JULIAN FELIS
Julian stretched his arms behind his head, leaning back as if the weight of the world sat comfortably upon his shoulders. "All is well if everything ends well," he mused, his voice light, almost singsong.
"A banquet should be called," Flower declared, clapping her hands together with a resounding slap.
Zana, standing by the fire, shook her head and sighed. "Of course. A celebration," she muttered, stirring the pot. "After all, nothing terrible happened at all."
Both of them ignored her.
"Why don't we take a look inside?" Flower suggested, her tone light, almost teasing.
Julian's brow arched. Bold, wasn't she? He waved his hand in mock invitation. "By all means."
With neither hesitation nor shame, Flower pushed the door open.
Inside, the witch's workspace was a grotesque display of dismembered limbs and torsos, the remains meticulously arranged, as though she were assembling something—or someone. The head, set before the body, lacked eyes entirely, its sockets gaping and empty. It was a doll, they realized, not a living body.
At the sound of the door creaking, the witch turned her head slightly in their direction, she flicked her fingers in an absent command. Close it.
Flower, naturally, ignored the warning.
"You do realize she can still hear us, don't you?" Zana murmured, not even bothering to look up from her work.
"Yeah, well—" Flower scoffed, leaning against the doorframe. "What's she gonna do? Curse me? She can't see or talk—"
A voice cut through the air, crisp and measured.
"Cursing you once wasn't enough, it seems."
Julian stilled.
It was the witch's voice.
All three of them turned their eyes back into the dimly lit hut, where the carved wooden box—the same one she had used to communicate with Aldric—now vibrated faintly with mana, acting as her tongue.
"How in the hell are you even doing that?" Flower demanded, incredulous. "Channeling mana without sight, might just blow the whole damn structure up."
The witch scratched absently at the wood, her voice carrying through the air, hollow and unnatural. "I prepare for everything." Then, with a flick of her fingers, she added, "Close the door, or you'll have no teeth left to eat with."
Flower wasted no time slamming it shut before dropping back beside Julian, muttering something under her breath.
A beat of silence passed, filled only by the crackling fire.
"What will happen in the tribe?" Zana asked suddenly, her voice steady as she turned the meat in its marinade.
Julian's gaze flicked toward her, amused. "A knight concerned for a demon?" He placed a hand over his heart. "Should I take this moment to propose marriage?"
Zana gave him nothing. Not a flicker of amusement, not a glance, not even the satisfaction of a retort.
"Tch," Julian clicked his tongue, dropping the act. "Well, the old ones will handle it. Triva and the manager will see to the students who survived. Not that there were many of them. A waste, really."
Zana scoffed. "A waste? That's what you're calling it?"
Julian shrugged. "It simply is. Neither good nor bad. Just another cycle. Most of them would have died sooner or later anyway. But promisingly," he continued, his voice shifting into something almost lively, "some students awakened innate abilities. Jolnochaya, Badaguinbir, Mritunach, Shinghashun, and Kotorrokto. None of them will be going to the academy for now, of course. But in time, they will."
There was a pause, then the witch's voice resonated once more, distant and distorted. "What happened to the ones with El Ritch?"
Julian tipped his head back, considering. "Jolnochaya's body is under care—let me rephrase, intensive care, given that he was dead for half an hour, if not more. The woman, Badaguinbir, fared mostly well. Broken ribs, fractured jaw, punctured lungs, shattered left leg—"
Zana and Flower both turned to stare at him.
Zana raised a brow. "Mostly well?"
Julian merely grinned.
....
The banquet had long since ended, Zana and Flower disappearing into the snow-covered forest of the Hornet, their quarrel fading into the cold hush of the night. Julian, however, remained behind. There were matters still unresolved.
The witch's door creaked open, and he caught a glimpse inside—limbs and torsos now carved with runes, the body of the doll laid bare upon her worktable. She emerged then, her pupils milky and sightless, her lips moving in silent speech, as if she were singing, yet no sound escaped her throat.
"Where is El Ritch?" Julian asked.
He had already come to know of the bargain—the price she had paid in speech and vision for the boy's life. But where was he?
The witch groaned in irritation, retreating briefly before returning with the small wooden box. She sat beside Julian, conjuring a chair with a flick of her hand, and began to scratch at the box's surface with her mana-laced fingers.
"Here."
She lifted a pendant from around her neck, identical to the one El Ritch had worn.
Julian's brows lifted, intrigued. "You predicted it?" It was the same pendant El Ritch wore throughout.
"You can prepare for a thousand scenarios," she etched, her voice vibrating through the carved wood, "and if even one comes to pass, it is worth it."
He watched as she traced more symbols, her touch light but sure. "I had accounted for meeting death one day," she went on, "but never did I imagine it would be..."
She hesitated, then smiled.
A harsh, broken screech rang through the clearing, as though attempting to mimic a chuckle.
"...so cowardly."
Julian exhaled, studying her. Meeting death? What's next? Meeting God?
The witch turned her face toward him, though there was nothing behind those pale, unseeing eyes.
Julian had seen enough madness in Aldric and his ilk—especially in Greg and Aldric himself—to recognize the fine thread that separated genius from insanity, dancing upon a razor, snapping more often than not.
Still, he straightened. "Well, I fulfilled my promise then," he said, affecting indifference.
The witch was blind and mute, yet Julian felt no safer in her presence than he had before. She could hear. And that, he knew, was more than enough.
"No," the box whispered.
Julian sighed. "Your antics with your kind don't concern me," she continued, her mana carving the words into the wood. "But you had one task. One. And you failed."
Julian scoffed, masking unease with bravado. "Well, aren't you a peach?" He crossed one leg over the other, settling into his seat. "I saved his body, took care of the beast just in time for you to stitch him back together. That should count for something."
"No. No. No. No. No. No. No." She had channeled more mana than necessary to make it reverberate and echo.
Her voice rose and fractured, echoing across the clearing, sharp and unnatural.
"It does not."
She quieted. The air grew heavier.
"But you can repay me," she continued, "with something else."
Julian stilled. Repay her? The way she spoke, it was as if he were the one in her debt.
He might have argued the point—should have argued the point—but Julian had an acute sense of danger, and that sense had saved him more times than he could count. Now, it warned him to hold his tongue.
"...Alright," he said carefully. "What do you need? A force of hunters? Beasts, hides, cores—something along those lines?"
"No," the box whispered.
There was a pause.
"I know there is something you share with Aldric," she said. "I want that information."
Julian's expression darkened.
"No."
The refusal was immediate. Final.
If forced to choose between betraying Aldric and angering a witch who could lay curses with a breath, Julian would choose death.
Both were devils in their own right, but Julian knew which devil would haunt him longer.
The witch's fingers slowed.
"That," she murmured, "is not a wise decision."
"Betraying Aldric is not a wise decision either," Julian countered, his voice edged with something deeper than bravado—necessity, perhaps. "You weren't there the first time I did it. I won't be doing it again. It cost me five of my lives. You only managed to take one. Being the educated one, tell me—why should an animal fear a hunter who won't stain her dress with blood, but not the one who sleeps among the carcasses of her kills?"
The witch remained still, unblinking. Then, slowly, her fingers scraped over the box once more.
"You have three lives left," she intoned, the words dragging against the wood like the distant cry of something unnatural. "Is it really wise to refuse me here, in my hut, my Sanctuary?"
It was a threat, but one without weight.
They both knew it.
Self-preservation was the highest law. Julian believed that as much as she did. But there were worse things than death. And Aldric—Aldric—could unmake him. He would not merely die; he would cease.
The witch tilted her head, the firelight casting deep shadows over her face, accentuating every groove and wrinkle, making her look like an ordinary old woman for the briefest, most deceptive of moments.
"I have misjudged you, Julian," she rasped through the box, her voice a whisper of carving mana and reverberating air.
Julian arched a brow but said nothing.
"You are charismatic. Sadistic. A pervert who delights in the pain of others," she went on, her fingers trailing lazily over the wood. "I once thought you were like me—a creature with power but no vision for it, wandering in the dark. But you're not, are you?"
A screeching sound—like laughter, or the attempt to mimic it.
"You crave opinions of yourself," she continued. "You relish high regard. You need to be seen a certain way."
Julian scoffed. "I don't know where you—"
The witch cut him off with another sharp scrape of the box. A screech—a laugh.
"You could have lived a simple life among the horned men," she said. "You were already chief. You could have ruled with patience, with control, or as Aldric does— behind, pulling the strings in his guild. But you didn't. You made them worship you. Reverence of a God."
Julian's fingers flexed, but he remained silent.
"The unauthorized beast you slew—perhaps it cemented your legend, but you were already on that path long before," she pressed. "You always thought, you were meant to be something more—not just a ruler, but a god."
A flicker of something passed through Julian's gaze. The truth of her words did not offend him—it amused him. And yet, it also unsettled him in ways he had not expected.
"Every one of them wears a ribbon around their horns to hide what they are," the witch mused. "Your orders, yes?"
She didn't need an answer.
"I know the truth," she whispered, her fingers moving once more. "If they were to remove them, they would die. Wouldn't they?"
She was close. Not entirely correct, but close enough.
It was not merely their own deaths at stake—it was the unraveling of everything. If one removed their ribbon, all would perish. All except Julian.
Because they were not flesh given form by souls of the old world, nor revenants of the past. They were his memories. His recollections, woven into shape by Morpheus, the first unauthorized beast he had encountered, before the village, before the society of man established.
They were fragments of a past that had never truly belonged to them.
And he needed them.
For Aldric.
For their plan.
A rebellion amongst the Hornet now would destroy everything.
"You see," the witch continued, the barest edge of satisfaction in her voice, even though it was reverberated throughout the clearing of the hut, through the wooden box, "all I need to do is speak. Tell them the truth. If even a fraction believe me, if even a handful doubt you, all I need to do is offer them a boon. A gift for those who listen. And then I curse you, Julian. I curse you so that no one will believe a single word that passes your lips."
A predicament indeed.
"Fine. A trade, then."
The witch's fingers scraped against the wood once more, her voice humming through the air like the slow grind of a rusted blade. She did not wait for his answer.
"You give me the information I seek," she murmured, "and in return, I will grant you knowledge—everything I know of both the old world and the new. From the days before men first carved their names into stone, to the last age where gods still walked among us."
A generous offer.
A dangerous one.
Julian considered her, his gaze sharp, calculating. There were too many unknowns, too many risks. And yet—he had no better choice before him.
"Fine," he said at last. "We trade."