Chapter 87 THE WIZARD
"Son?" He said. "I do not know what you've gone through but you are unwell, and I'll advice rest..."
"So you can poison me fully?"
"I am not your enemy and I'm pretty sure ,I did not bring you from where you think.”
She stared at the low ceiling briefly, the flickering shadows cast by firelight. Memories pressed in fragments—stone walls, glowing runes, screaming that never reached ears.
“I was in a tower,” she whispered.
“Yes, you already said so. But I found you by the river, unconscious” he said quietly.
Her fingers dug into the thin blanket. "You mean I was...”
“Yes, you were,” he agreed.
He met her gaze. "And now I think you are pretty far from your so called tower.”
Athalia closed her eyes, exhaustion pulling at her. Relief warred with fear, tangled so tightly she could not tell them apart.
"What is your name?" He asked.
"Athalia."
"Very well, then. My lady." He said. "Permit me to get some herbs."
"Since when have I been here?"
“Four days,” the witch doctor said. “You have slept four days.”
Her eyes opened again, wide. “Did you see anything suspicious when you found me?”
Silence stretched between them.
He did not look away.
Athalia turned her face to the wall, a sound escaping her that was almost laughter, almost a sob. Her shoulders shook, though she made no effort to cry loudly
Whatever tears came soaked silently into the thin pillow.
The witch doctor waited.
When she finally turned back, her expression was hollow but steady. “Can I take it?”
He considered her. “Yes you can.”
She took the toy which she saw. It was the crown prince's.
“Who? Who could have taken you?” She cried. " I'm going to kill Selene if I find she took you from me."
Meanwhile, the man reached for his mortar, grinding herbs with deliberate calm. “That is a longer answer.”
She said nothing but cried silently and weakly.
He glanced at her again, studying her face as if measuring how much truth she could bear.
“Selene,” Athalia breathed to herself but loud enough for him to hear.
The witch doctor’s hands stilled. Athalia didn't see his expression.
Athalia pushed herself upright despite the pain, her resolve lending her strength. “She swore she would protect me.”
“Didn't she?” he replied.
Athalia laughed then, sharp and bitter. “Her way cost me many things.”
The witch doctor met her gaze. “No one takes everything from you without letting them.”
Athalia froze.
“What do you mean?”
He nodded toward her chest, where beneath the pain and weakness her heart still beat. “You live. That's all that matters.”
She shook her head. “This isn't life. Not like this. I miss my old life.”
"Then you need to be alive to get it back."
Outside, the wind shifted, carrying with it a distant sound—not thunder, not quite.
In the palace, Adrian woke suddenly, heart pounding. He sat upright, breath ragged, certain he had heard her voice.
He swung his legs over the bed and stood, moving to the window. The city slept beneath him, peaceful and ignorant.
“I’m not done. I still have a little hope,” he said to the night.
In the forest, Athalia lay back against the cot, staring at the ceiling as the witch doctor resumed his work.
“Who else knows I’m here?” she asked quietly.
He did not answer immediately.
“Who else ?” she repeated.
His hands slowed. “Someone who walks between towers and thrones.”
Athalia’s breath caught.
“Adrian,” she whispered.
The witch doctor looked at her then.
"A ghost." He said. "Fear makes us think we have enemies sometimes."
Outside the hut, something moved among the trees, unseen, patient.
And far away, the tower’s roots tightened around empty stone, as if bracing for what was coming next.
The hut stood at the edge of the forest, where the trees grew thin and crooked, as though they had learned long ago not to crowd too close. Each morning, smoke curled lazily from a hole in the roof, carrying the bitter scent of roots, bark, and crushed leaves.
The nearby villagers called it a place of whispers. Some named the man who lived there a witch doctor. Others, with more fear than respect, called him a wizard.
Athalia called him the man who kept her alive.
At first, she barely noticed the days passing. Pain ruled everything—deep, grinding pain that settled into her bones and flared without warning. She slept, woke, drank whatever he gave her, and slept again.
Sometimes she drifted into dreams sharper than waking: stone walls that breathed, runes glowing like watching eyes, a child crying somewhere she could never reach. Each time she woke, her hands clutched the thin blanket as if it were the only thing tethering her to the world.
The wizard—Oren, she learned his name later—rarely spoke unless necessary. He worked with quiet efficiency, grinding herbs, boiling liquids, murmuring words that sounded less like spells and more like conversations with something unseen. His hands were steady, scarred, stained by years of practice. When he pressed poultices to her skin or guided bitter liquid between her lips, he did so without ceremony.
“Drink,” he would say.
She drank.
When the fever finally broke, it did not vanish all at once. It retreated like a wounded animal, snapping back without warning. But Athalia could sit up now.
She could take a few steps without the world spinning into darkness. She could breathe without every breath feeling stolen. Yet she remained fragile—thin, pale, her body hollowed by sickness. It was that fragility that had allowed him to lift her from the river.
On the morning she first stood without assistance, her knees buckled beneath her. Oren caught her elbow, his grip surprisingly strong.
“Don’t be foolish,” he said.
“I won’t lie in bed forever,” she replied, jaw clenched.
“No,” he said. “But you will heal, or you will die. The difference is patience.”
She glared at him, then nodded. He released her and returned to his work as if the moment meant nothing.
It meant everything to her.
From then on, she began to notice things.
Oren rose before dawn each day. Athalia woke to the creak of the door as he stepped outside. Through the narrow window, she watched him kneel by the fire pit, feeding it with careful movements, as though the flames might take offense if rushed.
Sometimes he spoke to the fire—not spells as she had known them in the palace, but murmured phrases spoken without reverence or fear.
Later, villagers arrived. Some carried swollen joints, others coughing children or festering wounds wrapped in dirty cloth. They stopped short of the door, as if crossing an invisible line.
Oren never welcomed them, but he never turned them away.
But there was something more to this wizard she couldn't quite place.
Who was he?