She was surprisingly small.

Perhaps that was just from the way she seemed to shrink in on herself, but the woman sitting across the carriage from him didn't appear to be quite... big enough... for the power she held. Dark hair fell past her shoulders in tangled waves, partially obscuring her face. She stared out the window with a vacant, absent look, like she was looking at the scenery without ever seeing what passed by. She still wore her gloves, and the palace had dressed her in a high-collared, red dress with trumpet sleeves, effectively keeping all of her skin covered except for her face.

They had been riding in the small carriage for hours now, making only one brief stop at the Rimsilla estate so that she could collect her belongings, packing them into a single trunk that the coachman promptly loaded onto the back of the carriage. She'd gone in and out quietly, without spending much time on goodbyes. A middle-aged woman had pressed a bundle of something into her hands as she left, and though the Grand Enchanter couldn't see the girl's face at the time, the slight motion of blinking away unshed tears as she moved back towards the carriage was enough to tell him how she felt. He'd forced her out of a place that made her happy.

She still didn't speak as she clambered back into the carriage, holding the cloth bundle in her lap like a lifeline, though she did not open it. Her fingers clenched in the fabric of her skirt, and she would not meet his eyes. The Enchanter wondered for a moment what made her so withdrawn, but brushed the thought aside. It wasn't important. Withdrawn or not, he would make certain that she participated in his project.

"Do you have a name?" he asked. She blinked in surprise, as if she'd just been pulled away from somewhere very far off, and turned to look at him. Her hair fell away from her face as she moved, and he could see the strangely pale skin of her jaw. Strange not because it was pale, but because there was a large, mottled bruise there only the day before from where the man struck her at the festival. His eyes swept over what little of the rest of her freckled skin he could see, noting that she didn't seem to be otherwise scratched or bruised, though he could swear that she'd been at least a little bloodied the day before

"Are you going to kill me?" Out of all the things that could have come out of her mouth, that wasn't one he was expecting.

"Do you have a name?" he asked again, more insistently.

"Aoife," she whispered.

"Good. Now, Aoife, why do you think I'm going to kill you? Because you drained the life of a few rose bushes?"

She shook her head. The Enchanter couldn't hold back the huff of frustration, briefly closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "For the love of all that is holy: Speak."

"Because... I... I kill things," she said softly. She tucked her fists tightly against her side, as if trying to keep them away from anyone else.

"Lesson number one: You're Touched. You don't get to choose how," he said bluntly. "We deal with the things we are given in the best way that we can."

"I don't want to kill things."

"Someone help us— the girl in control the most powerful magic in existence is an insufferable bleeding heart," he muttered, fighting back an eye roll. "If you don't want to kill things, then don't."

"I can't control it!" she protested, squeezing her firsts in a way that looked less like she wanted to hide and more like she wanted to punch him. It was almost the first thing akin to emotion that she'd shown.

"I think we are all well aware of that," he said with a snort. This time, she actually leveled a glare at him. "Let me see your Mark."

"Why?"

"Don't be impertinent. You know as well as I do that the Mark is a physical manifestation of the magic in your blood. Let me see it."

The shape of the Mark reflects the shape of the magic. It was one of the most basic pieces of knowledge about the Touched. He would need to get a better look at it later, but he couldn't deny his curiosity. Though, he did have to admit that he was as curious about the state of her arm as the state of her Mark. Heaving a sigh, she pulled up the long sleeve of her blouse to expose the skin almost up to her shoulder. A silvery-white mark, shimmering in the sunlight that filtered through the windows, traced the shape of intertwining, thorny vines across her skin, beginning somewhere under her glove and reaching up towards her shoulder until it disappeared under the cloth. He could see a large section of skin made permanently pale by old scar tissue underneath the silver of the Mark, a sharp contrast to her naturally freckled skin, and fought the urge to wince.

His eyes flicked to the small, slashing scars running across her jaw before he could stop himself. If she noticed, she didn't say.

"Do you have a name?" she asked, pulling her blouse back into place. He blinked. That was a repercussion he hadn't thought about. Most people simply used his title, and he wasn't sure he wanted his name getting around.

"You can call me Enchanter, if you like."

She just nodded again, in that quiet way of hers. Out of all the things that the Touch of Death could do, the Enchanter had never thought it could turn someone into such a quivering, frightened mess of a human. What kind of toll had this taken on her?

"If you're not going to kill me, why did you want me?"

"The crown has been after me to take on an apprentice for years," he said, shrugging. No point in telling her the real reason just yet.

"You're lying."

"And why would you think that?"

"There are plenty of people clamoring to be your apprentice, and you pick someone that you had to twist the King's arm to get? I don't think so." She sat up just a little straighter, shaking her head. "I don't know what you want from me, but I'm not going to be your executioner puppet."

"Well, at least there's a hint of a spine buried under all that fear and apathy," the Enchanter said with a huff. "How would you feel about making a deal?"

"What kind of deal?"

"I teach you how to control your powers, you help me with a project of mine, and then you're free to move on and live a normal life, free of the chains of your Touch."

Aoife's eyes narrowed. "I'm not helping you with anything—"

"I swear I will not ask you to kill any people or animals." The Enchanter put a hand over his heart as he spoke. Aoife, however, remained suspicious.

"Plants?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. The Enchanter sighed.

"Plants may be a necessary sacrifice in control exercises."

"No," she said flatly.

"Why are you afraid?" he asked, searching her face for any sign, any tick, any motion that might give her away.

"I told you that I'm not afraid of you," she huffed, eyes blazing. It was almost impressive how well she stood up to him.

"You're afraid of you," he said softly. She twitched ever so slightly, gaze flicking to one side and back again. "You're afraid if you keep killing, one day you'll become numb to it."

"Stop," she whispered.

"Or is it more than that?" he mused, almost to himself. "Are you worried you'll begin to enjoy the power you hold?"

"Shut up!" Aoife screeched, squeezing her eyes shut. A sudden wave of lightheadedness and nausea swept over him, leaving behind a dull headache in the middle of his forehead as it passed. His vision focused again to find Aoife staring at him in wide-eyed terror, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. The Enchanter opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when he tasted the tang of salt on his tongue. When he reached up to touch the skin below his nose, his fingertips came away bloody.

"I— I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" she stammered, but he waved her off, wiping up the blood with a handkerchief.

"It was my fault. However, I think this illustrates quite plainly why it's important you agree to what I'm offering." The Enchanter frowned at the soiled handkerchief before tucking it back into a pocket in his robe. Aoife crossed her arms over her chest, watching closely, before giving a huff of resignation.

"... Fine."

There were still questions to be answered, many things to be learned. One of them, interestingly, was why Corin decided to take up for her in front of his father. The Enchanter wondered if it was a show of independence against his father, or perhaps something else entirely.

Aoife was pretty. Perhaps her looks caught his attention? They were about the same age.

... He thought. Possibly. Human ages were difficult for him.

Either way, the Enchanter decided at that moment that he needed to keep a very watchful eye not only on Aoife, but on anyone who was interested in her. She was powerful and lonely, and that made her vulnerable. Easily manipulated. She'd need to gain control of both those factors quickly, before someone with more nefarious intentions managed to coerce her to their side.

He couldn't afford that, and neither could she.