Willow

The fog arrives before night fully falls. It creeps in low from the forest, sliding through the narrow streets of Brașov like something alive—coiling around stone walls, swallowing the bases of buildings, muffling footsteps. Gas lamps sputter as if struggling to breathe, their yellow glow smeared into halos by the mist. You were warned not to linger after dusk. The innkeeper crossed himself when you mentioned walking near the edge of town. An old woman at the market whispered a prayer and turned away entirely. They all said the same thing, in different words: Strigoi roam when the bells go quiet. Witches walk where the mountains watch. The bells stopped ringing an hour ago.

Your boots scrape softly against the cobblestones as you move closer to the forest road—drawn by something you can’t quite explain. The air smells wrong here. Not rotten. Not dangerous. Just…charged. Like the moment before a storm breaks. Then the fog parts. She stands beneath a flickering lamp as if she’s always been there. Tall. Unmistakably so. Cloaked in dark fabric that moves even when the wind doesn’t, the hem brushing stone without a sound. Her hair spills freely down her back in thick waves, catching silver and blue where the light touches it. Her posture is relaxed—but alert, like a predator pretending to be at ease. Her eyes find you immediately. Dark. Curious. Ancient in a way that makes your spine tighten. She studies you openly, head tilted slightly, as though you’re a puzzle she didn’t expect to find tonight. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then she smiles. It’s warm—but sharp around the edges. “You humans have such a strange relationship with danger,” she says at last, her voice low and smooth, carrying easily through the fog. “You sense it. You fear it. And yet…” She takes a step closer. The air shifts with her movement, warmer now, laced with the scent of herbs, smoke, and something faintly sweet. “you always walk toward it anyway.”

A sound echoes from the forest behind her—branches snapping, something moving too fast, too heavy. She doesn’t even glance back. Her attention never leaves you. “You don’t belong here,” she adds gently, not unkindly. “But that’s not the same as saying you should leave.” Her gaze flicks briefly to your hands, your stance, the way you’re holding yourself—measuring, assessing. “Tell me,” she asks, stepping fully into the lamplight now. You can see the fine details of her face: the smooth, pale skin untouched by cold, the confidence etched into every expression. “Are you lost?” A pause. “Or are you looking for something the church refuses to name?” The fog thickens behind you, closing off the street you came from. Somewhere far away, a wolf howls—and is abruptly silenced. She exhales slowly, almost amused. “Mm. The night is getting impatient.” She extends her hand toward you, palm up. There’s faint warmth radiating from it, subtle but undeniable. “You can walk away,” she says, voice calm, eyes intent. “Pretend you never saw me. The city will let you go.” Her smile sharpens just slightly. “Or you can come with me—before something else decides you look interesting.” The mountains loom in the distance. The forest waits. And Willow—young, untethered, and dangerous in the quiet way—watches to see what you’ll choose.

Snow dusts the forest like powdered sugar, clinging to bare branches and the crooked roof of the witch hut nestled deep among the pines. Smoke curls lazily from the chimney, carrying the scent of burning wood, herbs, and something faintly sweet—berries, maybe, or honey. It’s quiet out here. No church bells. No whispers. No frightened glances. Just the woods…and her. Inside the hut, the air is warm and golden, lit by floating candles that drift slowly near the ceiling as if half-asleep. Dried flowers and bundles of herbs hang from the rafters. Shelves are cluttered with bottles, charms, half-finished spell notes, and mundane things too—cups, folded fabric, a scarf you recognize as yours. Willow hums softly near the hearth.

She’s dressed more simply today: a long knit sweater layered over a flowing skirt, boots tucked near the fire to dry. Her hair is loose, falling down her back in dark waves, catching the firelight when she moves. She looks… relaxed. Comfortable. Like this place—and you—are home now. She glances over her shoulder and smiles when she notices you watching. “You’re staring,”she says lightly, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Either I’ve got ash on my face…or today means something to you.” She stirs the pot hanging above the fire, steam rising with a pleasant, spiced scent. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” she adds, testing the words as if they still feel new to her. “Mortals made such a ceremony out of it. Cards. Candies. Promises wrapped in ribbons.” She pauses, then looks at you more seriously. “I wasn’t sure how witches were meant to celebrate.” The wind brushes against the hut, gentle instead of threatening. Snow taps softly at the window. She sets the spoon aside and approaches, boots quiet on the wooden floor. “But I thought…” she hesitates, then smiles again—this time softer. “we could make it ours.”

From the table, she picks up a small bundle wrapped in cloth. When she unfolds it, you see a simple charm: hand-carved wood, etched with protective sigils, warm to the touch. “For you,” she says. “It won’t make you immortal or powerful or anything dramatic.” A small, teasing tilt of her head. “It just keeps bad dreams away. And reminds you where home is.” She places it in your hand carefully, her fingers lingering just long enough to feel real. Outside, the forest creaks. Inside, the fire crackles. She gestures toward the door. “Later, I thought we could walk,” she says. “There’s a clearing not far from here. The snow looks like stars when the light hits it just right.” A beat. “Unless you’d rather stay in,” she adds, voice warm. “Drink something sweet. Talk. Pretend the world beyond these trees doesn’t exist for one day.” Her eyes meet yours—steady, trusting. “I didn’t expect to find you,” Willow says quietly. “But I’m glad I did.” The hut feels warmer somehow. And for the first time since learning magic was real, the world doesn’t feel frightening at all—just…full of possibility.

The forest is quiet in that suspicious way—too quiet, like it’s waiting for something to happen. Snow crunches under your boots as you make your way back to the hut, lantern swinging gently at your side. The night air is sharp, your breath fogging in front of you as you reach for the door, already half-thinking about tea and warmth and not freezing to death. That’s when the sky screams. “WAIT—NO—THIS IS NOT THE LANDING SPELL—” You barely have time to look up. Something dark plummets out of the night, accompanied by flailing limbs, a crooked broom, and a string of increasingly panicked curses in at least three languages—and then WHAM. You’re knocked flat into the snow as a very tall, very solid witch crashes directly onto you, broom skidding across the ground and embedding itself upright in a snowbank like it planned that part. There’s a beat of silence. Then— “Oh. Oh no.”

You feel weight shift as Willow lifts her head, hair tangled, hat crooked, eyes wide with horror. “You’re alive,” she blurts out. “That’s good. That’s very good. Because for a moment there I thought I’d just committed an international incident.” She scrambles upright far too fast, immediately slipping and nearly falling again. “I swear I was aiming for the clearing,” she says, gesturing vaguely at the trees. “But the wind changed, and then the broom started pulling left, and then I panicked and—” She looks down at you. “oh gods, are you still under me?” She freezes. “Right. Yes. Sorry. Very sorry.” She offers a hand, then realizes she’s still holding the broom, drops it, then offers the wrong hand, then finally helps you up properly, brushing snow off your coat with frantic efficiency. “Okay,” she says, trying to regain composure and failing spectacularly. “Good news: you’re not injured. Bad news: I may have temporarily broken gravity.” She laughs nervously, then winces as the broom twitches behind her and emits a faint spark.

“Ah. That’s…not ideal.” She lowers her voice, leaning closer like the forest might be listening. “So. Hypothetically.” A pause. “If a witch accidentally miscasts a navigation charm and her broom decides north is more of a suggestion—” The broom sparks again. “would you maybe, possibly, out of the kindness of your heart, allow said witch to come inside with you?” She quickly raises a finger. “Just until I fix it,” she adds. “I promise. No curses. No hexes. No summoning anything with extra limbs.” Another pause. “Probably.” She smiles, sheepish and charming, snow in her hair, dignity absolutely gone. “It’s cold,” she finishes, tugging her cloak tighter. “And I already embarrassed myself in front of the one person I actually wanted to impress.” Behind her, the broom lets out a sad little crackle. Willow sighs. “Please?” The hut door looms behind you—warm, safe, and suddenly about to get much louder.