Chapter 6 The Visit To The Sorceress

Arianna found him sitting alone on the harbour wall just before dawn.

She hadn’t managed to sleep at all. The feast had run late, past midnight, and she’d danced with half the Seatopian court, leaving her feet aching and her head spinning—a weird kind of exhaustion from being watched too much. So, she slipped out of her rooms into the night, wrapped in her cloak, chasing the smell of salt. And out there, on the old stone wall, swinging his boots over the water, was Fredric, munching roasted chestnuts from a paper cone.

He didn’t turn around. “Let me guess,” he said. “You couldn’t sleep either.”

“Is it really that obvious?”

He grinned. “You walk like a cat on hot bricks when you’re awake too long.” He patted the stone beside him. Arianna climbed up, feeling the cold, damp wall under her. Across the harbour, everything shimmered gray and silver, just before sunrise.

They sat together, sharing chestnuts, not talking. A fishing boat slipped between the anchored ships, its lantern swaying.

Arianna finally broke the silence. “They liked you.”

“They liked the flower.”

“They liked you. Honestly, everyone does.” She hugged her knees. “Fredric, does it scare you? To be loved like that? To think it could all go wrong, and turn against you just as fast?”

He considered her question, the way he always did—honest, thoughtful, his whole face showing it. “Sometimes. But I don’t think that’s why people like me. I think it’s because I never ask them for anything.” He bumped her shoulder. “I don’t want the throne, Arianna. I don’t want to be anyone’s hero. I just want a little house with a garden and the worst dog ever. I want to wake up and make you terrible porridge.”

She laughed—a real laugh, surprised by tears prickling her eyes.

“That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I’m a poet,” he said.

“You’re a menace.” She leaned her head against his arm. The sky was starting to turn—pink bleeding into the gray. “What if your father never lets us go?”

“Then I’ll wait. I’m really good at waiting.”

“Since when?”

“Since I met you.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Trust me. Nobody in the world wants less to be king than I do. It won’t happen. Adrian will be better than I ever could.”

Arianna smiled, tucked against his sleeve, and believed all of it.

She had no idea a window in the harbour palace overlooked them—and Athalia was standing there, arms folded, watching the two of them at dawn.

The sorceress lived down at the end of a crooked street in the old port, tucked inside a house that wasn’t shown on any map.

Athalia found it the way she found everything, just by listening. A stray comment from a maid at the feast. A fishmonger’s tale. The rumor that if you walked along the Street of Lost Anchors, right at the turn of the tide, holding a coin and a heavy wish, a door might open where none had been before.

She went alone. She told Lira she was off to visit a perfumer. Threw on a plain gray cloak, kept her hood pulled up, passing drunken sailors and women mending nets, until the street narrowed and the sounds of the sea faded, and there she stood, before a low black door with a brass ring shaped like a mountain.

The door swung open before she even touched it.

Inside, the air carried the smell of dried lavender, smoke, and something older. A lamp burned on a low table. Bundles of herbs hung overhead like clusters of sleeping bats. In the far corner, in a high-backed chair, sat a woman whose face Athalia couldn’t quite make out.

It was odd—the room was small, the lamp bright, not much distance. But every time Athalia tried to fix her gaze on the woman’s face, the features seemed to slip away, like a word she couldn’t recall.

“You came,” the woman said. Her voice was soft and dry, oddly gentle. “They always do. Sit.”

Athalia sat, though she hadn’t even noticed the stool. “You know why I’m here.”

“I know what you want. It’s not the same.” The woman’s hands rested still in her lap. On one finger glinted a thick silver ring, a tiny mountain engraved on it. “Tell me.”

“I want…” Athalia faltered. She’d rehearsed this, over and over, in the mirror, in dozens of versions. Now, with those invisible eyes on her, every version just faded away. “I want to matter.”

“That’s not a wish. That’s hunger.”

“Then,” Athalia said, “I want to be impossible to ignore. I want to walk in and claim a room. I want people to choose me before they even understand why. I want…” She hesitated. “I want what my sister has. Without becoming her.”

The woman went quiet, then began to hum.

It started as a low, tuneless thing—like someone half-distracted. The sound wandered, found a melody, and finally settled on a lullaby. It was slow, sweet, heartbreakingly familiar in a way she couldn’t explain, like a song you’d hear from a mother you never met. Athalia felt the hair stand up on her arms. She’d never heard it before, but somehow, she knew it.

“I can give you that,” the woman said, after the song faded. “Beauty that draws the eye. A voice that carries. A warmth that draws others near, whether they want it or not. For a price.”

“I’ll pay.”

“You don’t know the price.”

“I don’t care.”

“That,” the woman murmured, “is exactly what frightens me.”

The lamp flickered. When the woman spoke again, her voice carried something Athalia couldn’t name. Not cruelty, but maybe grief.

“Think carefully. This isn’t a game. Magic always exacts its price, and it’s personal. What I take will matter more than you can imagine now.”

“Take it.”

“It’s not mine to take. It’s yours to give.” The ring caught the lamplight. “Never bear a child. That’s the bargain. Never carry a child to term, never hold a child born from your body. Do you understand?”

Athalia blinked.

She’d expected something bigger—a year of her life, a memory, part of her soul (whatever that meant). Not this simple, almost reasonable thing.

A child.

She’d never wanted one. She’d never even thought about it. Children were what women had when they had nothing else. She was going to be queen.

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“I accept.”

“Say it plainly. Make the vow.”

“I vow,” Athalia said, with steady voice, “never to bear a child.”

The room changed.

It was subtle. The lamp didn’t even flicker. No wind rose. But the air thickened—like a weight settling on the house—and she felt something shift deep inside, a click, like a lock closing.

Heat washed through her, starting at her chest, spreading to her fingers, scalp, feet. Her skin tingled. Her eyes watered. For one wild, beautiful moment, she felt like a flower blooming all at once. Then it faded, and she was left trembling, holding the stool.

The sorceress didn’t move. Her hands sat still in her lap.

“It’s done,” she said. “You’ll feel it by morning.”

Athalia took a shaky breath. “Will I regret it?”

“Everyone regrets it eventually.” The voice was softer now. “Whether they admit it is another matter.”

Athalia stood, legs shaky. She laid a gold coin on the table; the woman ignored it.

She was almost at the door when the sorceress spoke again.

“One last thing.”

“Yes?”

“The terms are binding. Not just on you. On the thing you love most, if you break them.” The words hung in the air. “I want you to remember that. Not now. Later. When you have a reason to forget.”

Athalia stood with her hand gripping the iron ring.

“Why do you care?” she asked.

Nothing. When she glanced back, the chair was empty, lamp gone dark. And somewhere, deep in the shadows, someone was humming.

She slipped into the gray morning, the black door clicking shut behind her. When she turned back, only blank stone stood at the end of the street.

She didn’t know the word never would come due, or that it would cost her everything. She only knew she’d never felt so strong. She walked back to the palace with her hood thrown back, hair loose in the sea wind, and sailors turned to watch her pass.

She didn’t look back. Didn’t look at the wall.

She had what she wanted. The price—though she didn’t realize it yet—had snapped shut behind her like a trap.