The Song of the Thorned Witch

“You don’t have to come,” she said, glancing down at the russet fox sitting at her feet. The creature tilted its head, golden eyes gleaming. It had followed her since dawn, darting through meadows and over streams as if it, too, were answering some silent call.

“Fine,” Liora sighed. “But if we’re eaten by a griffin, I’m blaming you.”

The fox yipped and trotted ahead.

The deeper they wandered, the stranger the woods became. Moss hung in silver curtains, and flowers glowed faintly, their petals shifting colors like opals. Once, Liora spotted a stag with antlers made of twisting vines; another time, she heard a melody so haunting it made her chest ache. The fox froze, ears pricked.

“Do you hear that?” Liora whispered.

The song swelled—a wordless, lilting cry that seemed to come from the trees themselves. It tugged at her, pulling her off the path and into a thicket of brambles. Thorns snagged her cloak, but she barely noticed. The music was inside her now, echoing in her bones.

Then, abruptly, it stopped.

Before her stood a cottage, its walls woven from living branches and its roof crowned with thorns. Smoke curled from a chimney, carrying the scent of elderflower and decay. The fox growled low in its throat.

The door creaked open.

“You’re early,” said the woman in the doorway. Her hair was a tangle of ivy, and her skin bore the texture of bark. Thorns protruded from her wrists and shoulders like jagged jewelry. Liora’s breath hitched—this was the Thorned Witch, the creature from her grandmother’s warnings.

“I… I didn’t mean to trespass,” Liora stammered.

The witch’s eyes—one green, one silver—narrowed. “Yet here you are. Come to steal my secrets? My magic?”

“No! I’m looking for the Enchanted Glade. My grandmother said—”

“Ah.” The witch smirked. “Mirabel’s granddaughter. I should’ve known.” She stepped aside, gesturing into the cottage. “Enter. But touch nothing.”

Inside, the air hummed with magic. Jars of glowing insects lined the shelves, and a cauldron bubbled with iridescent liquid. The witch limped to a table cluttered with herbs and bones. “Sit,” she commanded.

Liora obeyed, the fox curling protectively around her ankles.

“Why seek the Glade?” the witch asked, crushing a dried leaf into powder.

“To break the curse on my village,” Liora said. “Our crops wilt, our rivers run black, and children vanish into the mist. Grandmother said the Glade holds a crystal that can purify the land—but only someone with ‘the heart of a wanderer’ can find it.”

The witch scoffed. “Mirabel always did love her riddles.” She leaned closer, thorns scraping the table. “What she didn’t tell you is that the Glade is guarded by worse things than curses. Spirits. Beasts. Me.”

Liora’s pulse quickened. “You’ve been there?”

“I am its keeper,” the witch said bitterly. “Or I was… before the blight took root.” For a moment, her thorny facade cracked, revealing something raw and human beneath.

“Blight?”

“A darkness festers in the Glade,” the witch said. “It feeds on life—twisting trees into monsters, poisoning the earth. I tried to stop it, but…” She held up a hand; black veins spiderwebbed beneath her bark-like skin. “The sickness took my magic. My strength. Now, the Glade is lost.”

Liora’s hope withered. “Then my village is doomed.”

“Not necessarily.” The witch stood, rummaging through a chest. “The crystal can heal the land… if you reach it before the blight consumes you.” She tossed Liora a vial of shimmering liquid. “Moondew. It’ll protect you for a time. But you’ll need more than luck to survive.”

“Why help me?” Liora asked.

The witch’s gaze drifted to a faded painting on the wall—a younger version of herself, smiling beside a woman who looked eerily like Liora’s grandmother. “Let’s just say I owe Mirabel a debt.”

At dawn, Liora and the fox set out again, the witch’s warnings ringing in her ears. The woods grew denser, the air colder. Soon, the trees were grotesque parodies of themselves, their branches clawing at the sky. The ground squelched underfoot, oozing black sludge.

“We’re close,” Liora muttered, clutching the moondew vial.

A guttural roar split the air.

The fox snarled as a creature emerged from the shadows—a monstrous amalgam of wolf and tree, its eyes burning like embers. Liora stumbled back, fumbling for the vial. She drank it in one gulp, and a icy warmth spread through her veins.

“Run!” she yelled.

They sprinted, the beast snapping at their heels. Liora’s lungs burned, but the moondew sharpened her senses, guiding her through the maze of rot. Ahead, a faint light glimmered.

The Glade.

She burst into a clearing—but it was nothing like the stories. The once-vibrant meadow was a wasteland of ash, the crystal at its center encased in a pulsating black mass. The blight.

The wolf-tree hybrid lunged. Liora dove, rolling to the crystal. She pressed her hands to the black mass, recoiling as pain seared her palms. The blight was alive, hungry.

“Focus!” she hissed, channeling every lesson her grandmother had taught her about magic. She sang the old lullaby Mirabel had hummed to her as a child—a melody of healing and light.

The crystal flickered.

The beast swiped at her, its claws tearing her shoulder. The fox leapt, biting its leg, but was thrown aside. Gritting through the pain, Liora sang louder, pouring her hope, her fear, her love for her village into the song.

The crystal flared.

Golden light erupted, vaporizing the blight and hurling the beast into the trees. The Glade bloomed anew—grass sprouting, flowers unfurling, the air sweet with rain. The crystal floated into Liora’s hands, radiant and warm.

Exhausted, she collapsed.

When she awoke, the Thorned Witch stood over her, thorns receded, her skin smooth. “You did it,” she said softly.

“Your… your curse!” Liora gasped.

“The blight sustained it. With the Glade healed, I’m free.” She helped Liora sit, handing her a waterskin. “Take the crystal to your village. It’ll cleanse the land.”

“Thank you,” Liora said. “But… what will you do now?”

The witch smiled—a genuine, wistful expression. “Rebuild. Protect. Perhaps even visit an old friend.” She nodded to the fox, who nuzzled Liora’s hand. “Your companion has something for you.”

A small pouch lay at the fox’s feet. Inside was a silver locket engraved with a thorned rose—the witch’s symbol.

“A token,” the witch said. “To remember that even in darkness, light persists.”

By the time Liora returned home, the crystal had already begun its work. Fields turned green, rivers ran clear, and the missing children reappeared, dazed but unharmed. Villagers called her a hero, but Liora often slipped away to the forest’s edge, where a certain fox waited.

And on quiet nights, when the wind carried the faintest whisper of a song, she’d smile and whisper back.

THE END