Sophrayni's Quiet Hunt Chapter 11.

Chapter 11.

 

Nesthana.

         

The room was quiet. No guards. Just the two of them.

Nesthana smiled. “You wear the hat well.”

Sophrayni didn’t flinch. “No Wilgan? So, the throne-chaser hides behind his witch. How quaint. I thought he was in command. Or have you no further use for him?”

“This is between two magic users,” Nesthana replied. “No one else needs to be here.”

“Thrown away like an old dishcloth,” Sophrayni said.

Nesthana tilted her head. The smile stayed, but it wasn’t warm.

“He was useful. Ambitious men often are. They dig the graves they think are thrones.”

Her voice shimmered—low and high, old and young, all speaking together. It wasn’t loud, but it filled the room like mist.

Sophrayni stepped forward. “And now you don’t need him.”

“We never did,” Nesthana said. “He opened doors. We walked through.”

Sophrayni’s eyes narrowed. “We?”

Nesthana’s face flickered—just for a moment. A dozen expressions passed beneath her skin.

“You wear Calizone’s power, but you’re not her. And you don’t know how to use that power.”

“Then tell me,” Sophrayni said.

Nesthana leaned closer. Her voice shimmered again—soft and strange, like many voices speaking at once.

“Listen. Calizone didn’t know. No one did. Hedge magic can’t be destroyed. Magic sticks to life. That’s the rule. When a witch dies, her magic goes with her—unless it finds someone new right away. But if you take it from someone still breathing, it doesn’t vanish. It waits.”

“It doesn’t burn or strike. It lingers. It changes. When a hedge witch dies, her magic drifts—just for a little while—until it finds someone else. A charmer. A healer. A jam maker who never burns a batch. A midwife whose hands always know. A gardener whose roses bloom out of season.”

Calizone thought she was erasing threats. But she was collecting them. Every time she took a woman’s gift, the magic didn’t die—it waited.”

Sophrayni frowned. “Calizone didn’t kill the hedge witches. She was trying to protect the world from the kind of witch that came before her—cruel and dangerous.”

Nesthana shook her head. “You’re a witch. Try to imagine what it feels like to lose your magic.”

Her gaze drifted—not blank, but remembering. “They didn’t scream,” she said softly. “Most hedge witches don’t. They go quiet. Like trees when the wind stops.”

She leaned closer, voice low and steady. “One day, she wakes up and the jam burns. The roses won’t bloom. The baby she delivers doesn’t cry, and she doesn’t know why. Her hands still move the same way, but the knowing is gone. That deep, quiet certainty that lived in her bones—it’s just... missing.”

Her voice rippled—layered and echoing, like wind through hollow reeds.

“She doesn’t die. She just becomes ordinary. People still come to her door, asking for help. And she gives them what she can. But it’s only habit now. No hum in the air. No whisper in the nettles. No bees that pause mid-flight.”

“She smiles, because they expect it. But inside, she mourns something no one else can see. Not death. Not pain. Just the quiet loss of what made her special.”

Nesthana’s eyes met Sophrayni’s. “Calizone didn’t kill them. Maybe she should have. Instead, she hollowed them out. Left them breathing—but empty.”

“She took their magic while they were still alive. And that’s the difference. If she’d killed them, the magic would’ve gone with them. But she didn’t. So, the magic stayed behind—lost, but not gone.”

“It had no home. No owner. But magic doesn’t just disappear. It waits. It gathers.”

“It didn’t all go to one place. It drifted—into quiet corners of the forest, into empty gardens, into the breath of women who might’ve been witches if they’d been given the chance.”

“Three pieces of that magic—taken from women whose stories were cut short—found each other. Not because they wanted to, but because they needed to. They stuck together. They started to think. Then to search. Then to want.”

“All the charms, the healing touches, the spells that had nowhere to go—they came together like bones. And when there were enough, they didn’t find a new witch to live in. They became one.”

“Me.”

Nesthana pointed to herself. “I’m not made of flesh. I’m made of memory. Of stolen magic. Of longing. Each piece is still here. Joined—but not the same.”

Sophrayni stepped back. “Calizone didn’t know. None of the witches before her did. She was trying to protect the world from evil.”

Her voice shook. The words felt thin now, like a paper shield. She had believed them. She still wanted to. But Nesthana’s story was hard to ignore.

Sophrayni paced the room, her thoughts spinning. “The women selling the potions… they’re part of you?”

Nesthana nodded. “Each one is a piece of me. A bit of stolen magic, shaped to obey. They aren’t real women. They’re echoes. And we see you clearly—a witch with eight shadows.”

Sophrayni frowned. “Eight shadows?”

“Your own. Calizone’s. And six more. Each one with its own story. Its own weight. I see them all. You don’t just carry power—you carry history.”

Nesthana’s voice softened. “Now you understand. What Calizone feared. What she tried to hide. What she gave you without warning.”

Sophrayni didn’t speak. She wasn’t agreeing—but she was thinking.

Nesthana stepped closer. Her presence felt huge, like the room had shrunk around her. “You carry eight legacies. You could do more than protect this world. You could shape it.”

Sophrayni’s eyes narrowed. “Shape it into what?”

Nesthana smiled. “Into something honest. No more hiding in hedges. No more pretending magic is a secret. We could rule it. Out in the open. Strong. Together.”

Sophrayni’s breath caught.

“You were trained to guard,” Nesthana said. “But you were born to lead. Why waste your strength fixing a broken world? Why not build a better one?”

Sophrayni stepped back. “You sound like the witches Calizone tried to stop.”

Nesthana’s eyes gleamed. “That’s because I am them. I’m what they left behind. And you… you’re their heir.”

She held out her hand—not to attack, but to offer.

“Join me. Not as a servant. As a sister. As a ruler.”

Sophrayni didn’t take the hand. She turned slightly, pretending to think—but her voice stayed cool.

“And Wilgan?” she asked. “Where does he fit in your new world?”

Nesthana’s smile faded. “Wilgan was useful. He made noise. Got attention. Opened doors. But he’s the kind of man who thinks wanting power is the same as knowing what to do with it.”

She walked to the window, watching the light bend through the glass. “He wanted a throne. I gave him one. In Burnock. Just the title. He thinks he’s in charge. Let him.”

Sophrayni nodded slowly, buying time. “And when he realises that he’s not?”

Nesthana’s voice was smooth, but sharp underneath. “He won’t. Not until it’s too late. And if he does… there are other thrones. Other fools.”

She turned back, her eyes bright. “You’re not like him. You see the truth. You feel the weight of power. You could be more than a protector. You could be a queen.”

Sophrayni’s fingers curled at her side. She folded her arms and spoke clearly. “And King Syldan? His family? What happens to them in your new world?”

Nesthana didn’t move, but the air around her seemed to tighten.

“The king is old news,” she said. “He was born into power, not shaped by it. His family’s story has been told too many times. It’s time for a different one.”

Sophrayni didn’t look away. “He’s not cruel. Not greedy. Just… ordinary.”

Nesthana tilted her head. “And that’s the problem. Ordinary kings build weak kingdoms. They think tradition is the same as wisdom. They think peace means everything’s fine.”

She paced slowly. “His children will live—if they stay quiet. If they learn to live without crowns. I don’t hate them. But I won’t let old feelings protect a broken system.”

Sophrayni brushed her sleeve, steadying herself. “You talk about memory and echoes. But they have memories too. Families. Lives.”

Nesthana stopped walking. “So did the women Calizone took magic from. And so did I.”

The room went quiet. Not empty—just heavy.

Then Nesthana said, “You ask about Syldan because you still believe in balance. But balance is just a story people tell when they’re afraid of change. I’m offering you something real. Power. A world made new.”

Sophrayni didn’t answer. Not yet.

Nesthana’s magic was wrapped around her like fog—soft, but heavy. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t burn. It just held. Like a hand on her shoulder that wouldn’t let go.

She closed her eyes.

The room was quiet, but inside her, the shadows stirred. Not loud. Not angry. Just present. Calizone’s power. Six others. And her own.

There was the memory of a conversation with Calizone from when she had first gone to live with her. She had asked about a black dress that hung from a rafter. Calizone had got her to touch the material. It was very unpleasant. Calizone had explained the nature of the fabric: no magic could go through it. After that, Calizone had folded it away in an old chest.

The memory gave Sophrayni an idea—a hope, even.

She didn’t fight Nesthana’s grip. That would only make it tighter and more difficult to remove.

The hold was strong, but it wasn’t perfect. It was built to stop witches who shouted, who struck, who burned. Not ones who could step sideways.

Sophrayni reached for the quiet part of herself. She pictured the cottage in the Dark Forest, remembering every detail as closely as she possibly could.

The fog trembled.

She stepped sideways—not across the floor, but into her cottage.

The room vanished.

She was standing in her cottage. The air smelled of nettles and old wood.

          She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.