Sophrayni's Quiet Hunt Chapter 12.

Chapter 12.

 

End Game.

 

Sophrayni stood in the cottage, she took the black dress out of the chest and laid it out across the table. She ignored the unpleasant feeling that touching the cloth gave her.

The air was still, but her thoughts weren’t. Nesthana’s offer echoed in her mind, sharp and tempting.

She reached for the cloth, fingers brushing its surface. It didn’t hum. It didn’t shimmer. It simply waited—a thing made to hold magic in, and keep it out. She thought about the wraith she had met when she was a child. He had a cloak made from Citspal, as he’d called it, so that he could leave the valley where his people had been confined by a powerful spell.

The door creaked. Sophrayni turned, heart jumping.

Tess stood in the doorway, wide-eyed and holding herself stiff, like she wasn’t sure whether to run or speak. “I—I didn’t know where else to go,” she said. “Something felt wrong. Like the air was holding its breath.”

Sophrayni blinked. “How did you find this place?”

Tess shrugged. “I don’t really know. After you disappeared, I sat on the floor outside Arcon’s room. I didn’t know what to do. I waited, hoping you’d come back…, but when you didn’t, I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. It was like the air was holding its breath.”

Tess ran her fingers along the edge of the black dress, then pulled back quickly. “It feels… wrong,” she said. “Like it doesn’t want to be touched.”

Sophrayni nodded. “It doesn’t. Not by magic. But I still want to know how you got here. It is very, very hard to travel like that to somewhere you don’t know and as I told you before, very, very dangerous.”

Tess nodded. “I know. When you did not come back, I closed my eyes and thought hard about you. I’ve never searched for someone with just my mind before. But I was desperate. And something answered.

It wasn’t your voice. Not exactly. It was more like a picture. A thatched cottage in the woods. Nettles by the door. Tall trees at the back with rooks flying around.

I hadn’t seen that place before. But somehow, I knew it. Knew it like a memory someone had tucked into my mind. I thought myself here and found myself outside the door.”

Sophrayni looked at her, really looked. Tess was pale, wide-eyed, and braver than she knew. “That was both foolish and brave,” she said.

Sophrayni watched Tess, still wide-eyed and bracing herself for disapproval perhaps, and felt a flicker of something deep and uneasy.

She had trained for years. Studied spells, memorized runes, learned the rules of movement and mind. And Tess—untaught, untested—had found her way here by instinct alone. It wasn’t just luck. It was power. Raw and quiet and dangerous, because Tess didn’t know what she was carrying.

Sophrayni folded the dress slowly, her fingers steady now. If she can do this without training… what else might she do?

She looked at Tess again. She was a problem for the future though, Nesthana was a more immediate threat

“This was made by the wraiths. Not ghosts, not monsters—just old things that live deep in the mountains. They grow a plant in the dark, in caves where no light ever reaches. That plant doesn’t like magic. It pushes it away if it is outside or holds it in when wrapped round it.”

Tess frowned. “So, it’s… like a trap?”

“Exactly,” said Sophrayni. “Calizone had it woven into a dress years ago, when she was fighting a witch who couldn’t be stopped any other way. She never wore it again. Just hung it up and waited.”

Tess looked at the cloth again, more carefully this time. “It’s not pretty.”

“No,” Sophrayni said. “It’s not meant to be. It was to keep the wearer safe from magic, nothing else.”

Tess hesitated. “Like Nesthana’s magic?”

Sophrayni met her eyes. “Yes. Like Nesthana’s magic.”

Tess frowned. “But how are we going to persuade her to wear it?”

Sophrayni smiled at the ‘we’. “Watch,” she said.

Sophrayni ran her fingers along the edge of the black cloth. It had once been a dress—stitched for a battle long past. But it wasn’t meant to be worn. Not this time.

She reached for pair of old shears in the drawer. The Citspal cloth didn’t cut easily, but the shears were sharp.

She didn’t shape it into sleeves or hems. She folded and stitched it into something simpler. A sack. Wide enough to hold a body. Strong enough to hold magic.

Tess watched, pale and quiet. “You’re going to put her in that?”

Sophrayni nodded. “Not just her. Everything she’s made of. Every stolen piece. Every echo.”

Tess nodded. “She is still not going to go in a sack without a fight.”

“Very true, we will just have to distract her and trust to luck, “said Sophrayni. “You take the sack and return to where you were in the corridor. I will go back to Nesthana’s room and distract her. You should be able to get in without her noticing, you move so silently. When I touch my sleeve, you throw the sack over her.”

“And if she is not trapped?” asked Tess.

“Then we are in serious trouble,” said Sophrayni. “But I cannot think of another way of catching her. Can you?”

Tess shrugged her shoulders, “Not really.”

“Ready then,” said Sophrayni and disappeared.

Tess looked round the cottage, there was a cat sat on the table, watching her with unblinking green eyes. “Wish me luck,” said Tess and disappeared. The cat merely licked a paw.

The corridor was dim, the air thick with silence. Tess reappeared just outside Arcon’s door, the Citspal sack folded tightly in her arms. She moved like shadow—quick, quiet, careful.

Tess stepped into the corridor outside Arcon’s room, the sack clutched tightly in her arms. It was heavier than she expected. The Citspal cloth didn’t hum or glow, but it felt alive—like it knew what it was meant to do.

She looked around. No guards. No copies of Nesthana. Just silence.

She moved quickly, soft-footed, the way she had learned when she was begging. The sack dragged slightly behind her, but she didn’t let it touch the walls.

Nesthana was still in the main chamber. Tess could feel her presence—like pressure in the air, like a storm waiting to break. She didn’t know what Sophrayni was doing, but she trusted her. She had to.

She reached the edge of the doorway and paused.

Inside, Nesthana was speaking. Her voice was calm, almost kind. Sophrayni stood still, listening—but not agreeing. Not yet.

Nesthana’s eyes narrowed the moment Sophrayni reappeared.

“You left,” she said. Not angry—curious. “Just vanished. That’s not polite. Where did you go?”

Sophrayni stepped forward, calm and unreadable. “Somewhere you’ve never been.”

Nesthana tilted her head. “There are few places I haven’t touched.”

“Then this is one of them,” Sophrayni said. “A place older than your ambition. A place you forgot existed.”

Nesthana’s smile flickered. “You were held. My magic doesn’t loosen on its own.”

Sophrayni shrugged. “Then perhaps it’s not as strong as you think.”

Nesthana’s smile returned, thin and sharp. “Or perhaps you’ve learned something new. Something old. Something borrowed.”

Her eyes flickered. “The cottage. Every hedge witch has heard of the cottage in the Dark Forest.”

Sophrayni didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

She simply turned, just slightly, as Tess stepped into the room behind Nesthana—quiet, steady, holding the sack.

Nesthana’s gaze shifted. “What is that?”

Sophrayni met her eyes. “Something you’ve never seen. Something you can’t control.”

Nesthana took a step toward Tess, curious now. “What is it made of?”

Sophrayni’s voice was quiet. “Citspal.”

Nesthana paused. “That’s not a word.”

“No,” Sophrayni said. “It’s not. Not in your world.”

Nesthana’s expression changed—not fear, not yet. But something close. A flicker of doubt.

Tess took a breath and stepped forward, quiet as shadow.

Nesthana’s gaze flicked to the sack in Tess’s arms. Her expression didn’t change, but the shimmer of magic around her faltered—just slightly.

She smiled. “That?” she said, voice smooth as silk. “A bundle of old cloth? You think that frightens me?”

Sophrayni didn’t answer.

Nesthana stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “You’ve brought a relic. Something stitched in shadows. I can feel it—yes. It bites. But only at the edges.”

She turned her head, eyes narrowing. “Citspal, you said? A name I’ve never heard. That’s the trouble with witches. Always naming things like it gives them power.”

She circled Tess, not touching, but close enough to make the girl flinch.

“I’ve walked through fire. I’ve swallowed storms. I’ve held the breath of a dozen witches in my bones. Do you really think a sack will stop me?”

Sophrayni stepped forward. “It’s not the sack. It’s what you’ve become.”

Nesthana’s smile thinned. “I’ve become what your kind feared. And what Calizone tried to erase.”

She turned back to Sophrayni, voice low and gleaming. “You should have joined me. You still could.”

Her smile was thinner now, and it didn’t reach her eyes. “You speak like Calizone. Always circling. Always hinting. But you’re not her.”

“No,” Sophrayni said. “I’m what came after.”

Nesthana stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “You think you’re different. But you carry her voice. Her shadows. Her fear.”

Sophrayni tilted her head. “And you carry the shadows of witches who never chose you.”

Nesthana’s smile faltered. “They chose power. I gave it shape.”

“You gave it hunger,” Sophrayni said. “And now it’s eating you.”

Nesthana’s magic shimmered again—a flicker of heat in the air. “You think you understand me?”

“I think you’re still trying to convince yourself you’re whole.”

Nesthana’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, girl.”

Sophrayni took a slow step forward, drawing her attention. “You said I could be a queen. But you never asked what kind.”

Nesthana paused.

Behind her, Tess moved, sack in hand, eyes locked on the moment.

Sophrayni’s fingers brushed her sleeve—just once. A gesture so small it could have been nothing.

But Tess saw it. She stepped forward, quiet as dusk, sack in hand.

Nesthana turned, sensing the movement too late.

Sophrayni spoke, voice clear and steady. “Now.”

Tess moved fast—one sharp motion—and the sack dropped over Nesthana, heavy and final, like a spell cast without words.

Nesthana screamed—not loud, but deep. A sound that came from every stolen voice inside her.

She faltered, knees buckling as if the magic inside her had lost its spine, and collapsed into the waiting trap.

Sophrayni pulled the edges tight and tied the knot fast, her fingers steady even as the sack writhed in her hands.

Then the copies appeared. They came from the walls, the shadows, the stairwell—dozens of them, eyes blank, movements sharp. But they didn’t attack.

They paused. And then the sack pulled. It didn’t open. It didn’t glow. It simply drew them in—one by one, like threads being tugged back into the weave.

They didn’t resist. They couldn’t.

Each copy flickered as it vanished, a shimmer of stolen magic collapsing into the cloth. The sack pulsed with each one, growing heavier, darker, quieter.

Tess stepped back. “Is it… eating them?”

Sophrayni didn’t answer. She was watching the knot. Watching the way it held. And the way the air around it had gone still.

The sack shuddered—not because she was struggling, but because her form was coming apart, leaving only the shimmer of stolen magic, weightless and writhing. Then, it sagged, suddenly slack. Nesthana’s body was gone, unravelled into nothing, leaving only the echo of power sealed inside, weightless and helpless.

“Has she escaped?” Tess sounded very worried.

Sophrayni shook her head. “No. All that’s left is her magic—and it has no shape. She’s gone. But the magic’s still dangerous. If we don’t seal it properly, it could escape. It could come back.”

“What about the spell on the potions?” Tess asked.

“That spell went with the copies,” said Sophrayni. “Potions don’t stop when the person who made them goes, so the people who took them and were hooked are going to be very unhappy when they can no longer get the potion.”

Tess giggled. “There’s a lot of nettle soup going to be needed.”

Sophrayni chuckled. “And possibly nettle gin too. I’ll get Lord Rocco to send messages to all the charmers about nettles.”