"Witch!" A loud scream of pure terror shattered the peaceful winter night. The bustling noise of the humble tavern fell silent as the screaming man stumbled inside. He was dirty, gasping for air, and trembling—clear signs that he was fleeing from something or someone.
"Witch! A witch!" he repeated, panting heavily. The patrons began whispering among themselves as a tall, muscular, bearded man behind the bar tidied his apron, hung it on a nearby hook, and stepped out to approach the anxious man.
"Calm down, Maxim. You're causing a commotion." The barkeep retrieved a pipe from his pocket, filled its bowl with crushed tobacco leaves, and lit it with the flame of a nearby candle. He took a slow puff, exhaled a plume of smoke, then gently placed the pipe in Maxim's mouth. Maxim puffed deeply and exhaled through his nostrils, the action seeming to calm him slightly. The barkeep removed the pipe and wiped its lip on his clothes. "Feeling better?"
Maxim nodded.
"Now, why in God's name are you yelling 'witch' this late at night? You'll scare the sleeping kids."
Maxim collapsed into a chair in the corner and began recounting his encounter with the so-called witch. Intrigued, the patrons gathered around him.
"It was near dusk," Maxim began, "I was herding the goats back to the farm when I heard it—a voice, foreign and melodic, singing a soothing tune. I was enchanted by it, left my goats, and followed the sound. Then I saw it."
"Did you see it, Maxim? What did it look like?" one patron interjected.
"My mother always said witches are as vile as the Baba Yaga, if not worse. Devil worshippers, the lot," another commented.
Maxim's face twisted in fear. "Aye, I saw the devil's whore. Hair whiter than my gran's. It wore a pointy hat like the ones in the old tales. Skin pale as death. I didn't see its face, thank God Almighty. It spared me from endless nights of terror. But I reckon its visage is worse than anything we could imagine."
The barkeep, Bozebor, stroked his beard and glanced toward a shadowy figure at the corner of the tavern before turning back to Maxim. "If this witch is real, how come you're here and not its dinner?"
"God was with me, Bozebor," Maxim replied fervently. "Before it could enthrall me, His angels saved me from its dark magic. I ran as fast as I could and never looked back."
Bozebor took another puff from his pipe. "Do you know where it was headed?"
"Towards the lake deep in the forest. It's going to perform its dark rituals there, I tell you!"
"Then we must inform the Lord and burn this witch at the stake!" a patron cried. Others cheered in agreement.
Filled with zeal, the tavern erupted in unified shouts. The patrons hurried outside, leaving Bozebor alone with the relaxed man in the corner. The man, known as Fox, leaned back comfortably, his feet propped on the table. Bozebor walked over and shoved Fox's feet off the table before sitting down.
"What do you think, Fox?" Bozebor asked.
Fox straightened, took a small sip from his mug of ale, and said, "Witches don't exist, Bozebor. You know that as well as I do."
"Aye," Bozebor agreed. "But those people believe it. Whoever or whatever that is, they're in danger. Especially now that the Inquisition has reached these parts."
The two men locked eyes for a moment before Fox sighed. "Damn you, old man."
Bozebor laughed heartily and rested his pipe on the table. "I knew you'd help, you softie. There's a quicker path to the lake by the old mill up north. Doubt anyone else will go there."
Fox arched a brow. "And why's that?"
"You'll see," Bozebor replied with a chuckle.
Fox rose, donned his rugged robes, and fastened a sheathed longsword to his belt. Before stepping outside, he grabbed a silver-and-gold musket, slinging it across his back.
"Alright, I'm off to have a little chat with this 'witch,'" he said.
Bozebor tossed him a small coin pouch. "For your troubles. Be well, Karl."
Karl waved as he headed toward the mill.
Walking towards the location, Karl witnessed the restless townsfolk forming into a mad mob, wielding makeshift weapons such as pitchforks and shovels. Some carried torches mounted on long sticks. Karl sighed at the sight, not wanting to partake in their madness. He moved swiftly towards the mill.
Upon arrival, the reason no one ventured there became clear. The stench assaulted Karl—a putrid cocktail of rot, damp earth, and something metallic that clung to the back of his throat. The mill's creaking blades turned lazily in the humid air, their groans underscored by the buzzing of fat, relentless flies. Just beyond the crooked wooden planks of the mill's porch, the cesspit sprawled like a festering wound in the earth.
Its surface shimmered with an oily film, a sickly rainbow of decay catching the meager moonlight. Bubbles erupted occasionally, releasing foul gases into the air. Discarded refuse—rotting vegetables, broken crates, and even the bloated carcass of some unfortunate beast—dotted the pit's edges.
Each breath felt like inhaling poison, but Karl forced himself to stay put. He pulled his scarf tighter over his face, though it did little to block the pervasive stench. His boots squelched in the muck near the mill's foundation, the ground soaked from recent rains that had only deepened the cesspit's mire.
"I should have asked for more than fifteen pennies," Karl muttered, cursing his misfortune. Following a small path beside the pit, he moved with haste, eager to leave the stench behind. The path led him into the forest's depths. Though he was far from the pit, the smell lingered, causing waves of nausea. "Not even a bath in holy water will cleanse this hellish stench from my clothes."
After nearly a quarter-hour of walking, Karl spotted a vast lake. Its water mirrored the clear sky, and the bluish-silver rays of the moon adorned the surface, sprinkled with stars. Then, he heard it—a voice, singing a soothing melody. The language was foreign, its origin elusive. It sounded Slavic, yet Karl couldn't discern any words.
He followed the singing and soon heard the soft splash of water. There, in the lake, he saw her. Hair like moonlight cascading down her back, she was naked, submerged in the water. Her figure was captivating—perfect in Karl's eyes. He muttered to himself, "Not too big, not too small." Her porcelain skin seemed sculpted by a master artisan.
Karl moved closer, careful not to be noticed. He climbed a tree to get a better view of the scene, settling on a sturdy branch. "Nice," he whispered to himself.
"Enjoying the view?" The woman's voice rang out, startling Karl. He nearly fell from the tree but froze, remaining perfectly still.
"Ignoring me doesn't change the fact that I caught you spying on me," she said again. When Karl still didn't respond, the woman sighed, went ashore to cover herself, and retrieved a vial from her satchel. She hurled it at the tree, causing a small explosion that knocked Karl to the ground.
"Argh!" Karl yelped as he landed.
"Idiot," the woman muttered with another sigh.
Karl quickly composed himself, emerging from behind the brush. His clothes were slightly charred, and his hair was disheveled from the fall, yet he smiled confidently. "Hey, what's up?"
The woman's brow furrowed in confusion at his nonchalant demeanor. She said nothing, her lips slightly parted in surprise.
Now face-to-face, Karl took in her features more clearly. She was stunning, with unearthly beauty. Her silver eyes shimmered like moonlight. As his gaze drifted downward, he noticed a drop of water trailing from her chin to the soft curves of her chest.
"Speak your purpose," the woman demanded, her voice delicate yet commanding.
"Soft," Karl muttered without thinking.
"Huh?" she said, her brow arching.
"Ah?" Karl snapped out of his trance. "Oh, I heard rumors about a witch in the area. I came to investigate before the mob arrived."
As he studied her more closely, Karl noted that while she fit some of Maxim's description, her hair was silver with hints of blue, not white. Nearby, he spotted a peculiar pointy hat made of thin wooden sheets among her belongings.
"Witches don't exist," she said firmly.
"I know," Karl replied. "But have you seen someone matching this description?" He recounted Maxim's tale, though with less exaggeration, and gestured to her belongings. "You're not her, are you?"
"I am," she admitted. "But I am no witch. I'm a physician traveling to Duke Peter Velikovskiy's domain."
"Then you're quite far from your destination, my lady."
She eyed him warily. "You know where it is?"
"I do, but let's get acquainted first, shall we? Name's Arthur," Karl said, extending a hand.
"Lyriel," she replied, shaking his hand.
Her hand was soft, unlike the calloused hands of most women he'd encountered. It hinted at noble origins.
"Greek?" Karl asked.
"Pardon?"
"Your name. It sounds Greek."
"No," Lyriel replied. "Why do you ask?"
"Just curious," Karl said with a shrug. "So, Lyriel, what brings you to the far eastern frontier?"
She hesitated, considering her answer. "I'm on a quest," she finally said. Observing him closely, she seemed to size him up.
Noticing her gaze, Karl shifted uncomfortably. "What is it?"
"Nothing," she said, turning away. "I should go."
A loud shout echoed from the forest, accompanied by the clanging of metal and the barking of hounds. Karl's face hardened as he spotted red smoke rising in the distance. "Get dressed, Lyriel, and hide. I'll hold them off for a while."
"What's going on?" she asked, alarmed.
"Inquisitors," Karl said grimly, his aloof demeanor replaced by sharp focus.