The Witch and the Crown

“Then we’ll be smarter.” Gareth’s gaze meets mine. “Can you brew something to make a man sleep? Deep and dreamless?”

I frown. “Aye, but—”

“The guard who took Marta’s place. He’s Malak’s. Slip him the draught, and I’ll do the rest.”

Risky. Suicide. But our only chance. I nod. “I’ll need supplies. Moonflower.”

“Get them. Meet me at dusk. And Elara—”

I pause. “Aye?”

“Be careful.” The concern in his eyes is real.

“Aren’t they all?” I murmur, slipping out.

The day crawls. I gather supplies, thoughts never far from Gareth. I see him once in the practice yard, sword a blur. A reminder of his world – violence, intrigue, death.

Dusk finds me at his chambers with a vial of deep blue liquid. He opens immediately. “Is it ready?”

“Aye.” I hand it over. “A few drops in his wine.”

Gareth nods, tucking the vial away. “Good. Here’s the plan…”

“I’ll take care of the guard outside Arin’s door. You’ll be waiting in the shadows.” His eyes lock on mine. “When I give the signal, you’ll slip inside and get Arin to safety.”

“Where?”

“The old hunting lodge in the woods. No one goes there anymore.”

“And you?”

“I’ll buy you time.” Gareth’s voice is grim. “Malak’s men will be expecting resistance. I’ll give them one they won’t soon forget.”

“Gareth—”

“It’s the only way, Elara.” He cuts me off, jaw set. “Arin’s life over mine? No contest.”

My throat tightens. This man, this broken, honorable fool… “Don’t you dare die on me, knight.”

His hand brushes my cheek, rough and warm. “Wouldn’t dream of it, witch.”

The hour crawls. I pace my cottage, every nerve alight. When the moon’s high, I slip out, hood pulled low. The keep looms, a beast crouched in the dark.

Gareth’s waiting in the shadows. “Ready?”

I nod, heart pounding. “Aye.”

He melts into the night. I count breaths, then follow. The castle’s quiet, watchmen drowsing. Too quiet. My skin prickles.

Gareth’s signal comes – an owl’s cry, eerie in the stillness. I dart down the corridor, footsteps silent on cold stone. Arin’s door looms. I ease it open.

Darkness. I slip inside, pulse roaring. “Arin?”

A spark. Then light, blinding. Torches flare, revealing a dozen hard-faced men. Malak’s men. In their midst stands Lord Malak himself, a cruel smile on his lips.

“Well, well,” he purrs. “The little witch. How kind of you to join us.”

Behind me, the door slams shut. Trapped.

Malak steps forward. “Did you really think we wouldn’t know? That my man wouldn’t notice your little sleeping draught?” He chuckles, a dry, awful sound. “So predictable. So pathetic.”

I lift my chin. “Where’s Arin?”

“Safe.” Malak’s eyes glitter. “For now. Whether he stays that way depends on you.”

Gareth. They’ve got Gareth. I see it in Malak’s smirk.

“What do you want?”

“Cooperation, my dear.” Malak shrugs. “Your knight put up quite the fight. Pity he’s so stubborn. He’s in the dungeons now, paying for his loyalty.”

My stomach churns. “Let him go. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Will you?” Malak’s gaze sharpens. “Swear it. On your magic. On your life.”

I swallow. “I swear.”

“Good.” Malak gestures, and his men seize me. “We’ll start with that pretty neck of yours.”

They drag me down, down to the bowels of the keep. The air reeks of damp and despair. They throw me into a cell. Across the corridor, Gareth’s beaten face stares back.

“Elara?” His voice is raw. “Elara, no. What have you done?”

“What I had to.” I push to my knees, chains rattling. “I couldn’t let you die.”

“You think this is better?” He strains against his bonds, bloody and furious. “You swore to them?”

“Aye.”

“They’ll use you, Elara. They’ll twist your magic—”

“I know!” The words rip from me. “But you’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Gareth slumps. “Oh, my fierce, foolish witch. What have you done?”

Silence stretches, thick with despair. Hours crawl. Then footsteps. Malak’s men haul me out, up to a richly appointed chamber. Arin’s there, bound to a chair, face bruised but alert.

Malak smiles. “Time to prove your loyalty, witch. Kill the prince.”

Arin’s eyes widen. I freeze. “No.”

“You swore.” Malak’s voice is silk over steel. “Or have you forgotten?”

“I won’t do it.” My magic rises, unbidden. The torches flare. “I won’t murder for you.”

Malak’s eyes narrow. “Then watch your knight die.”

He gestures. A man steps forward, sword drawn. He heads for the dungeons. For Gareth.

No. Not like this. I look at Arin, see the resignation in his eyes. He knows what’s coming. What I’ll choose.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Then, to Malak: “I’ll do it.”

Malak’s lips curve. “Wise choice.”

He hands me a dagger. The blade’s cold, heavy in my hand. I step toward Arin. His gaze holds mine, no fear, just sad understanding.

I raise the knife. Then spin, throwing with all my strength.

The blade buries itself in Malak’s throat.

Chaos erupts. Malak’s men roar. I dart to Arin, magic surging. The ropes fall away. He leaps up, grabbing a sword from the wall.

We fight back-to-back, Arin’s blade flashing, my magic a shield against the onslaught. Malak’s men fall, one by one, until only we stand.

Panting, I turn to Arin. “Gareth—”

“We’ll get him.” Arin’s voice is grim. “This ends tonight.”

We race for the dungeons. Gareth’s there, beaten but alive. I drop to my knees beside him, fingers shaking as I unlock his chains.

“You came,” he rasps, wonder in his eyes. “You mad, beautiful witch.”

“Always.” I help him up, Arin supporting his other side. “Now let’s get out of here.”

We stumble into the night, the keep in uproar behind us. The forest swallows us, dark and deep. Shelter. Safety.

For now.

* * *

The hunting lodge is drafty, but it’s home. I tend to Gareth’s wounds while Arin keeps watch. The knight’s eyes follow me, dark with pain and something else.

“You risked everything,” he says at last. “For me.”

I snort. “Someone’s got to keep you alive, knight.”

His hand covers mine. “Don’t. Don’t make light. What you did…”

I meet his gaze. “I’d do it again.”

He pulls me close, his forehead against mine. “Elara…”

“Rest,” I murmur. “We’re not safe yet.”

He sleeps, finally. I watch over him, Arin silent across the room. The prince looks older, worn.

“He loves you,” Arin says quietly.

I glance at Gareth, peaceful in sleep. “Aye.”

“And you?”

My throat tightens. “I…”

“Enough.” Arin’s smile is sad. “Some truths don’t need saying.”

We lapse into silence. The fire crackles. Outside, an owl hoots. The world turns, oblivious to the wounds we carry.

Dawn comes, grey and hesitant. Gareth stirs, his eyes finding mine. “Elara.”

“Aye, knight.”

He pushes up, jaw set. “We need a plan. Malak’s men will come.”

Arin nods. “We make for the capital. My father—”

“Will throw you in chains,” Gareth cuts in. “Or worse. Malak’s got his ear.”

“Then what?” I demand. “Run? Hide?”

Gareth’s gaze meets mine. “We fight.”

Arin straightens. “How?”

“Malak thinks us beaten. He’ll be careless.” Gareth pushes to his feet, wincing. “We use that.”

“We need allies,” I say. “Men loyal to the prince.”

“Aye,” Gareth nods. “And I know where to find them.”

The road is long, the way fraught. But for the first time in years, hope stirs in my breast. A knight, a prince, and a witch against a kingdom’s rot.

Madness. But then, love’s always been a little mad. I take Gareth’s hand, Arin at our side.

“Let’s go be heroes,” I murmur.

And into the dawn, we walk.

The next weeks blur – secret meetings in shadowed taverns, coded messages carried by swift horses. Gareth moves with grim purpose, his wounds healing into scars that only make him fiercer. Arin sheds his princely finery for a soldier’s garb, his eyes hardening with each passing day. And me? I brew potions and mend wounds, my magic a quiet hum beneath the gathering storm.

Word comes at last – the king is dying. Malak’s made his move, the crown within his grasp. We ride hard for the capital, a ragtag band of knights and loyalists at our backs. The city gates loom, iron-jawed and forbidding.

“They’ll know we’re coming,” Arin says, his voice tight.

Gareth bares his teeth. “Let them.”

The clash is brutal, steel on steel in the shadow of the walls. I fight at Gareth’s side, my magic a shield against Malak’s dark sorcery. Arin’s blade flashes, a prince no more but a warrior born.

We win through, but at cost. Too many good men fall. By the time we reach the throne room, we’re bloodied, breathless, but alive.

Malak waits on the dais, the king’s crown glinting on his brow. His eyes widen as we stride in, Arin at our head.

“You dare—” Malak snarls, but Arin cuts him off, his voice ringing clear.