#ancient magic

The rain fell in relentless, icy sheets, turning the forest floor into a treacherous soup of thick mud and slick roots.

He ran with every ounce of strength remaining in his chest, his boots skidding wildly against the ground as he ducked beneath heavy, dripping branches. The leather satchel strapped tightly across his chest slammed against his ribs with every stride, heavy with the stolen royal crests and velvet bags of coin he had snatched from the high vault.

Behind him, the dark forest echoed with the terrifying chaos of the hunt.

"Spread out!" a captain screamed, his voice cutting sharply through the roar of the downpour. "Check the thickets! He cannot have gone far!"

The deep, guttural barking of iron-collared hounds echoed through the trees, growing louder and closer by the second. Torches flickered through the thick fog like angry, yellow eyes, casting long, twisting shadows across the ancient trunks. A horn blasted in the distance, a high, cold note signaling that the royal guards were closing their circle around him.

He pushed himself harder, his lungs burning like fire, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. Thorny vines snagged his cloak, tearing the dark fabric and raking red lines across his skin, but he dared not slow down. If they caught him, there would be no trial, no mercy, and no second chances.

A sharp whistle cut through the air, followed immediately by the solid thwack of a crossbow bolt biting into the tree bark inches from his ear. Wood splintered into his cheek, making him yell out in shock as he veered sharply to the left, plunging blindly into the thickest, darkest stretch of the woods.

The briars grew impossibly dense, twisting together like living iron bars, forcing him to scrape through on his hands and knees. The barking of the hounds reached a fever pitch just behind his heels, their heavy paws splashing violently through the puddles.

Desperate and blind in the storm, he threw his shoulder against a dense wall of black ivy, expecting to hit solid rock or thick wood.

Instead, the ground simply gave way. He tumbled sideways down a steep, hidden embankment, rolling through wet moss and sharp stones before crashing heavily onto a quiet, sheltered path hidden entirely beneath a canopy of giant, intertwined roots.

Above him, the shouts of the royal army suddenly grew muffled, sounding strange and distant, as if the forest itself had swallowed him whole.

Panting heavily, his body trembling with adrenaline and cold, he pushed himself up onto his knees. The rain barely touched this hidden hollow, where the air smelled intensely of dried herbs, bitter smoke, and old parchment.

Nestled deep within the hollow stood a crooked, ancient wooden cottage, its stone chimney leaking a thin spiral of purple-tinted smoke into the dark sky. A single, small window glowed with a faint, eerie light, casting long shadows across a porch littered with dried bones and strange glass jars.

Seeing no other choice as the distant horns echoed once more through the canopy, he scrambled up the wooden steps, threw his weight against the heavy front door, and burst inside.

The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him as he threw his full weight against it, sliding a thick iron bolt into place with a loud, metallic clack. Outside, the muffled barking of the hounds and the shouting of the royal army sounded strange and distant, as though separated by miles of mountain stone.

He leaned against the thick timber, his chest heaving as he wiped cold rain and mud from his face. "Safe," he gasped out, his knuckles white against the hilt of his dagger. "They lost me..."

"Safe?" a voice giggled from the dim shadows. "Oh, little thief, little runaway mouse, nobody is safe once they tumble into the web!"

He flinched, spinning around with his dagger held high.

Sitting atop a tall, crooked stool beside a workbench piled with dusty jars and dried roots was a woman. A dark, triangular veil sat pinned over her wavy brown hair, cascading over her shoulders in wild curls. Intricate, ink dark tattoos curved up her arms like winding vines. Beside her, perched on a brass ring, sat a massive black raven, its sharp beak clicking as it stared at him.

Her face turned toward him, but her eyes were entirely milky white, completely blind and unseeing.

Before he could speak, she sprang off her stool with wild, theatrical grace, spinning in a quick circle while her black skirts swirled around her boots. She let out a sharp, sudden cackle, her head tilting at an unnerving, erratic angle.

"Who are you?" he demanded, backing against the door, his heart hammering against his ribs. "What is this place?"

"Questions, questions, so many noisy little questions!" she sang out, taking quick, erratic steps toward him. She stopped inches away, her blind face hovering close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath. "You smell like wet iron, stolen royal gold, and absolute terror!"

"Stay back," he rasped, holding the blade between them. "I asked you a question. How do you know what I have?"

She gasped mockingly, clasping her hands over her mouth before bursting into a fit of quiet, manic giggles.

Slowly, dramatically, she pulled her hands away from her face and held her palms straight out toward his chest.

He froze, his breath catching in his throat.

In the center of her right palm, a seam of skin split open. A vivid, golden eye opened unblinkingly, its pupil shrinking as it focused straight on his trembling face. A second later, her left palm opened as well, revealing another gleaming eye that blinked in slow, synchronized precision.

"I see quite well, little thief," she whispered, her manic grin instantly vanishing into an eerie, deadpan stillness that made his blood run cold. "Better than you ever will."

He pressed his back hard against the heavy door, his knuckles white as his grip on the dagger trembled. The sight of the golden eyes blinking from her palms made his stomach twist with a sharp, cold panic.

"Get those... those things away from me," he stammered, raising the blade higher. "What kind of creature are you?"

She threw her head back and let out a bright, ringing laugh, hopping backward on one foot like a playful child before dropping into a mock curtsy. Her black veil fluttered wildly around her face.

"A creature? Oh, how rude! Such terrible manners for a guest who broke into my house!" she chimed, her voice bouncing rapidly between dramatic outrage and breathless amusement. She turned her hands over, closing her fingers into tight fists, hiding the palm eyes from view. Her milky, blind face turned back toward him, tilting side to side. "I am a host! A savior! The only thing standing between your precious neck and the king's executioner!"

The raven on the perch let out a loud, harsh croak, as if agreeing with her.

"The army..." he murmured, casting a quick glance back at the iron bolt on the door. "They were right behind me. They saw me head toward these woods."

"Oh, they are out there right now, sweeping through the mud like hungry ants!" she giggled, skipping over to a stone hearth where a dark pot bubbled over low purple flames. She picked up a wooden spoon and began stirring rapidly. "They knock on doors, they search under bushes... but they won't find this door. The roots don't like visitors. The trees keep my secrets."

He took a slow, cautious breath, trying to steady the frantic beating of his heart. The dagger in his hand felt utterly useless against a woman who could see through her skin and command the forest itself.

"Why hide me?" he asked quietly, lowering the blade a fraction. "You don't know me. You know I'm a thief."

She stopped stirring abruptly. The playful, manic energy vanished from her posture in an instant. She stood completely still, her back to him, the silence in the cottage suddenly growing so thick he could hear the rain tapping against the roof far above.

Slowly, she turned her head toward him over her shoulder. Her blind eyes stared into the dark corner of the room, but her hands rested flat against the table, palms open, both golden eyes locked directly onto his satchel.

"I know what you stole," she murmured, her tone dropping into a soft, melodic whisper that felt far too ancient for her young face. "And I have been waiting three hundred years for someone foolish enough to bring it to my door."

He swallowed hard, his hand tightening around the strap of his satchel. "The crests? The gold? It's just treasure from the vault."

"Treasure?" She let out a sudden, high-pitched cackle, spinning on her heel so quickly her black veil whipped around her neck. "Gold is for men with short lives and big appetites! Fools! Clowns!"

She hopped forward, her dark skirts snapping around her ankles as she closed the distance between them in three erratic steps. She leaned in close, her blind, milky eyes staring straight past his shoulder while her right palm rose to hover an inch from his chest. The golden eye in her hand blinked slowly, its glowing pupil reflecting the firelight.

"You took a velvet pouch from the bottom of the iron chest," she whispered, her manic energy dropping into an eerie, hypnotic hush. "Bound with silver thread. Sealed with black wax. You thought it was a handful of precious jewels."

His breath hitched. He hadn't even opened that small pouch yet; he had simply grabbed everything within reach while the vault alarms were sounding.

"What is in it?" he asked, his dagger dropping fully to his side.

"A debt," she sang out, suddenly clapping her hands together. The eyes in her palms snapped shut as her fingers interlocked, and she began to sway side to side in a playful, unnerving dance. "A promise made by a king who died before he could pay it! And now... now the little thief brings the bill right to my hearth!"

The raven on the perch flapped its heavy black wings, letting out a sharp croak that echoed off the crowded stone walls.

She stopped swaying, her head tilting sharply as if listening to a voice only she could hear. "The spirits are singing, little mouse. They say the guards are circling the hill above us. Shall I let them in, or shall we make a deal of our own?"

He stared at her, his pulse thumping in his throat. The faint sounds of the royal guards shouted somewhere high above the root canopy, but down here in the dim cottage, the air felt suspended outside of time.

"A deal?" he repeated cautiously, backing up a single step until his shoulder hit the doorframe. "What kind of deal?"

She giggled softly, a sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind, and skipped over to her cluttered workbench. With a swift sweep of her arm, she knocked aside a cluster of dried herbs and small bone trinkets, clearing a spot on the dark wood.

"Simple! Easy! Child's play!" she chimed, turning her hands open on the table. The golden eyes in her palms unblinkingly watched him. "You give me the velvet pouch, and I turn the guards away. I make the trees whisper lies to their hounds. I make the storm swallow their tracks until they give up and go home to their silly little castle."

He slowly unbuckled the satchel from his chest. His fingers brushed against the small, heavy velvet pouch she had described, its silver thread cool against his warm skin.

"And if I give it to you," he asked, keeping his voice steady, "what happens to me?"

She leaned over the table, her blind, milky face tilting up toward the ceiling as if listening to invisible voices floating in the dark rafters. A wide, eccentric smile spread across her face.

"You stay alive, little thief," she whispered softly, her raven letting out a low, approving click from its perch. "And in my house, being alive is the best bargain you will ever make."

He slowly reached into the satchel, his fingers wrapping around the velvet pouch. The silver thread glinted in the dim, purple-tinted light of the hearth. He pulled it out and set it gently onto the dark wood between her open palms.

The moment the pouch touched the table, the golden eyes in her palms widened, their pupils shrinking to fine points.

"Smart little thief! Wise little mouse!" she cheered, clapping her hands shut over the velvet. The sudden movement made her black veil billow around her face as she let out a delighted, ringing cackle that echoed off the stone walls.

She snatched the pouch, holding it close to her ear and shaking it gently. A soft, crystal-like chime echoed from within, resonating through the cottage.

"Listen to them sing!" she whispered, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly sudden stillness again. She turned toward the dark window, her blind, milky eyes fixed on the storm outside.

Raising one hand, she pressed her palm flat against the cold glass. The golden eye in her palm flared with a deep, emerald light, casting strange, dancing shadows across her face and ink-dark tattoos.

Outside, the distant barking of the hounds abruptly stopped. The muffled shouts of the royal guards turned into confused, fading cries as the thick fog rose from the mud, twisting the forest paths into a endless maze. The heavy canopy of ancient roots creaked, settling down over the hidden cottage like a protective stone vault, completely erasing their presence from the world above.

She lowered her hand, the emerald light fading into the quiet gloom.

"There," she chirped happily, spinning back around on her heel with a bright, childlike grin. "The king's men are chasing ghosts back to their warm beds!"

He let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension finally draining from his shoulders. He looked around the strange, cluttered room, at the jars of glowing liquids, the dried herbs, the whispering shadows, and the towering black raven watching him from its brass ring.

"I can't go back," he realized aloud, his voice low. "If I step foot outside these woods, the king's executioners will be waiting."

"Go back?" She gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her heart before bursting into a fit of quiet giggles. She hopped onto her tall wooden stool, resting her chin in her hands while her milky eyes stared blindly toward him. "Why would you ever leave? The world out there is loud, boring, and full of sharp swords! Here, we have tea, we have secrets, and the spirits tell wonderful stories!"

He looked at her, still a little unnerved by her unpredictable nature, yet strangely captivated by the eerie peace of her hidden sanctuary. He slid his dagger back into its sheath and leaned against the heavy wooden door.

"Then I suppose I'm staying," he said quietly.

Her raven let out a loud, triumphant cackle, and the witch grinned, her golden palm-eyes opening just a sliver to watch her new housemate settle into the dark.

He pulled a rough wooden chair out from beneath the long table and sat down, watching her intently. The initial terror that had gripped him upon entering the cottage was slowly giving way to a deep, nagging curiosity.

She sat on her stool, humming a disjointed, rhythmic tune while untying the silver thread around the velvet pouch. Her long, wavy brown hair fell over her shoulders, framing a face that was strikingly beautiful despite the bizarre, erratic nature of her movements. The black veil shifted slightly with her breath, resting lightly over the top of her dark curls.

"What is your name?" he asked, resting his arms on the table. "You seem to know everything about me, but I do not even know what to call you."

She stopped humming instantly. Her head snapped toward him at a sharp angle, her milky, blind eyes staring into the dark corner behind his chair.

"Names are heavy things, little thief," she whispered, her voice dropping into a eerie, low cadence. "They cling to you like damp clothes. They draw the eyes of things that wander in the shadow."

Suddenly, she let out a sharp giggle and clapped her hands together. The eyes in her palms blinked open for a brief second before disappearing into her pale skin as she clasped her fingers.

"Call me what the crow calls me," she sang out delightfully, gesturing toward the large bird on the brass perch.

The raven tilted its sleek black head, opening its beak to emit a low, gravelly rasp that sounded remarkably like a word, though completely unpronounceable to human ears.

"See?" she laughed, leaning forward until her face was only a foot from his. "Very simple! Very easy!"

He shook his head with a faint smile, leaning back in his chair. "I do not think my throat can make that sound. And what about your hands? How long have you had those eyes?"

She gasped, pulling her hands back toward her chest as if offended, though the wide, mischievous grin on her face betrayed her playfulness. She hopped off her stool and began pacing around his chair, her black skirts rustling softly against the stone floor.

"How long have you had your ears, runaway mouse?" she retorted, leaning over his shoulder from behind so close he could smell the faint scent of crushed lavender and dried rain on her cloak. "They grew when I needed to see what the world was hiding beneath its skin. The eyes up here," she tapped her forehead right above her unseeing milky gaze, "they only see the physical shell. Boring! Mundane! But the palms... the palms see the heart, the soul, and the debts yet to be paid."

She spun back around to the front of his chair, her expression suddenly shifting into a look of solemn, ancient wisdom that completely erased her manic demeanor.

"You have many questions for someone who was nearly fed to the hounds an hour ago," she murmured softly. "Are you not afraid that asking too much might break the spell keeping you safe?"

He leaned forward, crossing his arms over the dark wood of the table, entirely unbothered by her subtle threat. The sheer absurdity of her sudden mood swings was quickly becoming more fascinating than frightening.

"If asking questions breaks the spell, then I suppose I will take my chances," he replied with a light smirk. "Besides, where else am I going to go?"

She let out a delighted, ringing gasp, spinning on her heels so fast her black veil billowed around her face like a dark cloud. She clapped her hands together, a brief flash of golden light winking from her palms before disappearing again as she pointed a finger straight at his nose.

"Bold! Very bold for a thief in stolen boots!" she chirped, hopping onto the edge of the table and swinging her legs like a child on a garden wall. "Ask then, little mouse! Ask your noisy questions before the spirits get bored and tell me to turn you into a toad!"

He chuckled, watching her wavy brown hair bounce with every movement. "Alright then. How old are you? You look young, but you talk like you were here when the mountains were just pebbles."

She threw her head back and laughed, a high, musical sound that filled the quiet cottage.

"Age?" she giggled, leaning down until her blind face was inches from his. "Oh, time is such a silly, rigid thing for mortals! You count your little winters, one by one, like shiny copper coins! I stopped counting somewhere around five hundred. Or was it six hundred? The crows stopped keeping track after the old king's castle fell into the sea, and frankly, so did I!"

He blinked in surprise, studying the smooth, unblemished skin of her face and the intricate ink tattoos tracing down her neck. "Five hundred years... and you have lived in this tiny cottage the whole time?"

"Tiny?" She gasped in mock outrage, dramatically pressing her hands over her heart. The eyes in her palms blinked open in unison, staring directly at his face with mischievous gold irises. "This house stretches for miles if you know which door to open! And besides, the outside world gets so loud and messy. People constantly running around, fighting, stealing velvet pouches..."

She reached out with one pale hand, her golden palm eye winking out as her soft fingers tapped his cheek playfully.

"Tell me, little thief," she purred with a mischievous grin, her milky eyes sparkling in the firelight. "Do you always ask this many questions when a beautiful witch saves your life?"

He grinned, shaking his head as he leaned back slightly against his chair.

"Only when the beautiful witch happens to have eyes in her hands and a bird that looks like it wants to eat my dagger," he teased back, nodding toward the raven.

The bird let out another low, gravelly croak, flicking its dark tail feathers as if it understood every word.

She cackled loudly, hopping down off the table with effortless grace. Her black skirts swirled around her boots as she skipped over to a tall wooden shelf overflowing with strange glass jars, dusty leather books, and bundles of dried lavender.

"Ignis is very protective!" she sang out, reaching up to gently pat the raven on its head. "He remembers when men came with torches instead of questions. But you... you are much more entertaining than a torch!"

"Ignis," he repeated, testing the name on his tongue as he watched her wander down the narrow aisle of shelves. "And what about the veil? Do you ever take it off?"

She froze mid-step, her back to him. The sudden stillness returned to her posture, heavy and electric, before she slowly turned her head over her shoulder. Her blind, milky eyes fixed on the empty air beside him, while both of her hands smoothed the fabric over her dark, wavy hair.

"The veil keeps the sky from looking too closely," she whispered, her voice shifting into a soft, mysterious tone that sent a pleasant chill down his spine. "When you carry the eyes of the realm in your skin, sometimes you must draw a curtain so the world doesn't burn from the sight."

Before the heavy silence could settle for too long, she burst into a sudden, quiet giggle, spinning back around with a bundle of dried mint in her hands.

"Besides," she added playfully, skipping back toward the bubbling pot on the hearth, "it keeps the smoke out of my hair when I cook! Now, tell me, runaway mouse, do thieves eat herb soup, or do you only consume stolen silver?"

He chuckled softly, resting his chin in his hand as he watched her move around the warm, glowing kitchen. For the first time in his life, he felt entirely unhurried, content to stay in the strange, enchanted cottage hidden beneath the roots.

He smiled, picking up a wooden spoon from the table and idly spinning it between his fingers. "I will take whatever soup you are making, as long as it does not turn me into a frog."

She gasped dramatically, turning toward him with her wooden ladle raised high like a sword. "A frog? How boring! If I were to turn you into anything, it would be a shiny little golden beetle so I could keep you in a velvet box!"

She dissolved into a fit of quiet giggles, dropping the herbs into the pot with a satisfying sizzle that filled the small cottage with the rich, soothing aroma of savory broth.

"So," he began, watching her stir the soup with that quick, rhythmic energy. "What about before all of this? Before the five hundred years, the eyes in your palms, and the hidden house under the roots? Do you remember your childhood? Were you born a witch?"

She paused, the wooden spoon hovering mid air above the steam. For a brief second, her manic playfulness seemed to soften into a rare, quiet nostalgia.

"Childhood," she murmured, the word trailing off like a forgotten song. She turned her hands over, opening her palms slightly so the golden eyes could look down at her own skin. "I remember soft green fields before the big forests grew over them. I remember my mother tying dried daisies into my hair and telling me that the stars were just silver buttons sewn onto the night sky."

She let out a soft, airy laugh, hopping back onto her wooden stool and resting her chin in her hand.

"I was not born with the palm eyes, if that is what you are wondering," she added playfully, leaning forward to whisper as if sharing a grand secret. "Those came later, when I bargained with the old spirit of the river to see the truths people hide behind their teeth. But the witch in me? Oh, that was always there! I used to talk to the robins when I was three, and by five, I could make the cottage bread rise just by humming to the yeast!"

He leaned back, completely captivated by the picture she painted. "And your parents? Were they like you?"

"They were simple folk," she chirped, her cheerful energy bouncing right back as she clapped her hands together with a sharp snap. "They grew carrots! Very lovely carrots! But when the magic in my fingers started turning the milk into sweet cream and making the flowers bloom in midwinter, they knew I belonged to the wild places."

She slid off her stool, grabbing two clay bowls from a high shelf and filling them with steaming soup before placing one directly in front of him.

"Now eat, little mouse," she said with a bright, mischievous grin, tapping her nose with her finger. "Or the spirits will think you are rude, and they are terribly picky about dinner guests!"

He took the clay bowl, the warm steam carrying the earthy scent of wild mushrooms and sweet herbs into his face. He blew gently on the broth before taking a small sip. To his delight, it tasted incredible, rich and comforting, washing away the lingering chill from the storm outside.

"See?" she chimed triumphantly, hopping back onto her stool and resting her feet on the bottom rung as she cradled her own bowl. "No frogs! No beetles! Just soup made by a very generous, very ancient host!"

He chuckled, setting his bowl down on the dark table. "I stand corrected. It is wonderful."

He looked around the room again, his gaze lingering on the strange trinkets cluttering her shelves, small carved bones, polished crystals that glowed with a soft internal light, and glass jars filled with shimmering powders.

"What about all of this?" he asked, gesturing broadly toward her apothecary. "How long does it take to learn how to make magic like yours? Is it all books and spells, or something else?"

She let out a delighted, ringing laugh, set her bowl down with a sharp clatter, and waved her pale hands in the air.

"Books?" she sang out mockingly, her blind face turning toward the dark rafters. "Books are just dried trees covered in ink! Magic is not a recipe you read off a page, little thief. Magic is a conversation!"

She leaned across the table, her dark, wavy hair spilling over her shoulders. She opened her hands slowly, letting the golden eyes in her palms blink open to stare straight into his eyes.

"You talk to the wind when you want it to blow your way," she whispered, her voice bouncing into that playful, secret tone again. "You ask the stone nicely before you crush it. You listen when the rain tells you where the mud is softest. Humans spend so much time shouting at the world, trying to command it, that they completely forget how to listen!"

He watched the glowing golden irises in her skin, no longer feeling the urge to flinch away. The eerie sight had somehow become a familiar, almost soothing part of her presence.

"And you?" he murmured, leaning in a fraction closer. "Do you ever get lonely down here beneath the roots? Just you, Ignis, and the whispering spirits?"

She froze for a split second, her theatrical energy pausing as her milky, blind eyes seemed to search his face. Then, a soft, genuine smile curved her lips, completely free of her usual manic wildness.

"I used to," she admitted softly, her voice dropping into a gentle cadence. "A long, long time ago. But then, every now and then, the forest drops a curious guest right onto my doorstep."

A soft warmth crept into his chest, replacing the last remaining traces of the fear that had chased him through the rain. He watched her set her clay bowl aside, her black skirts rustling as she shifted on her wooden stool.

"If you stopped counting your years at five hundred," he said quietly, resting his chin in his palm as he looked at her face, "does that mean you will live forever? Will you ever... die?"

She tilted her head, her dark, wavy hair falling over her shoulder as a thoughtful silence fell across the cottage. For once, she did not cackle or spin around in a wild circle.

"Forever is a long time, little mouse," she murmured, her voice soft and airy like falling leaves. "The trees fall, the mountains crumble, and even the stars burn out eventually. I am bound to the earth and the spirits, so as long as the roots breathe, I suppose I remain. But I do not think about the end. The present is far too interesting!"

He nodded slowly, looking around the hidden room once more, at the glowing hearth, the shelves of strange remedies, and the quiet comfort of the dark wooden walls. Outside, the world was full of royal guards, cold steel, and endless running. Down here, there was only warmth, magic, and her strange, captivating presence.

"Then... can I stay?" he asked, his voice steady and earnest. "Not just for the night. Can I stay here with you?"

She froze completely.

The playful, manic energy that seemed to move through her like a constant breeze evaporated instantly. Her mouth parted slightly, and for the first time since he had burst through her door, she looked utterly speechlessly taken aback.

Slowly, her pale hands unclasped on the table. The golden eyes in her palms opened wide, blinking in genuine astonishment as they stared into his face. Her blind, milky gaze remained fixed on him, entirely unmoving.

"Stay?" she echoed, the word coming out as a breathless whisper. "You... want to stay? In the dark? Beneath the roots?"

"I do," he said softly, offering her a faint, reassuring smile. "I have spent my whole life running from one job to the next, always looking over my shoulder. Here, for the first time, I feel like I can actually stop."

She stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to discern if this was a trick or a dream. People usually stumbled into her domain terrified, begging to leave, or seeking curses and bargains before fleeing back to the sunlit world. Nobody ever asked to share her quiet solitude.

A sudden, soft warmth bloomed across her cheeks, and her hands twitched before she quickly pressed her palms against her chest, hiding the golden eyes from view.

"You are a very strange little thief," she whispered, a small, genuine smile breaking through her shock, softer and sweeter than any of her manic grins.

Ignis the raven let out a gentle, low coo from his brass perch, settling his dark wings as if welcoming a permanent guest into their hidden home.

She looked at him for a long, quiet moment, her usual manic laughter entirely absent. The silence in the cottage felt warm, wrapped in the comforting scent of rain, woodsmoke, and lavender.

Slowly, a wide, mischievous grin returned to her lips, brighter and softer than before. She hopped down off her stool, her black skirts swirling, and skipped toward her workbench with a sudden burst of energy.

"Well then!" she chirped delightfully, clapping her hands together. The golden eyes in her palms winked open for a split second before vanishing as her pale fingers interlocked. "If you are staying, runaway mouse, you will need to learn how to keep up! The spirits expect tea at dusk, Ignis gets moody if his perch is dusty, and we have five hundred years of stories to catch up on!"

He laughed, leaning back in his chair with a deep sense of relief washing over him. "I think I can handle that."

"We shall see, little thief," she whispered, leaning over his chair from behind to pat his shoulder playfully. "We shall see."

Over the days and weeks that followed, the hidden cottage beneath the roots became a true sanctuary. Outside, the royal army eventually gave up their search, their memories of the thief fading into local folk tales. Down below, the dark house was filled with the rhythmic sounds of bubbling potions, quiet laughter, and endless chatter.

He helped her tend to her rare plants, clean the dusty potion jars, and prepare meals over the glowing hearth. In turn, she taught him the language of the forest, sharing ancient secrets and whispering back to the unseen spirits that drifted through the dark rafters.

As Ancient Magic was once something to fear, these traits developed in carriers, forcing the presentation of their secondary sex early as a form of pheromonal smokescreen.

For their first few years (2-3) after presenting their secondary sex, because their body is too young to efficiently handle Puberty 2.0, Alphas and Omegas experience an unpredictable and frequent rut/heat cycles. However, all variations experience hormonal fluctuations that NOT ONLY induce temporary heat and rut-like symptoms out-of-cycle in others, but simultaneously exude pheromones that calm those around them, as well as triggering an oxytocin release in them (in the case of Omegas, it's a level even higher than that of non-Ancient Magic using Omegas). It's a "Keep me! I'm safe!" reflex, and often triggers in situations of high stress.

This continuous exposure keeps them wanted by those around them, and in cases of threat, can ensure survival as it helps curtail violence against them.

They will eventually outgrow this automatic reflex, but by then, historically, Ancient Magic carriers would be well-integrated into their communities, and thus no longer need it.

Alphas learn to use this as an advantage and begin to instinctively lean on these pheromonal releases to influence others—be it through commanding means or charismatic ones. When they speak, others listen. It's not magic, it's just hormonal override—theirs over yours.

Omegas specifically lean toward temporary paralysis. Like an animal feigning death, it shows themselves as harmless, and with the pheromonal boost, induce feelings of protectiveness in others. This state also produces the hormone relaxin in their bodies, which acts as a muscle, joint, and ligament relaxer. So in the case that they are assaulted, it keeps them from hurting themselves in the struggle, while the pheromonal cocktail starts working on the other part/ies. Unfortunately, due to the inexperience in handling the chemical overload (oxytocin, dopamine, relaxin), a new Omega may not recall much, if all, of the first few heats—effectively in a fugue state until the conclusion of the hormonal event.

Percival Rackham was a Beta. Isadora Morganach was an Alpha. Teodoro Tesoro is a dualsex-type Omega.