For him to live, a witch must die.
Driven out of his village for the curse he possesses, Tavor is alone. With nowhere else to go, he must venture into the Eylderfell to hunt down the witch who cursed him.
But the forest is dangerous, wild with magic...
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The Tower was a labyrinth. Even with the scroll's aid, he felt he was climbing endlessly. His legs started to strain from the effort, and he wondered if he'd misinterpreted the crow's instructions and taken the wrong route.
Or maybe he'd sent him down the wrong one deliberately.
Tavor stopped, cursing himself for not thinking about it earlier. Send him on a wild goose chase while they found Nestani and escaped without him.
Tavor scowled. He wouldn't let it happen.
He'd opened the scroll earlier, hadn't he? He'd changed the situation into one he could control. Maybe he could do it again.
The idea filled him with unease, but he pushed it down. Just once, he told himself. This was an emergency.
He rested his hand on the smooth wooden bannister and shut his eyes. He found that power again, deep within himself, and called it to the surface. It was much easier the second time. He felt it warm his skin, pooling at his hands, and focused on pushing the power into the stairs.
"Be still," he muttered.
And almost immediately the staircases above him, constantly shifting and changing, stopped. Tavor opened his eyes, breaths coming fast. He couldn't help the smile growing across his face. It really was that easy.
It was just a one-off, he told himself. It was just an emergency.
He had to say it several times to convince himself. He started up the stairs, muttering it over and over again. This was what he'd been afraid of. Just this once, oncetoo many times, No wonder the others had all been consumed by it. His mind kept going back to it even has he climbed. Wondering about the possibilities.
She shook his head. Soon, he'd be curse-free, and then he'd never have to worry about it again.
As he neared the top of the staircase, he felt something shift in the air and stopped again. The atmosphere seemed to shimmer, steeped with power. Immediately a dead weight sank to the bottom of Tavor's stomach. He recognised that aura immediately.
How could he forget?
A bitter chill ran over his skin, raising goosebumps over his arms. He let out a slow, trembling breath, and his hand crept down to the knife. Fingers white against the hilt, he crept up to the top of the stairs, where a doorway led into a room off to the left.
He crouched beside the entranceway. He was close enough to hear voices. He recognised Nestani's immediately: slow and even, almost bored. He peeked round until he could see inside the room.
The witch stood in front of a table. She had her back to him, so he could only see her cloak, hood up over her head and the fabric hanging down by her boots. But he still felt a thin thread of terror. Tavor gripped the knife harder.
