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“What have you done?” The King of Dadah asks, horrified beyond belief.
In front of him, the stretch of what used to be hills has been inexplicably transformed by a mere sigil. The earth, once packed with grass and critters, tears itself to float upwards, carving a horrendous basin below the slab of dirt. Spheres of land now fills the cloudless sky, blotting the sun and casting shadows across the valleys.
“My payment,” the white haired witch serenely answers, “in exchange for the magic I’ve taught you.”
“You—“ he whips around, gaze wild and angry. “I’ve told you that I’ll grant you anything of mine! You said that you want to stay here for your research, so I said yes. But this land,” he points up, “is not yours to have! There are people and tribes living there!”
The Witch is silent as she perceives the man.“Are you not the king?” She asks, mild as milk. There is a hint of confusion in her tone, as though his anger is a trifling nuisance more than a rightful thing. “Is this not a land by which you rule?”
The King stares like he is looking at something for the first time. “I shouldn’t have dealt with you.” He whispers, full of regret. “I thought that maybe, if I have you by my side, my kingdom will be safer more than ever.”
“And is it not?” The Witch shoots back. Upon the silence answering her, she bats a hand away and turns to look at the floating spheres, watching the land go higher and higher with every beat. “Besides,” she starts, “this region has a frail defense system. Your subjects, King, may as well be sitting ducks within these valleys. At least this way, they can be safer from ambush and I’ll still have my research site intact.”
She hums, the sound a soothing timbre that thrums through the charged space between them. “Your kingdom, of course, benefits also. The nature of this transformed hillsides makes it hard for enemies to march through the land.” She says, “And what is that, if not more safety for your sake?”
The King is silent for a few more moments. When he speaks, it is evident that his anger has been drained, leaving behind an exhaustion so profound he can only stare upwards at the despicable scenery. What mockery, what vile sight has the Witch made of his region! Yet still, all he feels is shame for having made the deal in the first place.
“What of the civilians?” He asks, “They can’t fly like you do, Witch. The people who live here seldom have magic tools, so they won’t have any means of coming down.” His voice grows weaker as another patch of land tears off, floating away into the sky. “They’ll need to go to the town for food and the likes.”
The Witch hums. She turns to glance at the King of the Dadah Kingdom, a thoughtful frown in place. Hidden beneath the flared sleeves of her robe, she clutches her pen and palm quire, tracing the rounded edge of her notebook. “Well,” she smiles, face smoothing out into a calm, serene one. “how much do you care about your subjects, King?”
The man shoots a questioning look her way. “Very much so.” He tersely says, “I’m their king. It’s one of my duties to care and ensure their prosperity.”
“Prosperity.” The Witch echoes out. She takes a few strides closer to the crowned man and tilts her head in intrigue. “Well said.”
“What—“
The Witch grabs the King’ face and traps him with her rough, calloused hands. Out of her pocket, a hollow bottle tumbles out onto the grass. The ink, emptied out only mere moments prior, now lays atop the skin of the King’s left cheek, imprinted there from the wet sigil drawn upon the Witch’s palm.
She stares deeply into the King’s terrified eyes and smiles. “Worry not, King.” She croons, “Thanks to you, they will always have something to eat.” Then, she swipes her thumb across his skin and closes the circle of the magic spell.
The transformation comes instantaneously.
The King screams as his form crumbles away. His skin sags before decaying like rot, melding onto the dirt in a spray of arterial blood. From the pile of sinews and unmade flesh, a plant stands amongst the carnage; red, bulbous core, crowned with the curls of seemingly frail, green stems.
“What a shame.” The Witch sighs. She bends down to pluck the as of yet named flower and holds it up against the blotted sun. “No one will know how you die, King.” She says to no one, “Maybe I’ll spin a tale for you— it’s the least I can do.”
“The King of Dadah, who once was a wise ruler of the kingdom,” she hums, “accepted the generous gift of magic from a nameless witch. Prosperous was his kingdom be, his arrogance grew wildly untamed he decided to lift the mountain in a show of might…”
She pauses, staring at the burst of red as the sunlight pierces through the King’s plant. “As a punishment, the crimson bloom of the diadem herb grows all across the land, reminding men of the fickle nature of ourselves…” she smiles, “or so the story goes.”