"He simply hates witches. We have that in common, but I also hate him, nobles, royals, and also the Fae."
The words tumbled from my mouth before I could stop them. It was the truth, raw and unfiltered, and once they were out there, I couldn't take them back. Something about him, about the Fae, always stirred a deep anger inside me. It wasn't just his presence or the obvious arrogance in his demeanor, but something more, something that felt ingrained in my very soul. The Fae—and him in particular—reminded me of all the things I despised about the world. And the nobles, the royals? They were the same breed, all wrapped in luxury and entitlement, thinking they could control everything and everyone around them. But there was something about him—his confidence, his air of knowing everything—that made me want to grind my teeth. I couldn't shake the feeling that he was someone who always got what he wanted, no matter the cost.
He smiled again, that irritating, infuriating smile of his.
"That's funny. We personally like witches. They are incredibly powerful and smart. Well, the Dawn Kingdom, on the other hand, hates them."
The words drifted through the air, light but heavy with meaning. It almost made me lose my composure for a second. The mention of the Dawn Kingdom stirred something in me—a long-simmering resentment, a bitterness that I had learned to live with. But what caught my attention more than anything was the fact that he didn't mention my race directly. That was something, wasn't it? He must've known what I was, but for some reason, he didn't say it out loud. I guess he figured I'd respond to his implied assumption. I didn't need to give him the satisfaction.
Not that I was ashamed of being a witch. I wasn't. I had learned long ago to embrace what I was. But there was a difference between knowing what you are and showing someone else just how much it defined you. And this Fae, with his knowing eyes and his cryptic words, he was the kind of person who thought he could poke at your identity and make you show your hand.
Not that I would show it, of course. Not to him. Not to anyone.
I took a deep breath, my chest rising and falling as I tried to calm the whirlwind of thoughts swirling inside my mind. I was so close to losing my temper, and I refused to let him see that. I had worked too hard to maintain control. Slowly, I relaxed my grip on Nacht, the dagger sheathed once more as I forced myself to settle.
I couldn't let him see me break. Not here, not now.
I turned my attention back to him, my voice a little steadier than before.
"Now that you're calm, could you tell me why you came here? You seemed to think the Fae here hated witches," I asked, keeping my tone casual but laced with curiosity. I had been trying to figure him out since he showed up, but the longer he stood there, the more questions piled up in my mind. If the Fae really liked witches, what exactly was he doing here in the first place? Was he out of place, or was there something more to his visit than I understood?
Good question. One I hadn't even considered until now, but I really wanted to hear his answer. I had the feeling it was going to be something I couldn't predict.
The scent of my stew drifted through the air again, pulling my attention away from the Fae. I couldn't help but smile at the familiar smell. It was comforting in its simplicity. But I had to make sure it wasn't burning, so I excused myself and dashed toward the treehouse.
I moved quickly, my feet thudding lightly against the wooden floorboards as I entered. My hand immediately went to the fire beneath the pot, and with a slight exertion of will, I doused the flames, snuffing out the smoke before it could spread. It was perfect timing. I had become so accustomed to tending to my little meals that everything seemed to fall into place without much thought.
When I stepped back outside, I nearly collided with the Fae male, who was standing right at my doorstep, staring at the stew as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. His eyes flicked to me, and for a split second, I was caught off guard.
"Do you want some?" I asked, my voice a little more reluctant than I had intended. He had already smelled it, and now he was standing there like he was waiting for an invitation. Might as well offer now.
He glanced back at me, a skeptical look crossing his face. "Is this poisoned?" he asked, his tone cautious yet somehow playful. The question struck me as odd and made me laugh more than it probably should have.
"Does it matter?" I replied with a smirk, trying to brush off the weirdness of the moment. "The only things that can kill you are ash and weapons made of silver and ash. Something that can also kill me." I chuckled as I said it, though deep down, I wasn't entirely comfortable with the fact that we both shared such a strange vulnerability. But I wasn't going to let it show. Not to him.
He just stared at me for a moment, his gaze so intense it almost felt like he was trying to read every thought I had. I shifted uneasily, not sure what to make of it.
"What?" I finally asked, breaking the silence. My voice was sharper than I meant it to be, but I couldn't help it. I didn't like the way he was looking at me, like he knew something I didn't.
"You should smile more," he said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
I rolled my eyes, not bothering to hide the irritation that crept up on me. "Whatever," I muttered under my breath, not wanting to admit how much his words had affected me.
The conversation, for all its awkwardness, was a strange sort of game—one I wasn't sure I was willing to play, but here I was, stuck in the middle of it.
"By the way, this is a stew of snakes and vegetables. It's really good," I added, trying to divert the attention away from the weirdness of his comment.
I quickly grabbed two bowls from a nearby shelf and placed them on the table. The bamboo bowls and spoons I'd crafted myself, each one shaped with precision and care. It had become second nature to me, living on my own in isolation. The thought of using anything else felt foreign to me now. I filled both bowls with the steaming stew, handing one to the Fae and keeping the other for myself. I sat down at the small wooden table, ready to eat, though I could still feel the weight of his gaze on me.
He seemed to take his time tasting the stew, his expression unreadable. I focused on my own meal, savoring the warmth of the food, trying to ignore the tension in the air. But then, after a few moments of silence, he gave a small smile.
"It's very good, actually. Did you make those bowls and the spoons by yourself?" he asked, his voice surprisingly genuine.
I took another bite, mulling over his question. "Yeah," I said after a moment. "I live on my own here, far from civilization, like you noticed. So I did everything here by myself. Using bamboo, wood, and other natural materials that are easy to find in the forest. The spices, vegetables, and other edible things I use for the stew or simple potions and medicines are all things that grow here naturally. Everything is easier when you get used to doing it yourself."
He seemed to process my words for a moment, his gaze softening slightly. "That's a fact," he murmured, his voice almost contemplative. But I knew this conversation wasn't over. There was always more. There always was with him.
"So," he began again, breaking the silence. "I assume that one of your wraths is the wrath of fire, to make the food and everything. Am I right?"
I had expected that question. In fact, I had been waiting for it. There was no way he hadn't figured it out by now. The way I controlled the flames, the way I spoke about my abilities—it was all too obvious.
"Yeah. You're indeed right," I replied, my voice calm but with a hint of finality. The truth of the matter was, I wasn't going to hide it anymore. Not to him. Not to anyone. I didn't care who knew about my abilities.
But the more I spoke, the more I realized something—this conversation, this strange interaction with him, it wasn't going to end anytime soon. It was like he was prying, trying to understand me, to figure me out in ways I wasn't ready for. Every question felt like another test, another step in some game I wasn't entirely prepared to play.
And I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep pretending that it didn't matter.