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Hecate, breathing heavily beneath her mask, looked at the house. It was built in the style of northern barbarians and stood deep in the forest. It looked strange and unusual, but Titania had no time to discuss the choice of location right now. It had already taken great effort for her to force herself this far away from the Crossroads and Erebus.
Titania herself was surprised that she had dared to do this, but she had no other choice. The pain in her arm and cheek grew stronger with each passing day. The ointments that had once offered at least some relief had stopped working. If this continued, the woman would no longer be able to hide her condition from others—especially from Melinoë.
Hecate knew well about the unconventional witch from the North. She knew that the woman practiced strange magic, trying to break every possible law of this world. Had she been her student, she would have been punished for such practices without hesitation. But Titania also knew that this witch was exceptionally skilled in potions, especially healing ones. There had been cases where her concoctions cured mortals of terminal illnesses at the very last stages.
When the goddess of the Crossroads learned of this, she tried to meet her—but failed to consider one thing: her own weapons and the witch’s peculiarity. The witch was terrified of fire to the point of madness. Hecate did not know why, but to say that their first meeting went terribly would be an understatement. The following ones were no better.
Hecate simply could not leave her weapons behind at the Crossroads to travel so far away. Even now, she was forcing herself merely by stepping beyond the borders of Erebus at such a time. The woman ignored the rising panic and the overwhelming desire to return immediately to the safe zone, where—according to her—every necessary protective sigil was present.
There had been the option of extinguishing the flames, but unfortunately, her aspect and her magic were too tightly bound. The torches could only be extinguished if her magic was suppressed entirely. Of course, Titania had tried—but she was, after all, a Titan of magic, deeply intertwined with it. So while she managed to create a potentially useful spell, it was unsuitable for her.
She could have waited a few years for the witch to calm down. Perhaps she would come to accept her fear—or simply die, and the goddess of the Crossroads could meet her in the realm of the dead with the help of her friend Hades. But unfortunately, Hecate could no longer endure it. The pain was so intense, so maddening, that she made her decision.
The woman knocked softly on the door, as mortals usually did, and waited. There was some movement inside, and a few minutes later the door quietly opened. A small girl stood there, with cat ears instead of human ones and a fluffy cat tail. She wore a simple violet dress, and patches of multicolored fur were visible on her body.
“Hello. Who are you?” the girl asked softly, tilting her head.
Hecate exhaled and smiled faintly, knowing it could not be seen beneath the mask.
“Good evening, child. Please allow me to meet the witch who lives here. I have come to ask her for help. This is a very serious and important matter.”
The girl twitched an ear and, after thinking for a moment, opened the door wider.
“Come in. Teacher is in the hall.”
Titania gave a small bow and entered. Surprisingly, the house was lit not by candles or lamps, but by magical crystals the witch had brought with her. The interior was entirely in the northern barbarian style—cozy in a way, but overly strict, almost suffocating.
The girl closed the door behind her and turned around. Only then did she notice the torches of the goddess of the Crossroads silently floating behind her. She screamed soundlessly and rushed toward the woman—but it was too late. The witch had noticed Hecate.
“What are you doing here?!” the witch hissed, gripping the back of the chair she had been sitting on moments earlier, before she noticed the flames. She jumped to her feet and stared at the uninvited guest with wild eyes. Her apprentice, realizing her mistake, began jumping around, trying to grab the goddess’s weapons to do something—anything—with them.
“Northern witch,” Hecate said calmly, “despite your rather unnatural methods of using magic, I need your help.”
“Get out!” the woman shouted, tightening her grip on the furniture.
Hecate sighed heavily but continued.
“This is extremely important to me. It is a very serious problem. You may be the only one who can help me.”
“Get out!”
Titania clenched her skirt, thought for a moment, and lowered her torches. The girl, who had still been trying to reach them, grabbed the weapons and ran into another room. Hecate took deep breaths, trying to calm herself, then grabbed her glove and tore it off, letting it fall slowly to the floor.
The witch was about to shout again—but froze. Squinting, she examined the exposed part of the goddess’s body. It was entirely covered in gold-black scars. From some of them, golden grains occasionally spilled out. Without the glove, the injured arm began to twitch involuntarily.
Without hesitation, Hecate removed her mask as well. The same scars marked one side of her cheek. Her eyes, once glowing, had dulled. One was a beautiful blue, but the other was faded, barely open. There was no white visible—only a strange darkness in its place.
The witch tilted her head, studying this with fascination. She had not seen a case like this in a very long time. It was as if the arm, long dead, clung to Titania’s body by sheer will. It resembled necrosis mixed with rhabdomyolysis—yet unlike those conditions, the limb still moved, and apparently functioned quite well. Divine blood must have played its role.
“I have heard that you keep your clients’ secrets even under threat of death,” Hecate said, breathing unevenly. “So I brought payment in advance, to show that my intentions are serious.”
She waved her hand, and a pouch appeared on a nearby table. The witch was about to scoff and say she would never agree for such a sum—until the pouch opened.
Crystals.
The most expensive kind.
One of them alone could buy ten houses like this one.
“How… how long have you had this?” the witch asked slowly, lifting her gaze.
“A very, very long time. Since the war between the gods and the Titans,” Hecate replied, sighing deeply. She grabbed her injured arm with her healthy hand and squeezed hard, trying to dull the pain.
“I tried to get rid of it, but the arm regenerates, and the scars reappear. The pain only grows stronger—as if the new tissue briefly restores sensitivity.”
“Have you consulted other specialists?” the potion-maker asked.
Hecate snorted.
“And do you think I want to show this mistake of the past to anyone?”
“Then why show it to me?” the witch snapped. “Why assume my methods would work better than yours? I won’t even ask how you learned who I am or where I live. Your persistence alone is strange.”
The witch crossed her arms. Titania met her gaze and extended her trembling injured hand.
“As if you don’t already know. There are rumors about you—that you study every possible hand injury, especially damage to outer tissues. You have a peculiar obsession with finding and trying to heal them. How often do you think a case like mine appears?” She paused. “I’ll answer that myself. Never. This is a unique case.”
She pulled the wounded arm to her chest.
“My methods don’t work because, by your barbarian standards, they are outdated. And I have never met northern mages before. Besides, I am a very profitable client. Over thousands of years, I have accumulated countless treasures, all of which I can give you—if you do your part of the deal. And oh—”
Hecate narrowed her eyes.
“I am Titania. What do you think will happen if you refuse me?”
The witch frowned and turned away, nervously tapping on the back of the sofa. Just as she thought—she should have driven the goddess away immediately. Now she had even more problems.
On one hand, there were the threats—ones Titania could easily carry out. The witch had heard enough stories: turning people into animals, cursing them, erasing them from existence. And her influence here was beyond question. Over millennia, Hecate had done so much for this world that if the witch offended her even slightly, her followers would destroy her.
On the other hand…
She was unbearably curious.
Those scars. The lines. The texture. The strange skin color and the sand that fell as if ignoring the laws of reality, drifting far too slowly. And the damaged eye—unclear what it was looking at. Into the woman’s soul, or into something else entirely. Something beyond human comprehension.
The witch sighed heavily, covered her face with her hand, and nodded.
“Fine. I agree. But without your torches.”
Titania nodded and picked up the glove from the floor, pulling it back onto her injured arm.
“Excellent. Then the treatment will take place at the Crossroads.”
“But there are so many of your stupid lights there!”
“The Crossroads are vast,” Hecate replied calmly. “I will choose the most remote place, where the only light will be the moon and a few magical fireflies.”
The witch grimaced and snapped her fingers. A contract appeared before the goddess.
“This guarantees that I won’t reveal what you showed me, and that you won’t use fire in my presence. Breaking this contract will place a vile curse on the violator—chosen by the wronged party. My signature is already here. Now sign, and I’ll begin examining your injuries. Treatment starts tomorrow.”
Titania nodded, read it quickly, then pricked her finger and let a drop of blood fall onto the parchment. It glowed and vanished, marking the beginning of their work.
“Oh—and since I know your name, it’s only fair I introduce myself. Angustias. You don’t need to remember it—you likely won’t need it.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Angustias,” said the goddess of the Crossroads, watching as the witch walked to a door—behind which her apprentice was likely waiting—and began giving her instructions.