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Another child had gone missing.
“Third this month,” muttered the younger sailor. “Didn’t even leave her shoes behind.”
The eldest took a swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth with a scarred hand. “Probably wandered off. Kids do that.”
“No,” said the third, leaning in. His eyes were sharp despite the drink. “You’ve heard the stories. It’s the Witch of the Woods.”
The other two flinched.
“Lives just past the black trees,” he went on, voice low. “The children say it sings at night. Like flutes and bells. They say it walks, but wrong. They say it moves strange. Knees bend backward. Spine doesn’t twist right. Like a puppet with no strings.”
He tapped his lower eyelid.
“Doesn’t blink. Just stares. Golden eyes like a doll’s... glossy, wide. Follows you not with its head, not its face — just the irises. Like this.”
He demonstrated: unblinking eyes rolling unnaturally in their sockets.
The younger sailor clenched a talisman under his shirt and whispered a prayer to the Valar, barely audible.
The old one snorted. “And what, this witch is stealing children out of their beds to eat them?”
“They say it is a he,” the third whispered. “But not really. Just wears the shape of a man. Long black cloak. No shadow. Smells like incense and cold metal.”
He leaned closer.
“Some say it’s him. The Sorcerer. The one the king brought from the East. Only he isn’t a man at all. He isn't anything. Just a mask that talks.”
The eldest scoffed. “You think the king’s pet snake has time to haunt forests and hex brats?”