Chương 16: Unmaking Of A Witch(III)
El Ritch's eyes darted across the Hornet settlement, a place so far removed from the storied grandeur of cities or the lively bustle of towns he had read about. The village was plain and harsh, shaped not for beauty but survival. Low huts, their roofs sloped and burdened with snow, stood huddled close together as if seeking warmth in numbers. The market, such as it was, offered little more than necessity: cured meats strung up like trophies, rough-hewn pelts, jars of pickled roots, and crude wooden carvings. Smoke seeped from chimneys and coiled lazily into the icy sky, mingling with the crisp northern air.
The witch walked briskly, her hand a firm tether around El Ritch's wrist. Her pace left no room for hesitation, and her manner cast an invisible circle of authority that none dared cross. The villagers turned their eyes toward her, their gazes as cold as the frost underfoot. Suspicion lurked in their stares, though some betrayed a flicker of unease, a shadow of reverence. They muttered to one another, their voices low and indistinct.
"Why do they look at us like that?" El Ritch whispered, his breath misting in the frigid air.
The witch gave no reply, perhaps she hadn't heard him—or perhaps she simply chose not to answer.
He swallowed his questions and followed her silently as they reached the heart of the settlement. The chief's home loomed ahead, elevated on thick timber stilts with steps leading to its door. It was no grand hall but a structure of utility, its walls reinforced with logs and its roof weighed down by stones to endure winter's wrath. Beneath the house hung bundles of dried provisions, swinging gently in the breeze.
Something about the absence of guards pricked at El Ritch's curiosity. "Where are the guards?" he asked.
The witch turned her head slightly, her lips curving into a smirk that carried no warmth. "The Chief of the Horned Men has no need for guards," she said. "His authority alone keeps the village in order." Her tone lowered, almost conspiratorial. "Besides, he is not a man to cross. One would tread carefully around him."
"Even you?" El Ritch pressed.
She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "What do you think?"
Her answer gave nothing away, leaving him to wonder.
The witch climbed the wooden steps to the chief's home, her movements sure and unhurried. El Ritch hesitated but quickly followed. She knocked once—firm and deliberate—before pushing the door open without waiting for an invitation.
The interior of the house mirrored the village's austerity. A single large room stretched before them, dimly lit by a fire pit at its center. Shadows danced across walls adorned with antlers and pelts, mementos of hunts that spoke to the village's way of life. At the far end of the room sat the chief, a man.
El Ritch's breath caught at the sight of him. The chief was of unassuming stature, his frame neither imposing nor frail. Long black hair fell to his cheeks, concealing his ears and framing sharp, calculating eyes. Yet it was not his gaze that held El Ritch's attention—it was the horns, two protrusions that curved back from his skull like the crown of some ancient beast. His clothing was plain: a simple ghost shirt and a breechcloth, as though he had little need for finery.
"Witch," the chief intoned, his voice a low rumble that seemed to fill the room with threat. He rose from his chair with deliberate slowness, and for a moment, El Ritch felt a primal fear coil in his gut, as if the man could slay him with a word or a glance.
But then the moment shattered like ice beneath a hammer. The chief's face split into a broad grin as he clapped the witch's hands in his own. "Witch!" he exclaimed, his tone a jarring contrast to the menace he had carried a heartbeat ago. "Have you brought books this time?"
El Ritch blinked, startled by the abrupt shift.
"Do you have anything interesting?" the chief continued, leaning closer with the wide-eyed curiosity of a child. "All this serious business—'Oh, Chief, what about the food supply?' 'Oh, Chief, how will we defend against the next storm?' 'Oh, Chief, someone stole my potatoes'—it's so absurdly boring!"
"Have you not read enough books and dreamed yourself into another world?" the witch teased, patting El Ritch on the shoulder. Her tone carried a hint of mockery, though it was tempered by a strange fondness. "You've had a meeting due with him," she said, nudging the boy forward with a firm pat on the back, presenting him to the chief like a parcel delivered.
"And… who might this be?" The chief's brows rose, his voice laced with playful suspicion. "Don't tell me you've gone and—"
"I've had only one lover, and it shall remain that way," the witch cut him off with a voice sharp as a dagger. Her expression curled into disdain as she straightened. "Do not drag me into your sordid fantasies and fetishes. He is Aldric's and Miss Adeline's adopted son."
The chief blinked, his playful expression giving way to one of genuine surprise. "Aldric's son? Adopted son?" His gaze flicked between El Ritch and the witch as if trying to reconcile the boy's presence with the weight of the names he had just heard. The witch nodded curtly, her face offering no further elaboration.
"Huh…" The chief leaned back, his lips curling into a wry smile. "Who knew Aldric had a heart soft enough for such things. A human heart, no less, for the people of here," he added, the words tinged with mockery. Then, shifting his attention back to El Ritch, he asked, "So, boy, what's your name?"
"El Ritch… Chief," he answered hesitantly. He wasn't sure how to address the man properly; the witch hadn't prepared him for this.
The chief chuckled. "El Ritch, is it? And where, pray tell, is your father?" His gaze swung back to the witch. "Where is Aldric?"
The witch's lips pressed into a thin line before she began recounting the tale of Aldric and Adeline's fate. She spoke plainly, but the weight of her words hung in the air, drawing the chief's undivided attention. He listened intently, his expression shifting between curiosity and intrigue.
When she finished, the chief leaned back with a satisfied grin. "Well, I must say, despite all the tragedy, it makes for quite the beginning. A great story—reminds me of some book I read once. Hunter-Hunter… something or other. I think it had an 'X' in the middle. But—ah, I digress."
El Ritch blinked, trying to follow the chief's rapid shifts in tone and thought, but before he could process it, the man had crouched down before him, their faces mere inches apart. His sudden proximity made the boy flinch.
"You want him trained as a Hunter," the chief began, his eyes narrowing slightly. "So why'd you send him to some kni—"
The witch's hands clamped over El Ritch's ears before the word could fully form. Her expression was thunderous, a silent warning that made the chief immediately regret his words.
"Shit!" the chief yelled, clutching his chest as though struck by some unseen force. He collapsed onto the ground with an exaggerated groan, rolling about like a child throwing a tantrum.
El Ritch, despite the witch's obstruction, heard the muffled curse clearly enough. He glanced upward to see her glaring at the chief, her mouth moving in sharp, cutting words that could only be insults. Her face wore the unmistakable look she always had when berating someone, a mix of scorn and irritation that left no room for doubt.
The witch finally let go of El Ritch's ears, her arms crossing over her chest as she watched the chief writhe on the ground. "You're cruel to enjoy this moment," he groaned between exaggerated gasps, his voice thick with mock indignation.
After a while, he pushed himself up, still clutching his chest, though he managed to grin faintly. "At least spare me some of your blessings or potions." He let himself fall back again with a dramatic sigh, as though utterly defeated.
The witch's tone was cold and unyielding. "I have no resources to waste on 'your' people. What you suffer now is no more than you deserve for speaking that word. Forget the foundational rules of this world, and you're nothing but a fool to me. You can die all the same."
El Ritch observed her silently. She was nothing like her usual self, her sharp wit now mingled with a biting disdain that bordered on contempt. She hated these people—that much was clear. For her to act so irrationally, so much like Miss Flower, as he remembered her in her outbursts, was unbecoming of the witch.
The chief, still sprawled on the ground, raised his hands in surrender. "My memories have digressed. My sincerest apologies." His voice dripped with exaggerated contrition, though his sly smirk betrayed his true feelings.
The witch was unmoved. "You cannot sway me so easily," she said icily, her eyes narrowing.
The chief, realizing further attempts at humor would be futile, heaved a sigh and changed his tack. "If you wish for the boy to learn the ways of a Hunter, why not leave him here with us? Our tribe will teach him the best."
"'Our' tribe?" The witch's voice curled mockingly around the words, her disdain practically dripping from her tone. She tilted her head, regarding him with an almost amused suspicion. "And in return, what is it you want?"
The chief spread his hands in a gesture of mock innocence. "Only a few interesting tales. Nothing too taxing." He paused for dramatic effect, his grin returning. "And rest assured, I will not be his teacher. He will join the Academy of the Hornet."
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