Jane stood still, her breath shallow. The silence between them wasn't peaceful—it pulsed with doubt, fear, and the ghosts of words left unsaid.
She looked at John again. Her voice was steady now, but it carried the weight of something ancient and tired.
"Then tell me, John. If you truly want to help me…" Her eyes pierced into his. "What can you do to save me?"
John opened his mouth—but no answer came.
He looked lost, cornered by the truth. His lips moved, trying to form a promise he didn't yet know how to keep.
"I…" he stammered. "I can… get you out."
Jane let out a bitter laugh. "Out? Do you think this is about chains or locks? I could vanish from this tower if I wished. Escape isn't the problem."
Her eyes glowed brighter. Violet. Almost unnatural.
"The problem," she said, stepping forward until her voice was a breath against his skin, "is that they are going to kill me."
John's eyes widened. "What—?"
"I saw it," she whispered. "In a vision. The book showed me."
He froze.
"They'll do it slowly," Jane continued. "It's already begun. The elixir my mother gave me—it wasn't just to suppress my magic. It was poison. Slow, quiet, patient. It weakens the body, dims the flame. And then, when the light fades… they'll let me die."
John shook his head. "No, no… they wouldn't—"
"They would," Jane said, her voice steel. "They believe I'm dangerous. They believe I'm cursed. To them, I'm not their daughter anymore. I'm a Witch."
John's breath quickened. "We'll tell the court. The council. Someone will listen—"
"There is no one," she said flatly. "They control the story. They control the laws. And when a Witch dies, no one asks why."
He looked stricken.
Jane's gaze softened—just a little. "I need more than pretty words, John. I need to know what you're willing to become… for me."
He swallowed hard. "Anything. I swear."
She tilted her head, considering him. "Even if it means turning against your own?"
He hesitated.
"Even if it means lying," she pressed. "Stealing. Killing."
John looked into her eyes—those burning, violet eyes—and nodded.
"Yes."
Then her voice dropped to a whisper. "Good."
She stepped back, slowly, her hair catching the fading light like liquid silk.
"Because if I die… I won't be the only one."
———
John watched her as if he was seeing her for the first time. Not the fragile noble girl with silvery eyes and empty hands—but something older, something burning and sharp beneath the surface.
Jane didn't notice. Or maybe she didn't care anymore.
She moved to the window, her fingers trailing over the glass.
"They're going to try again," she said softly. "Maybe not today. But soon."
John took a step toward her. "Then we leave. We run tonight—"
"No," she cut in, shaking her head. "I'm not running. Not until I'm stronger."
A pause.
"There's a potion I found in the book. A reversal blend. It can counteract most common death spells or toxins." She looked over her shoulder. "If they try to poison me again… I'll be ready."
John swallowed. "Jane—"
"I won't die like this," she whispered. "Not quietly. Not obediently."
The mark on her arm pulsed faintly beneath her skin.
"I want to live," she said.
And in her voice was no fear.
———
The streets of Arvenia had never felt so dangerous.
John pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he stepped through the shadowed alley, the scent of damp stone and soot clinging to his skin. The list Jane had given him was folded tightly in his pocket, but he already knew every word. The ingredients weren't common. Some were illegal. One or two were near impossible to find without going deep into places no soldier—or sane man—dared to go.
But he didn't hesitate.
He owed her that much.
He ducked into an old apothecary tucked between shuttered shops, its sign faded and splintered with age. A bell rang as he entered.
The woman behind the counter looked up—an old crone with no eyes, just pale skin stretched over sockets. Yet somehow, she saw him.
"I don't deal in soldier's orders," she rasped.
"I'm not here as a soldier," John said quietly. "I'm here for a girl. She's been poisoned."
The crone snorted. "They all are."
He pulled out a small velvet pouch and set it on the counter. "Do you have bloodroot? From the eastern cliffs. And shadowbell leaves. Still fresh."
The woman's face twitched. "Dangerous herbs, boy. You trying to save a life—or end one?"
He didn't answer. Just looked her in the face.
Finally, she turned. Her bony fingers swept through the clutter behind her, tossing aside jars and boxes. "I've got some. Not enough for a full brew. And I'll want more than coin."
John tensed. "What kind of payment?"
"A memory," she said, grinning now, revealing yellow teeth. "A good one. Something warm. I'll take it. And in return, the roots are yours."
John's fists clenched. But then he remembered—Jane's eyes glowing violet. Her voice, trembling, when she said I want to live.
He reached out.
Her hand closed around his.
There was a shimmer, then a sharp tug in his chest. A moment of warmth—Jane laughing in the garden, months ago, sunlight in her hair—ripped away.
Gone.
He gasped as the crone pulled her hand back.
"Pleasure doing business," she said, dropping the bundle into his palm.
He stumbled out into the cold, the bundle of herbs clutched tightly in his shaking hand, each breath drawing sharp into his lungs as if the night itself was trying to carve into him. His heart pounded beneath his ribs like a drum of war, but it was the strange, hollow ache in his chest that unsettled him most—a gnawing emptiness where that memory used to live, the warmth of Jane's laughter now gone, traded for a chance to save her life.
John stumbled. He needs to focus.
Two more ingredients to go.
And the next one?
He'd have to steal it from the Ardent vault.
From her father's vault.