HUNTER

A blood-curdling scream rent the night.

Paralysed by fear, Hunter stared at the narrow crack in the bedroom door, wishing fervently he was anywhere else—the bottom of a volcano, perhaps. A cold drop of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, one that had nothing to do with the strange contents of the dilapidated iron house they'd sought refuge in.

Women's business. That's what was going on behind that door. He only took comfort from the fact it had nothing to do with him.

The door wrenched open with a squeal. Hunter caught a flash of a Mysandra on the bed, pale and sweaty, gritting her teeth against the pain of her most recent contraction. It was an ill time to be giving birth, no doubt induced by the stress of recent events.

Edith's ruddy face blotted out the sight. Relief swept through him.

"Hot water and towels," she barked.

Hunter snapped to attention. "Yes ma'am."

Anger flashed in her eyes. "How old do you think I... never mind," she muttered, turning her back on him. "Just be quick about it."

He sprung to it—and hit his head on the stooping portion of the roof. "Argh!"

"Idiot," she huffed under her breath.

Anger, hot and fizzing, flashed through him. It settled into a burning throb at the back of his skull. It made him even more furious that it was his own fault; after all, he was the one who'd crushed this building with his Grace to try and flush Oriana out of hiding. That it was still standing was a testament to the quality of the build.

The kitchen, however, looked like it'd been balled up in the fist of a giant. Hunter rushed back to the door with the terrifying presence behind it, knocking twice.

The door swung open again. "What?"

"There's no sink in the kitchen," he blurted out.

"There's a forge with a sink out back," Edith said.

"But won't the water be too dirty?"

Anger flashed in her eyes, even brighter than before. "It pumps fresh water from an underground spring," she said through gritted teeth. "Everything in there is sterilised. Fill a bucket and heat it over the coals."

"Won't they be cold?" he asked, mystified. How did she know all this?

"They never go cold," she snapped, slamming the door in his face.

Another blood-curdling scream chased him out of the house. A job outside was far better than loitering in there, but he hurried nonetheless, reluctant to displease the old woman. Pride was a thing of the past when it came to her.

Luckily, the forge—squatting at the back of the property—was in its original condition. The house had acted as a sort of shield. The door swung inward on well-oiled hinges, surprisingly light, and he ventured inside.

He had the eerie sense of stepping into the belly of a beast. The room was humid and tinged by a faint red glow. Raw materials were categorised in tidy bins and arrayed carefully on the shelves, everything from copper ore to brilliant diamond. Glinting tools hung from the walls, organised according to type and size. He approached a nearby bin and his eyes widened at the nails within; they had fine threads on the outside, and a slot in the head that matched one of the tools on the wall. Not to be hammered, he thought, but screwed in. It was genius. Hunter knew first hand how much harder it was to pull a barbed arrow out of a corpse than a straight-edged one. The holding power of these nails—screws, he amended mentally—would be far superior.

A master smith had worked here. That much was clear. He could sense their dedication to their craft in the very air; it had the quiet dignity of a shrine. He found himself creeping over to the sink, reluctant to disturb the silence, as he would in the Moon Temple as a child.

The basin was carved from a single slab of sparkling black stone, graced by a whisper-thin layer of dust. He turned the lever on the wall and water shot out of the faucet. The film slipped away like morning mist from the rising sun, and he watched it swirl down a grated drain.

Like tapping a maple tree, he thought, full of wonder. Running water was a luxury one could only afford if they happened to live near a stream. He couldn't even imagine the intricacies of the ingenious contraption lurking in the walls and beneath his feet.

Another scream found its way to his ears, albeit muffled this time. It devolved into shouting, though he could only make out strangled vowel sounds, not actual words. Mysandra had always had a mouth on her.

He made haste, plucking a sturdy bucket from one of the many hooks dangling from the ceiling. After filling it with water, he hauled it to the raised fire-pit in the centre of the forge, off-set by an enormous pair of bellows. The master smith must have been a giant himself.

Sure enough, the coals were sizzling, lending the room its ruby ambience. The scar on his temple twinged as he leaned down for a closer look. The rocks closest to his face flared yellow, the heat intensifying, and he wondered if it was mere coincidence, or if Oriana's magic was somehow recognising its like. Strange.

He shook his head and strung the bucket up on another hook, this one hanging from an iron frame that straddled the pit. All he needs do was wait.

Seconds passed. Long, agonising seconds. He tapped his foot impatiently, as ten seconds turned to twenty, twenty to thirty, and the surface of the water hadn't even stirred.

He eyed the bellows with trepidation. The Master Smith must have been strong enough to lift a fallen tree by his lonesome. Can I even...?

Hunter shook off his misgivings and headed for the bellows. Despite the size of them, the leather-wrapped grips were surprisingly dainty. His thick fingers spilled over the edges as he levered the two handles together, grunting from the effort. The muscles in his back felt like they were going to pop clean out of his skin, like a snow pea splitting at the seams.

Baring his teeth, he brought the handles into contact with each other. Yes! Air whooshed into the bed of coals and heat flooded the space, making his skin prickle.

In a tale as old as time, he celebrated too soon. In his excitement, Hunter' grip went lax and the topmost handle flew out of his grip, striking his square in the chin. Knocked clean off his feet, he had the awful realisation that he was falling, a split second before he landed on his backside with jarring force.

Laughter, bright and merciless as the sun, taunted him. Hunter's cheeks flushed as he climbed to his feet, trying to ignore the throb in his jaw that matched the ache at the back of his head. Edith stood in the doorway, clutching at her ribs as she lost herself to a fit of mirth.

"I've never met a man so clumsy!" she exclaimed, wiping tears from her eyes.

His outrage spiked. "I am not clumsy!"

Hunter had been called many things in his life. Strong. Handsome. Graceful, even. Never, not once, had he been called that.

"You could have fooled me," she sniggered.

His indignation softened. Had he ever seen her smile, so much as laugh? It made the years slough off her, and he wondered for a split second what a fearsome woman she must have made in her youth.

"I suppose I do have a penchant for letting things slip through my fingers," he allowed, sighing heavily.

Edith's mood sobered, and he felt an odd pang of regret. "You're talking about that girl, aren't you? The one they chained you to."

Chained. He hadn't thought of it that way before. "Yes. I suppose I am."

"You suppose a lot," she muttered, and he scowled. "Sorry. I can't help myself. My sister used to call me a woodpecker of the soul."

He arched an eyebrow. "You have a sister?"

"Oh yes," Edith said tightly. "She will long outlive her years."

Water broiled in the bucket, tapping against its metal trappings.

"Where is she, then?" he asked, feeling angry on her behalf. He couldn't fathom leaving a family member to fend for themselves, no less an elder. "How could she leave you to fend for yourself?"

Edith sighed, seeming to sag. Hunter realised she was still leaning heavily against the doorframe and snapped to action, bringing her a chair from the workbench and setting it by the warmth of the coals. To his surprise, she took the arm he proffered, allowing him to lead her to it. He eyed her discretely, noting the tremors running down her arm, her feather-light grip. For all her posturing, the witch wasn't in a good way.

"She didn't abandon me," Edith said, with the blank, fixed gaze of one staring into the past. "I abandoned her. I was angry. I wasn't always like this," she explained, and Hunter held his breath, scared to break the spell of honesty that had overcome her. "Old. Weak. Ugly."

"You're not ugly," he said reflexively.

"Please," she scoffed. "I'm a hag straight out of a fable. Your friend knows it; she basically screamed it as she kicked me out of the delivery room."

Hunter's mouth fell open. "What? Why?"

"She didn't want me cursing her newborn." Edith shrugged. "Contrary to popular opinion, I can't even cast a spell, but I didn't feel like arguing."

"That isn't like you," he chided gently.

Edith snorted. Coals crackled. Hunter opened his mouth and shut it again, unsure of the right thing to say, or what he even wanted to achieve by speaking. By all accounts, the Witch of the West was every bit of the hag from the fables: cruel, cunning, cold. But he was beginning to see the person behind the myths. The ingenuity. The strength of spirit. Only now her confidence was flagging, and he couldn't bear to see its flame go out.

"What happened to you?" Hunter asked quietly.

Her blue eyes, sharp as ice, found his. "My sister happened. She has a Gift—the ability to take and give life as she pleases. But she has always struggled to control it. That's why I built this forge," Edith said, waving her hand. "And then I built the house yonder. It looks like iron, but it is actually made from something far rarer than that: ore from a fallen star. Through trial and error, I learned that it was the only thing that could create a buffer between Gretchen and the lives of those around her. A foreign substance, necessary to interrupt the conduit of her magic, which is so closely linked to this star."

Hunter felt like he'd been struck. Gretchen. The woman on the battlefield, whose hair turned to writhing snakes, whose breath turned to bees. "But she is so young," he blurted out. How old must their parents be?

"As am I," Edith said bitterly. "I am only nine-and-twenty."

"You're the smith," he breathed. It was all starting to make sense—her obsession with Rogan's secret, her resentment, all of it. "But how?"

"She was screaming in her sleep. A nightmare," Edith said shortly. "I shook her awake and paid the price. She stole my youth without thinking. She never found a way to give it back."

"So that's why you left," Hunter said. He tried to put himself in her shoes, imagining himself as an old man in the space of a day, and shuddered. "I don't blame you."

"I do. She needed me, but I left to find a way to restore my youth," Edith said. "And now I find her house in ruins and there is no trace of her. I fear the worst."

"She is alive," Hunter said slowly, scratching the back of his head. The ruined house was his fault, but there was other news, bad news, that took precedence. "But I know not how much of her is left. From what I understand, Gaia"—Gods, it felt odd to invoke the name of another Goddess—"has overtaken Gretchen's body. The last I saw she was leading a force of Kirin against her friends."

The blood drained from Edith's face. "Then it is as I feared."

"That collar was for her, wasn't it?" Even after Gretchen's betrayal, Edith had been thinking of her sister. Experimenting in her little house on the hill, trying to find a way to help.

Edith's face fell into her hands. Her shoulders shook. A single drop of water slid over her pinky, magnifying her snaking green veins as it travelled.

The bucket was boiling steadily now, but Hunter ignored it, reaching out to lay a hand on the old woman's back. She stiffened, then relaxed, allowing the gesture of comfort.

"I shouldn't have left," she rasped.

Hunter rubbed circles between her shoulder blades, saying nothing, offering only his company as she cried.

When it was over, Edith lifted her head. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, but the intent in them was clear. "I have to find her."

Hunter's lips pressed together. There was much he had to do, much he owed to his people, but still he said: "We will."

It was easy to offer. Easy as breathing.

"Why do you continue to aid me?" she asked, her puzzlement clear as day. "I have been nothing but cruel to you."

Hunter shrugged. "I've always had a healthy ego. I can stand to be knocked down a peg."

It wasn't an answer, but she seemed to know better than to press for one. Truthfully, he was still figuring it out himself. He'd always felt inclined to help someone in need, but there was more to this than that. Edith was the first person he'd been able to speak earnestly with in years—even if she did get under his skin like a blackberry bramble.

Once more, a scream filtered through the walls of the forge. Edith sighed and stood, leaning heavily on the back of the chair. "I must go to her. It isn't the babe's fault their mother is a twit."

Hunter chucked. "Nay, it is not. But do not fear. I will help."

Even if the mere thought of that room made his knees quake. I owe it to Gordon, he thought reflexively, but he was surprised to find that he wanted to help. To shield the Witch of the West from Mysandra's sharp tongue, if nothing else. 

"Thank you," Edith said, and the words lighted an ever-burning coal in his chest that suffused him with warmth.