The Witch and the Crown

The first time I lay eyes on him, Sir Gareth’s got blood crusted on his knuckles and a look in his eye that’d curdle milk. He’s a big man, shoulders wide as the keep’s oak doors, but it’s the weariness that strikes me deepest. This ain’t a knight riding into battle. This is a man riding into exile.

I’m in the village when the commotion starts, just a simple hedge witch tending to Old Man Hemlock’s gout. The crown’s hunters would burn me twice over for using magic, but out here in the borderlands, folks care more about results than royal decrees. Besides, who’d miss a witch like me? Just another face in the crowd, another set of hands grinding herbs while the king’s men strut around in their polished armor.

“Elara,” Hemlock wheezes, his voice thin as parchment. “You reckon it’s true? About the knight?”

I keep my eyes on the poultice I’m preparing. “Men like him got enemies, same as anyone.”

“Aye, but disgraced? Stripped of his rank?” Hemlock shakes his grizzled head. “Must’ve done something terrible to earn the king’s wrath.”

Or been terribly wronged. The thought comes unbidden, sharp as a thorn. I’ve seen enough of the crown’s justice to know how easily truth bends to power.

The clatter of hooves on cobblestones cuts through the afternoon bustle. Through the open window, I watch as Gareth dismounts, his movements stiff with fury or fatigue. He hands his reins to a wide-eyed stable boy without a word.

Hemlock leans forward, greedy for a glimpse. “They say he killed a man in cold blood. A nobleman, no less.”

I press the poultice into his swollen joint. “They say lots of things.”

Gareth’s gaze sweeps the square, lingering for a heartbeat on my cottage before moving on. I feel the weight of it like a physical touch. There’s a storm brewing behind those eyes, a tempest barely contained.

“Best steer clear of that one, girl,” Hemlock mutters, but the warning’s unnecessary. I’ve no intention of tangling with disgraced knights or courtly intrigues. My place is here, in the shadows, where I can do some good without drawing notice.

Still, as I finish with Hemlock and step outside, I can’t help but glance toward the keep. Gareth’s vanished inside, but the air still crackles with his presence. The villagers whisper behind their hands, equal parts fear and fascination.

I pull my shawl tighter. Let them gossip. I’ve got work to do.

* * *

The prince’s chambers smell of incense and despair. Arin stands at the window, back turned to the room, shoulders rigid beneath his velvet doublet. For a moment, I just watch him – this man who holds the kingdom’s fate in his hands, yet seems crushed by the weight of it.

“Your Highness,” I murmur, the honorific feeling foreign on my tongue. We’ve been friends too long for formalities, but the crown demands them.

He doesn’t turn. “Did you bring it, Elara?”

“Aye.” I withdraw the small vial from my pocket. The elixir inside glows faintly, a soft blue light that pulses like a heartbeat. “Brewed it fresh this morning.”

“Good.” His voice is flat, empty. “Leave it on the desk.”

I hesitate. “Arin—”

“Please, Elara.” There’s a raw edge to the words now, a crack in the careful mask he wears. “Just go.”

My throat tightens. This isn’t the boy I grew up with, the dreamer who spoke of stars and sailing ships. This is a prince, a prisoner of his own bloodline. I set the vial down and slip out, the door clicking shut behind me like a tomb sealing.

The elixir will ease his pain for a while. It’ll soothe the tremors in his hands, the shadows in his mind. But it’s not a cure. There’s no magic in the world that can heal a broken spirit.

* * *

Night falls, and with it comes the chill of the borderlands. I’m gathering moonwort by the river when I hear it – a twig snapping underfoot, the rustle of movement in the trees. My hand goes to the knife at my belt, every sense screaming danger.

A figure emerges from the shadows, tall and broad-shouldered. Gareth. He’s stripped off his armor, clad now in simple tunic and breeches, but there’s no mistaking the coiled strength in his frame. The moonlight catches the scar on his jaw, a pale slash against stubble.

“Well,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You’re a long way from the village, witch.”

I don’t flinch at the title. “And you’re a long way from the capital, knight.”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Touché.” He takes a step closer, his gaze sharp on my face. “You’re the one they call Elara, aren’t you? The healer.”

I shrug. “Folks round here got all sorts of names for me.”

“I’ll bet.” He glances at the herbs in my basket. “That for the prince?”

The question catches me off guard. “What do you know of it?”

“Enough.” Gareth’s eyes meet mine, and there’s no hostility there, just a weary sort of understanding. “Arin’s a good man. Doesn’t deserve the burden he carries.”

“You served him,” I say, the pieces clicking into place. “Before.”

“Aye.” He looks away, toward the keep looming in the distance. “And I failed him. Failed them all.”

There’s such bitterness in his voice, such self-loathing, that I can’t help but reach for him. My fingers brush his arm, and he tenses, a shiver running through him.

“You’re not the only one who’s made mistakes,” I say softly. “The crown’s got a long memory, but out here… out here, we look after our own.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he covers my hand with his own, calloused palm warm against my skin. “And whose own are you, Elara?”

The question hangs between us, charged with something I don’t dare name. I pull away, my heart suddenly too loud in my chest.

“Goodnight, Sir Gareth.” I gather my basket, my herbs. “Try not to get yourself killed out here.”

His laughter follows me into the trees, low and rough and utterly unexpected. “Wouldn’t dream of it, witch.”

I don’t look back, but I feel his gaze on me long after the forest swallows me whole. That man’s trouble, no two ways about it.

The moon’s high and bright when I reach my cottage. I hang my herbs, the familiar scents soothing my jangled nerves. No use dwelling on disgraced knights or brooding princes. My place is here.

Except sleep won’t come. Every time I close my eyes, I see Gareth’s face – the weariness, the scar, the unexpected warmth of his laughter. He’s a storm wrapped in flesh. Draw too close, and you’re like to get burned.

Dawn finds me weary. I brew willowbark tea, but it sits bitter. The village is quiet when I venture out.

I’m halfway to Old Man Hemlock’s when I spot the commotion near the well. Marta the weaver stands pale-faced in the center. “—found him at dawn,” she’s saying. “Just lying there, he was, like a broken doll.”

“Who was it?” I push through, heart sinking. “What’s happened?”

Gareth’s eyes meet mine, chilling me. “One of the castle guards. Throat slit, near the prince’s chambers.”

Murder. Here. “Who—”

“That’s what I aim to find out.” Gareth’s jaw sets, knuckles white on his sword. “But whoever did it is long gone.”

Aye, and like as not wearing a face no one would question. I think of the whispers, the rumors of treason. First Gareth’s exile, now this… too neat.

I step closer. “This wasn’t random. You know that.”

His gaze sharpens. “You’ve got a theory?”

“The same one that got you sent here.”

Gareth’s expression flickers. “Speak plain.”

I take a breath. “There’s a plot against the prince. And whoever’s behind it just made their first move.”

Silence stretches. Villagers murmur. Gareth nods curtly. “My chambers. Now.”

I follow, thoughts racing. Madness, walking into the lion’s den. But Arin’s life hangs in the balance.

Gareth’s chambers are sparse. He closes the door. “Well? Let’s hear it.”

I pace. “The guard was close to Arin?”

“Since boyhood.”

“And now dead. You think that’s coincidence?”

“No.” The word is flat. “The king’s advisers have been whispering. Saying Arin’s too soft. My exile was the opening move.”

“And now they’re moving in for the kill.” I stop. “Arin’s vulnerable here.”

Gareth’s eyes narrow. “You know something.”

I hesitate. “Whispers among the hedge witches. A faction wants Arin dead. Wants his cousin on the throne.”

Gareth nods grimly. “Lord Malak. He’s got the king’s ear.”

Malak. The name chills me. Cruel, ruthless, crushes anyone in his path.

“We need to warn Arin.”

Gareth shakes his head. “He won’t listen. Not from me.” He breaks off, pained. “I’m the last person he’d trust.”

“But you’re the only one who can protect him.” I step closer. “Malak’s men will have the keep watched.”