A weathered WANTED poster hung from a notice board. 

Blackwater Hag. 

Wanted for crimes of murder, necromancy, arson, and blasphemy against the Crown.

Approach with caution. 

Complete with a crude drawing of Morena’s face. It didn’t really resemble her at all—the nose was too long, the chin too wide, and her eyes were about to bulge out of her skull in the picture. They really made her look like a hag. 

Morena drew a breath of the cold morning air and pulled the wet hood lower over her face as she continued to ride through the village. 

Rain hadn’t stopped since the day before yesterday. Roads were wet, riddled with ankle-deep puddles, but at the very least, they were empty. Folk rather warmed by their humble hearths than wandered the ghostly roads. Signs of an arcane night setting in were there, too. Whispering woods, long nights that didn’t wish to retreat, bogs stirring with necrotic magic—folk saw it. 

They feared it.

Meant it was high time for Morena to settle down for a couple of days. Her bad reputation suddenly became welcomed when beasts were dragging off children. 

A few villagers watched her from behind shutters as she passed. Just slivers of pale faces in the cracks, their breath fogging the glass. No one dared step out. Not to greet her. Not to ask her business.

Except one.

A boy—couldn’t have been more than ten winters—stood under the sagging eaves of the cooper’s workshop. His bare feet pressed into the mud. He held a bundle of lavender in both hands, knuckles white around the stems. His gaze didn’t waver when Morena pulled her mare to a halt.

She waited, watching him through the drizzle.

The boy took a cautious step closer. His voice was soft but steady. “Miss… they say you can banish wraiths.”

Morena tilted her head, the hood shifting just enough for him to glimpse her mouth—lips an unnatural shade of blue.

“They say many things,” she said.

He swallowed and lifted the lavender higher, as though it might shield him from her.

“It’s in the old mill by the river. My sister… she…” He trailed off. A tremor passed through him, visible even at a distance.

Morena studied him a moment longer. This wasn’t the first village to beg for her help. And it wouldn’t be the last. But there was no coin in an easy job. And certainly no death.

The mare shifted restlessly beneath her.

“Find another witch,” she said, her voice flat. “One you won’t have to pretend lavenders would keep from causing harm.” 

She nudged the horse forward. The boy didn’t follow.

By the time she reached the far end of the village, the sky had turned the color of iron. Rain drummed on her shoulders, soaked through the seams of her cloak. The road narrowed into a rutted track, winding into the birch woods ahead.

Ah, gods damn her. 

She stopped the horse in the middle of the road. 

A farmer had just left his house, still standing in the doorway, pondering the necessity of a plowed field. 

“Oi,” she called out, taking the reins in a tight grip. 

The man raised his head. 

“Where’s the old mill?”