CHAPTER 107: CHAPTER 106: THE WITCH’S DOMAIN

Kael left the Marquis’s palace

The Marchioness lived. He had seen her chest rise and fall in steady rhythm, her face no longer marked with hollow wounds. The Witch had done what no physician could. The Marquis himself had bowed, and Leonard’s stone-hard expression had finally cracked.

But Kael’s thoughts were not on their gratitude. His mind lingered on the words the Witch had spoken in the forest.

Stop feeding the rats in the tunnels of your other house.

Kael walked alone through the streets of Mangort, unnoticed among the morning bustle. Merchants opened stalls. His feet carried him beyond the city gates, toward the road that led back into the Blackroot Forest.

The Witch was waiting. He knew it without being told.

By the time he reached the tree line, the day was bright, but the forest seemed to hold back the light. Shadows stretched long across the roots. The air smelled of damp earth and moss. Kael walked without hesitation. The path seemed to bend for him, the same way it had before.

He did not stop until he reached the clearing where the Witch’s house stood.

She was already outside. Standing barefoot on the grass, black hair loose, green eyes calm.

"You came," she said.

Kael stopped a few paces away. His face was steady, but his voice carried a weight. "I had questions."

The Witch gave a faint smile. "Of course you do. Come. I’ll show you."

She turned and walked back into the small wooden house. Kael followed.

The interior was the same as before—shelves of jars, copper kettles, paper marked with wards—but something shifted when she touched the far wall. Her hand pressed flat against the wood, and lines of light spread outward like cracks in stone.

The wall opened. Not with hinges, but as if the air itself had peeled back. Beyond lay a narrow passage of stone, lit by faint green glowstones embedded in the walls.

"Follow," she said.

Kael stepped inside. The air changed at once—cooler, sharper, carrying a metallic tang like rain on iron. The passage sloped downward, twisting deeper into the earth.

It ended in a wide chamber.

Kael stopped.

The walls curved like the inside of a dome. Smooth stone. The floor was marked with circles of metal, half-buried, their surfaces engraved with patterns that glowed faint blue. Along the edges of the chamber stood relics—shards of machines, strange crystal pillars, fragments of black glass.

At the center rose a broken arch of dark stone, half-collapsed but still humming with faint power. Its surface was carved with the same small squares and crescents as the black box he had delivered.

This place was not hers. Not built by her hand. It was older. Much older.

The Witch walked to the arch and placed her palm against it. The stone rippled faintly under her touch.

"This," she said, "is what remains of them. The ones who came before your kingdoms, before your Empire. An ancient civilization that shaped the paths between worlds. They built doors, bridges, and keys. Your ring is one of those keys."

Kael looked down at his hand. The blue stone glimmered faintly, as if it heard her words.

"My grandfather found this," he said.

She nodded. "Theodore came here many years ago. Young, reckless, but clever. He carried the same stubborn spark I see in you. He found me by accident. He was nearly killed by the wards outside. But when he reached this chamber, the ring on his hand answered."

Kael’s breath slowed. "He had the ring before me?"

"No," she said. "He found it. Or perhaps it found him. Buried in the forest, clutched by a corpse long turned to dust. He never learned its origin. But he knew it was not of his world."

She turned to him. "He asked me what it was. I told him what I knew: that the Ancients used such keys to walk between domains. That each ring was paired with doors hidden in stone, steel, or even flesh. And that only those who bore the right mark could open them."

Kael stepped closer to the broken arch. His reflection bent and shimmered on its surface, as though he looked at water instead of stone.

"He kept this secret," Kael said. "Even from his family."

"Yes," she said softly. "He trusted no one but me. And in time, he trusted you. That is why he gave you the ring."

Kael studied the arch. "Why me? Why not Leonard? Or the others?"

"Because you were the one who listened," the Witch said. "Your cousins chase power. Your uncle chased wealth. But you understand trade. Balance. Debt and promise. That is the true language of the Ancients. They did not build kingdoms. They built exchanges. Between worlds. Between lives."

Her words sank into him like stones falling through water.

"And the box?" he asked.

"One of their vessels," she said. "Each holds a fragment. A memory. A charge of their art. Theodore safeguarded one. He promised me he would keep it until I called for it. And he kept that promise."

Kael nodded once. The box was gone now, sealed again by her hand.

"What about the others?" he asked quietly. "There were twelve hooks in that room. Only one was filled."

The Witch’s eyes darkened. "Scattered. Lost. Some buried. Some stolen. Some perhaps still held by men who do not understand what they are. If all twelve were gathered... the doors would open wide again. Wider than even I can imagine."

Kael looked at his ring. It felt heavier now, as though it carried not just his grandfather’s gift, but the weight of a forgotten world.

He turned back to her. "And what of me? What am I supposed to do with this?"

The Witch studied him for a long moment. Then she said, "Finish what your grandfather could not. Protect the key. Learn the doors. And when the time comes, choose wisely who may walk them."

Kael exhaled slowly. He felt the shape of his path shifting under his feet.

But before he could ask more, the Witch raised her hand. A ripple of light spread across the chamber. The broken arch glowed faintly, then darkened again.

"You are not finished here," she said. "There is still one account left unsettled."

Kael frowned. "What account?"

She turned to him fully. Her eyes were sharp, green and old. "The true Will of Theodore Lancaster. Your grandfather gave it to a man he trusted, knowing his family would fight over scraps. That man still holds it."

Kael’s chest tightened. "Saito."