Sophrayni's Quiet Hunt Chapter 2.

Chapter 2:

The Journey Begins.

The black dress hung from the rafters like a shadow waiting to fall. Sophrayni stared at it for a long time, arms folded, lips pressed thin. The hat sat beside it on the dresser—wide-brimmed, stiff, and unmistakable. It was a silhouette recognized in every village tale and childhood warning.

She reached out and touched the fabric. It was heavier than she remembered—not just in weight, but in meaning. Calizone had worn it like armour; Sophrayni felt more like she was donning a mask.

She glanced at a chest in the corner where Calizone’s "shield" lay—a dress woven from rare, shimmering thread that repelled magic. Sophrayni had tried it on years ago, but it had been a disaster. The shoulders were too narrow, and the fabric had made her skin prickle with a red, angry rash.

But this black dress was different. As she pulled it over her head, the fabric slipped over her body as if tailored for her alone. It made no sense; Sophrayni was taller and broader than Calizone, yet the seams didn't pull, and the hem fell perfectly to her ankles. Had Calizone foreseen this day and stitched a new one? Or was the dress itself aware, reshaping its threads for the new Witch of the Dark Forest?

The thought unsettled her, but the image in the mirror was undeniable. She pulled the hat brim down to shade her eyes.

“I’ll wear it,” she whispered to her reflection, “but I won’t let it wear me.”

She stepped outside, the black folds catching the morning light like ink on parchment. A soft clatter of hooves broke the hush of the trees.

Down the winding path came a groom in a green-and-gold tabard, leading a pure black mare.

“From His Majesty,” the groom said, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched his knees. “She’s yours now. Her name is Shade.”

As Sophrayni approached, the groom’s face suddenly crumpled. He turned his head and let out a violent string of sneezes. His eyes began to stream with tears.

“I don’t bite,” Sophrayni said, offering a small smile to put him at ease.

“It’s not you, Milady,” the groom panted, mopping his eyes with a sleeve. “It’s the horses. I always wanted to work in the palace stables, and the pay helps my mother, but… I can’t go near horses without falling apart.”

Sophrayni felt a spark of sympathy. “It isn't a spell you need,” she said, tilting her head in thought. “It’s a potion.”

She held out her hand, and to her own surprise, a crisp piece of parchment shimmered into existence between her fingers. As she thought of the ingredients—dried nettle, honey-wax, and mountain mint—ink began to crawl across the paper like tiny black ants, forming words.

“Give that to your village charmer,” she said, handing him the note. “Rub a little on your upper lip before work, and your eyes will stay clear.”

The groom’s mouth fell open. He tried to press a few copper coins into her hand, but Sophrayni gently pushed them back. “Give that to your mother,” she insisted.

With a final, grateful bow, the groom helped her onto the saddle and disappeared into the trees. Sophrayni patted Shade’s neck. “I didn't know I could conjure paper,” she murmured. The horse flicked an ear but offered no answer.

The journey to the town of Bartsly was quiet until she reached the outskirts. A small boy, no more than six, sat by the road poking a puddle with a stick. When he looked up and saw the tall woman in black on the obsidian horse, he froze.

“You’re her,” he whispered. “The Witch. Are you going to turn me into a frog?”

“No,” Sophrayni said, watching him carefully. “Do you want to be a frog?”

The boy considered this for a long moment. “Only if I can still talk. And jump really high.”

“Then I’d have to make you a very special frog,” Sophrayni smiled, though the smile faded when the boy told her she looked sad.

“I’m just thinking,” she told him. She watched him run away, realizing that while the child accepted her, adults would be more difficult.

When she reached the gates of Bartsly, Sophrayni didn't want a spectacle yet. She raised her hands, weaving a spell that made her presence unremarkable — something people’s eyes simply slid past.”. She changed her clothes to a simple traveller’s cloak and tied Shade to a rail.

She sat at a small café called The Copper Kettle, watching the market square. The spell worked perfectly; a merchant nearly tripped over her chair, murmuring an apology to the air as if he’d felt a gust of wind but seen no one.

As she sipped a herbal tea and ate a steaming, crumbly scone, she let her senses drift. Most of the magic in the square was soft—charms for fresh bread or stopping a toothache. But near the fountain, she felt something sharp. A pulse of magic that felt like a needle prick.

Someone was using magic far more powerful than a village charmer should possess. Sophrayni set down her cup, left a coin on the wooden table, and stood up. It was time to find out who.