Problems with time. Chapter 4.

Chapter Four.

 

Thinking Time.

 

Calizone woke with a jolt, her neck screaming in sharp protest.

For a moment she did not know where she was. Then the hard edge of the oak table reminded her. She had slept with her head on her arm like an untrained apprentice who had forgotten her limits.

She sat up slowly, wincing. Her back felt as though someone had replaced her spine with a plank of badly seasoned timber. Her right hand was stiff from clutching the leather cover of the diary, and her left cheek bore a faint red imprint of a line of archaic text.

“Idiot,” she muttered. “You have a perfectly good bed.”

She pushed herself upright and crossed to the wash‑stand. The bowl of water was icy, the cottage always kept it that way unless she chose to warm it, and she had no patience for unnecessary magic this morning. She splashed her face, gasping as the cold bit into her skin. It helped. A little.

Her dark hair was a tangled mess. She ignored it.

Breakfast was a necessity. She cut two thick slices of bread, slathered them with heather honey, and ate standing up, leaning one hand on the table for balance. The honey was good, steady, familiar, untroubled by time’s recent misbehaviour, and the bread behaved itself, staying solid and fresh.

Then she reached for the small clay cup on the top shelf. The potion inside was a dull greenish‑brown, smelling faintly of mint and something altogether less pleasant. She grimaced at it.

“Not my finest creation,” she murmured, and drank it in one quick gulp.

It tasted exactly as it looked: bitter, sharp, and faintly metallic. But a deep warmth spread through her chest almost at once, easing the stiffness in her shoulders, smoothing the dull ache behind her eyes, and settling her thoughts into proper order.

She set the cup down with a long sigh. “Better.”

Outside, the forest shifted again, a soft, uneasy rustle, as though the trees were waiting for her to make a move.

Calizone sat back down at the table, the dead witches’ diaries spread around her like silent witnesses. The potion had eased her physical stiffness, but not her temper. She was angry with herself for falling asleep at the table, angry with the forest for misbehaving, and angry with whatever, or whoever, was tugging so carelessly at the weave of the world.

She rested both hands flat on the polished wood and closed her eyes.

There was one spell she could cast. A dangerous one. A seeking spell that would tell her if another magic‑user was actively interfering with the flow of time.

She had not cast it in years. It was not forbidden, but it was profoundly unwise.

If someone was meddling with time, the spell would reveal them, but it would also reveal her. It would flare like a beacon across the canopy of the Dark Forest, announcing that the Witch of the Dark Forest was searching for them. And if the other witch turned out to be stronger, reckless, or simply panicked, it could trigger an immediate confrontation. A battle of magic was never something to be undertaken lightly; even she could lose.

Calizone opened her eyes and stared at the unlit candle until a thin spark caught the wick. Its flame wavered, then steadied, as though listening to her breath.

She breathed out slowly. “Foolish,” she whispered. “But necessary.”

She lifted her hand, her fingers poised above the table. The air around her tightened, as though the cottage itself were bracing for an impact.

For a long moment, she did nothing. She simply sat and thought.

If she cast the spell, she risked drawing unwanted attention. If she did not cast it, she risked remaining ignorant. And in her experience, ignorance was far more dangerous than an enemy.

Calizone lowered her hand. “I will do it,” she said quietly. “But carefully.”

She drew a slow, deep breath, gathering her strength, preparing her mind, and shaping the spell with the absolute precision of someone who knew exactly how much danger she was courting.

Calizone sat very still, the warmth of the potion settling deep into her bones. She shaped the magic in her mind with slow, deliberate care, not a broad net, not a blinding flare, just a thin, precise thread of seeking. A whisper of intent, nothing more.

She lifted her hand.

The cottage seemed to lean inward.

Calizone released the spell.

It drifted outward like fine grey smoke, slipping smoothly through the cottage walls, threading between the thick oaks, brushing the forest floor, and sliding along roots, stones, and shadows. It was the lightest touch she could manage, barely a breath, barely a thought, but still dangerous. If anyone was actively meddling with time, they would feel it. They would know she was looking for them.

Calizone held her breath.

The spell reached further.

Further still.

Across the boundaries of the woods.

Nothing.

No flare of answering magic.

No ripple of resistance.

No echo of another witch’s presence.

Just cold, empty silence.

The spell returned to her like a homing bird that had found no perch. It settled back into her palm, cold and utterly devoid of information.

Calizone frowned.

“That,” she said softly to the quiet room, “is much worse.”

If a witch had been interfering with time, Calizone would have sensed them. Even a weak witch leaves a distinct trace. Even a village Charm‑worker leaves a smudge in the weave. Even a frightened apprentice leaves a nervous flicker.

But there was nothing at all.

Which meant the problem was not being caused by a rival witch. Or, far more unsettling, it was being caused by something that possessed no magical signature whatsoever.

Calizone lowered her hand slowly. The candle spluttered, then steadied.

She sat back in her chair, staring down at the yellowed pages of the diaries.

“No witch,” she murmured. “No spell. No hand behind the threads.”

She rubbed her forehead, feeling the weight of the realm pressing against her thoughts.

“If there is no witch,” she said quietly, “then something far older is slipping.”

Outside, the forest rustled again, a brittle, papery sound, like leaves remembering a long‑forgotten storm.

Calizone closed her eyes for a moment. Nothing was infinitely worse than something. Because nothing meant the tear in time was not being pulled by a person.

It was pulling itself.

Calizone rubbed her temples. The potion had steadied her body, but her mind was racing.

“If the small magic is behaving,” she murmured, “and the great magic is silent… then what?”

Outside, the forest shifted again, a low, uneasy rustle in the high canopy.

Calizone drew a slow, deep breath. She was rapidly running out of places to look.

She sat very still, her hands folded on the table, the diaries spread around her like a council of silent ghosts. The distant echoes of the Charmers’ small magic had faded from her mind, leaving only the steady, comforting hum of Azaz’s protective spell and the faint, brittle unease of the woods outside.

She closed her eyes and thought deeply about the fundamental laws of magic.

Small magic behaved itself. A Charm‑worker’s spell did its brief job and vanished immediately, a warm blanket, a healed bruise, a lucky net, a soothed headache. They were mere sparks. Harmless. Brief. Gone the instant their purpose was served.

Big magic was entirely different. Big magic stayed. It clung. It took root. It settled into the foundations of the world like a heavy stone dropped into deep water.

She had used big magic many times in her long life, far too many times, if she were honest with herself. She thought of the grand spell she had once cast over the town of Barford, holding every person motionless in time until she could untangle the dangerous mess they had made.

Spells of that magnitude had to be cast with supreme care. They had to be anchored securely to a physical place, never to the witch who cast them. If a grand spell remained tied to the caster, it dragged continuously at her life, her strength, and her breath. It would consume her from within, snuffing her out of existence and leaving nothing behind but a scorch mark in the weave of reality.

Furthermore, magic itself dictated how a great spell could be broken. The witch did not get to choose; magic set its own terms.

A spell that held a town might require an act of unconditional kindness to dissolve.

A spell that bound an ancient creature might be broken by a spoken truth.

A spell that locked a mountain pass might demand a great sacrifice.

Magic always set the terms, and magic always demanded its price. Get a grand spell slightly wrong, and the caster suffered. Get it dreadfully wrong, and the caster died. It was the primary reason she rarely performed high magic these days, a sobering lesson any magic‑user did well to remember.

Calizone opened her eyes.

Small magic was behaving.

Big magic was completely silent.

No living witch was meddling.

Which meant this tear in time was not being caused by a newly cast spell.

It was being caused by an old one.

She rubbed her temples, feeling the sheer weight of the world pressing against her thoughts.

“Something anchored,” she murmured into the quiet cottage. “Something left unfinished.”

Outside, the forest shifted again, a soft, brittle rustle, like leaves remembering an ancient storm.