WITCH - ARA

Eighteen

The woods felt alive, the trees like ancient guardians of secrets better left undiscovered. The air was still, as if nature itself was holding its breath for what was to come. Keith walked behind me, his footsteps steady and deliberate, a sharp contrast to my own unease. Every crack of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush heightened my nerves. I had warned him—this was a bad idea.

We reached the clearing, where the moonlight barely penetrated the thick canopy above. I took a deep breath, feeling the familiar pulse of magic stir beneath my skin. "Are you ready for this?" I asked Keith, though I knew the answer.

Keith’s gaze remained fixed on the shadows surrounding us, his face unreadable. His silence was answer enough.

I pulled out the pouch from my pocket, feeling the smooth stones ready for the ritual. The chant rolled off my tongue instinctively, words of summoning that filled the air and pulled at the threads of magic around us. A chill crept up from the ground, coiling around my ankles like cold fingers. The wind began to stir, and the shadows in the clearing twisted and warped.

Then, he appeared.

Yovan.

He stepped out from the darkest corner of the woods, his form half-hidden at first by the shifting shadows. His body was tall and humanoid, covered in sleek, dark fur that gleamed faintly in the moonlight. But it was his face—a large black cat’s face, with glowing eyes that narrowed as his sharp teeth flashed in a twisted grin.

And then, that laugh—low, guttural, almost like a purr at first, before it escalated into something that sent a shiver down my spine. His head tilted toward us, his cat-like eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Look at the fated soulmates," Yovan purred, his voice a menacing hiss. "A match made in hell, calling me?"

My stomach clenched. I shot a glance at Keith, who didn’t react outwardly to Yovan’s taunt, though I sensed the tension in him. His jaw tightened, but he remained silent, eyes locked on the towering figure before us. I had warned him that Yovan would not be of help, that he only spoke in riddles. But Keith had insisted.

“You’ll help us, or I’ll make you,” Keith said, his voice cold, sharp, as if daring Yovan to refuse.

Yovan’s grin widened, his sharp teeth glinting. “Help?” he mused, his tone mocking. “What do you expect from me, fallen one? To hand you answers on a silver platter? I am not your guide. I am your mirror.”

I opened my mouth to warn Keith again, but something about his stance kept me quiet. Keith’s eyes blazed with something raw—determination, maybe even desperation. It scared me, perhaps more than Yovan himself.

“You like games,” Keith growled, stepping closer to Yovan. “But you forget—I’m not here to play.”

Yovan’s fur rippled, and his laugh echoed through the clearing, chilling to the core. “You’re all playing, Keith. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

Keith’s hand balled into a fist. “Tell me how to break this,” he demanded, his voice low and menacing.

Yovan’s ears twitched, his cat-like face contorting into something darkly amused. “Break it?” he repeated, as though Keith’s question was the most foolish thing he had ever heard. “You cannot break what has already been forged. But you… you can endure it. Or embrace it.” His eyes flicked toward me, gleaming with something unreadable. “The witch knows the way,” Yovan purred, his voice now softer, more dangerous. “But she’s afraid to take the first step.”

A heavy silence fell between us. For once, Yovan wasn’t laughing. He just stood there, his glowing eyes fixed on us, waiting for something—something I couldn’t grasp. Keith’s gaze burned into me, but I couldn’t meet his eyes. Not now.