking a separately poured cup of tea. After a sip, she smiled, savoring the flavor of what she had drunk.

She set the cup down with a clink on a small white plate. "Now, let's get to the main topic—"

The room became colder. The atmosphere shifted, and her casual grace, the nonchalant mannerisms and expression—they completely changed. She stared at the both of them. It was a piercing glare; she stared deep into their souls.

She steepled her fingers. "Who are you two, and why are you here?"

Both of them tensed.

Pell shifted in his chair, soul-flames tightening. The sensation pressing down on him was difficult to describe, but it was there. Heavy, like a fog made of cold threads, slipping between the gaps in his bones, brushing the edges of his awareness. Searching for something unguarded.

"I asked a question," Felicity said again. Her voice remained calm, but the weight behind it was undeniable. She didn't need to raise her tone; the demand was already embedded in each word.

"We're travelers," Pell answered, keeping his voice measured. "Just passing through. I have some business with a noble on the first layer. Ended up here by accident."

This wasn't a lie. They were just traveling—however he thought it to be best not to mention that they were technically fugitives running from town guards.

Felicity tilted her head slightly. Her gaze drifted to Enya and lingered on the fine fabric of her dress.

"This forest's an odd place for a little noble girl to be wandering," she said. "Especially with a skeleton in tow."

Enya kept her silence.

Felicity's lips curled into something like a grin. "Not many nobles keep company with the dead. In fact, they used to despise anything remotely monstrous. Unless the world's changed while I've been locked away."

That last part caught their attention. Pell and Enya exchanged a quick glance.

Pell narrowed his eyes. The violet flames behind his sockets grew sharp. "Locked away? How long?"

"Long enough," Felicity said. "Long enough that I forgot what a fresh soul feels like. Until you stepped through that door."

Her smile widened. The look in her eyes was impossible to read.

"And now that you're here," she added, "you're stuck. Just like me."

Enya blinked. "What do you mean, stuck?"

Felicity's eyes flicked back to her. "Darsmouth isn't part of your world. It's a pocket dimension. A warped corner of space that's been twisted and sealed off."

"Pocket... dee-men-shin?" Enya fumbled over the word.

"It's like a miniature layer," Pell said, finishing for her. "But how? We were running through the woods. We just saw the village and came in."

Felicity let out a low chuckle. It was dry and humorless. The kind of laugh that usually came after watching someone step into a pitfall.

"Darsmouth hides from most eyes. It calls to those who are lost. Maybe you saw it for what it was, maybe not. Doesn't matter." Her tone dropped a note lower. "The more you try to escape, the more it pulls you back in."

She paused. "And no regular soul walks out once they've crossed the border."

"So you're stuck here too?" Enya asked, giving up entirely on pronouncing the word "dimension."

"Stuck?" Felicity echoed, and for a moment, her laughter sounded genuine.

She slammed her fist against the table. The entire room shuddered. The table rattled beneath their arms, and the air dropped a dozen degrees colder.

"Stuck?" she repeated, voice rising. "I'm CURSED to stay here. Not in this godsforsaken village, but inside this rotted, CRUMBLING CHURCH!"

Her voice thundered through the pews that were layered on the walls.

"I don't even have the freedom to move. It would be a blessing to walk out that door. But I can't. I CAN'T."

Pell and Enya both froze.

Their bodies stiffened instinctively, not from pain or magic, but from something else—something deeper. A pressure that pressed in from all sides, turning air into stone.

Enya reached out with her senses, eyes narrowing as she focused.

There was nothing.

No magic, no flow of mana, no signature of spell circuits. Nothing like what she'd felt in Talo's prison, when that lizard-man Nakrin was subdued by Lorrin. That time, she had clearly sensed a dense, suffocating mana from Lorrin. It was a wave, a flood of mana that washed over everyone else. Even though she wasn't the target of it, she could see that everyone else was in solid frozen blocks of mana, unable to move.

But this? This was different. There was no force to fight against. It was like the air itself simply obeyed her.

And she was angry.

Felicity's glare burned through the stillness, wide-eyed and trembling at the edges with held-back rage. Then, as suddenly as the pressure came, it lifted. She loosened her fist, let her shoulders drop, and slowly sat back.

The air returned to normal.

Pell made a grinding motion, shaking off his limbs. Any longer, and his joints might have cracked from the sheer tension alone.

"Apologies," Felicity said, voice calm again. "That was unbecoming."

They didn't answer right away. Even without the pressure, they kept their eyes fixed on her, cautious.

"No—I'm not just stuck. I've been cursed by one of my sisters. She stole my athame and drove it through my spirit cauldron."

She folded her hands, speaking more quietly now. "The blade remains there, wedged through the crack like a nail through a fault line. My soul is stabilized only so long as the athame stays embedded. But if I step outside these walls, the ritual forces the athame back to me—ripping it out from the cauldron. And the moment that happens, the damage spreads. My spirit shatters."

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She gave them a thin smile. "Imagine pulling out a knife after being stabbed. That's what it would be like. An injury that harms you, but will also kill you from blood loss if you try to remove it."

Enya's voice was small. "There's no way to undo it?"

Felicity shook her head.

"Not without help. The athame and cauldron are bound to my soul. The ritual my sister cast keeps my witchcraft tethered here. I can't send constructs, familiars, or even a broom beyond the doors without them breaking apart."

Pell tilted his skull. So witches really do have flying brooms, he thought.

Felicity chuckled, as if hearing it.

"But," she said, "that may change—thanks to the two of you."

The table scraped aside on its own, gliding across the stone with a dry groan. Then, without warning, Enya's chair lurched forward.

It wasn't her imagination.

The floor blurred beneath her as her seat skidded toward Felicity, stopping just short of the woman's feet. The room hadn't moved. Just her.

Now, she was close enough to see every line in the witch's expression.

Felicity leaned forward, studying her face carefully. Her eyes didn't stop at Enya's clothes, or her posture. They drilled deeper—into her soul.

Enya clenched her hands in her lap. She held her breath.

"You…" Felicity murmured, eyes narrowing as she studied Enya. "You're an interesting one."

She reached forward and touched Enya's cheek with the back of her fingers. She was gentle, but curious. "What are you?"

Enya's eyes twitched. "W-what do you mean?"

Felicity didn't answer right away. She withdrew her hand, but her gaze lingered, sharp and unblinking.

"I don't sense fear in you," she said slowly. "Not really."

Enya sat still, hands clenched beneath the table.

"You look frightened," Felicity continued, tilting her head slightly. "You're even doing the shallow breaths and stammering. But none of it is real, is it? You're mimicking fear. Copying the signs."

"I-I don't know what you mean."

Felicity smiled—not kindly. "Maybe you don't. It doesn't seem deliberate. You're just playing the part because you know that's what you're supposed to feel. But inside?"

She leaned in, voice soft.

"You feel nothing."

A heartbeat passed.

Then Enya's chair jerked backward, sliding across the stone floor. She gripped the sides, and a moment later found herself back beside Pell. Her small hand reached out and clutched his forearm.

The long rectangular table glided back into place between them and the witch, seamless as a stage resetting. The teacups remained steady, untouched by the motion—as if nothing had moved at all.

Felicity exhaled like nothing had happened.

"Back to the main topic," she said, resting her elbow on the table and lazily pointing a finger at them. "That girl—a necromancer. No—more precisely, a necrosmith. You should be able to interact with soul energy, yes? You will be the key to this."

Pell's soul-flames tightened. "How do you know that? Necromancer's a fair guess. But necrosmith?"

"I looked at her soul," Felicity said plainly. "Even with all its warped edges and troubling inconsistencies, I could still confirm the class designation."

Pell said nothing. His jaw clenched, thoughts running. Soul magic…? No—soul witchcraft? First a necrosmith, and now a witch. Wasn't soul stuff supposed to be extremely rare?

His mind hurt trying to comprehend the lunacy.

"Anyway," Felicity went on. "I need the two of you to retrieve my spirit cauldron. My athame is still embedded in it. You'll have to extract the blade and repair the cauldron's damage without breaking it further."

She paused, letting her words settle.

"It's buried beneath this village. The catacombs are... tricky. Traps, curses, and plenty of angry dead. Normally, I could send a construct or go myself. But the curse binds me to this church—I can't even peek my magic beyond the walls."

Pell leaned back. He chose his words carefully. "Why should we help you?"

For a second, something flickered in Felicity's eye. Irritation? Disappointment?

He kept going. "You said you're stuck here. Even if you wanted to threaten us, you can't complete the task on your own. If the catacombs are that dangerous, we're risking our lives. What do we get out of it? You'd need us if its soul-related since the kid here can use soul-energy."

Silence followed.

Felicity didn't respond right away. The air grew quiet again. Much too quiet. The warmth from the tea cups didn't reach the rest of the room. The shadows on the walls stood still as they all waited.

She watched him. Not angry. But not amused either. Just… watching, measuring him in silence.

"Sly mouth, skeleton." Felicity leaned back in her chair, the grin on her face never reaching her eyes. "You're right. I do need you."

She folded forward again, resting her chin on steepled hands.

"But don't mistake that for weakness. You need me just as much."

Her tone cooled. "Without me, you two are as trapped here as I am. You might be able to walk the village, but you're still prisoners. Those remnants outside? They won't let you go. And eventually, they'll get you. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But they'll wear you down, piece by piece."

Pell sat still, processing her words. She seemed like she was willing to talk, so he took a chance.

"Then make it worthwhile," he said. "You're a witch, aren't you? I told you already—we have business to handle. A noble I plan to settle things with. Might not interest you, but it's a life's vengeance to me."

Felicity raised a brow. "Go on."

"We help you," Pell said. "Retrieve your cauldron. Free you from this place. In return, you help us leave—and you throw in something else. A magical item, some gold, or anything that might be useful."

"A mutual exchange," she said, watching him.

Pell nodded once. "You're trusting us with something important. Your cauldron's your lifeline, isn't it? Wouldn't it be smarter to make the job appealing? If there's a reward, we're less likely to double-cross you. Less likely to smash the thing or hold it hostage."

Her eyes narrowed into slits. "You didn't say you would do such a thing, but be careful even thinking it."

A low chill crept through the air again.

"Even if I'm bound to this church, that little girl of yours will still age. She'll rot here, with no way out. No food. No shelter. Forced to chew grass like cattle if the two of you hide in the village forever. I'd love to imagine what her bones would look like in ten years."

She smirked, the tension curling behind her teeth.

"But… you raise a fair point."

"I'll give you both a reward," Felicity said at last, reclining in her chair again. Her fingers danced in the air, drawing small glimmering trails of light that disappeared as quickly as they came. "I have no shortage of things. Relics, tomes, cursed charms… but in particular, I think I have something that would interest you, little necrosmith."

Her eyes drifted to Enya again, lips curling slightly.

"Some knowledge of witchcraft. Real witchcraft. Not the bedtime stories they print in beginner grimoires." She tapped her temple. "But I'll need time to think of a reward fitting enough. In the meantime, you can fetch me my cauldron and my athame. They're hidden beneath the brewer's house at the far edge of the village. In the basement, tucked below a cellar door. The entrance to the catacombs lies there."

Enya perked up at the mention of a reward, though her face stayed guarded.

"I won't send you in empty-handed," Felicity said, snapping her fingers.

A small shape shimmered into view, floating gently through the air before landing in her palm. It looked like a crude little doll—humanoid, made of straw and bound with red string. The head was too round, the limbs too stiff. It radiated a quiet, unsettling presence.

"A poppet," Felicity explained, offering it to Enya. "A vessel for my magic. Infused with a portion of my power. Through it, you'll be able to channel enhancements directly into your summons, even from afar. A little taste of what true puppetry can do."

Enya reached out and took it carefully in both hands, her expression curious—but cautious.

Then, just as Enya's fingers closed around it, Felicity tilted her head.

"No… doesn't suit you," she muttered.

With a lazy flick of her finger, the doll shimmered again. The straw and string melted into brown cloth. The rough stitching remained, but the form had shifted—rounded ears, stubby limbs, and two mismatched button eyes. One of them dangled by a thread. It was a teddy bear now. Worn, slightly crooked, and oddly charming.

Enya's eyes widened. She clutched the bear tighter, a tiny smile creeping onto her face.

She liked the new gift.

Felicity gave a pleased hum, leaning back. "There. Much better. That small creepy girl look really suits you."

Pell made a soft snort that sounded much louder with his hollow bones.

Felicity ignored it. "It should keep you alive. I'd rather not lose the only soulcrafter to stumble into my domain in the last few decades."

"That's real generous," Pell muttered. "But what about me?"

Felicity raised a brow. "You?"

"I don't need witchcraft," he said, tapping a bony knuckle on the table. "And we're risking our necks in some underground crypt for your sake. What about gold? Platinum? Something I can use."

Felicity rolled her eyes but didn't refuse.

"I've no use for coin. Not anymore," she said. "But I have things. Trinkets. Relics. Dusty heirlooms of all kinds in my storage. I'm sure a little merchant like you could find someone to buy them."

Pell's soul-flames flared just slightly.

"But first," Felicity said, her tone tightening again, "my cauldron and athame. Return those intact, and I'll reward you both. Generously."

Enya and Pell exchanged looks. A brief silence followed.

"Not like you have a choice, anyway. I'll kill you on the spot if you refuse."

Enya gave a single nod. "Alright. We'll do it."

Pell crossed his arms. "Can't believe I'm agreeing to this, but fine."

Felicity clapped once, sharp and clean.

"Excellent. The brewer's house marks your path. You'll find the catacombs beneath the floorboards. Oh, and be careful—just because the revenants outside didn't maul you on sight doesn't mean they'll be so merciful now. That poppet might be the only reason you make it back."

She gave a final smile—too wide, too pleased—and gestured toward the back of the church.

"Good luck, my little grave-robbers. And remember—failure means an eternal prison until death."

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