A baby's cries cut through the silence of the royal birthing chamber.
They were thin, desperate sounds, echoing against stone walls heavy with incense and secrets. Candlelight trembled as the newborn wailed, her tiny fists opening and closing while the woman who had brought her into the world lay utterly still.
The queen's skin had gone pale, almost translucent, her lips parted as shallow breaths rattled weakly from her chest. Damp strands of silver-white hair clung to her temples, darkened with sweat. The blood-soaked sheets beneath her told a story no one dared speak aloud.
A nurse stood at the bedside, her face set in hard lines carved by years of service within palace walls. She moved quickly, efficiently, as though hesitation itself were dangerous.
She wrapped the crying infant in a thick quilt embroidered with the royal crest, folding the fabric with practiced precision. The baby protested at first, her cries sharpening, until the nurse secured the final corner and lifted her with firm hands.
"Enough," the nurse muttered under her breath.
A woman stood near the door, half-shadowed by the flickering torches in the corridor beyond. She wore the plain brown uniform of a palace maid, though her posture was anything but ordinary. Her hands were clenched at her sides, knuckles white.
The nurse turned and thrust the infant into the maid's arms.
"You know what to do," she said coldly, her voice leaving no room for questions.
The maid looked down at the child.
Grey eyes—unnaturally pale—blinked up at her, framed by wisps of white hair that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. The baby's cries faltered as the maid instinctively drew her closer, pressing the bundle against her chest.
Warmth worked its quiet magic. The infant stilled, a soft sigh escaping her tiny lips.
The maid nodded once.
"I understand."
She turned toward the door. As she stepped into the corridor, another maid passed her, cradling a newborn of her own. This baby was darker—dark hair, dark eyes, her face flushed and strong with life.
The two women slowed.
Their gazes met for the briefest moment.
No words were exchanged. None were needed.
The maid carrying the darker child entered the chamber, while the first slipped away, her heart pounding so loudly she feared it might wake the palace itself.
She moved swiftly through a corridor rarely used, its stone floors dusty and cold beneath her worn shoes. The torches here burned low, as though even fire feared to witness what was happening tonight.
At the end of the passage, a narrow servants' door stood ajar.
The maid pushed it open and stepped into the night.
Wind tore at her cloak the moment she emerged. The palace loomed behind her, its towering spires sharp against the moonlit sky, while ahead stretched darkness—vast, untamed, and unforgiving.
She did not look back.
Her steps were hurried but measured. Every jolt of movement was calculated, every breath controlled. She adjusted her hold on the baby, careful not to frighten her awake.
Everything depended on this.
If she failed—
She did not allow the thought to finish.
The forest swallowed her quickly.
Trees rose high and dense, their branches clawing at the sky as the wind howled through their leaves. Shadows shifted and stretched, alive with unseen movement. Somewhere in the distance, something howled in answer to the storm.
The maid's gaze sharpened.
Her hand hovered near the small knife hidden beneath her cloak, though she knew steel would do little good against most of what lived in these woods. Still, she walked on.
Fear was a luxury she could not afford.
She had sworn loyalty long before this night—loyalty not to the crown, nor to the palace, but to the fragile life now resting against her heart.
The baby stirred, releasing a soft, questioning sound.
"Hush," the maid whispered. "Just a little longer."
Time stretched strangely within the forest. Minutes felt like hours; hours blurred together. The wind bit through her clothes, and her legs burned with the effort of keeping pace.
At last, a faint shape emerged ahead.
A hut.
It stood alone in a small clearing, crooked and hunched like an old thing grown weary of standing. Smoke curled lazily from a narrow chimney, and faint light flickered behind warped windows.
The maid slowed.
She approached on silent feet, every instinct screaming caution. She circled once, scanning the trees, listening for movement beyond the restless wind.
Nothing.
Heart racing, she stepped onto the uneven porch. The wood creaked beneath her weight, and she froze, breath held.
No sound followed.
Carefully, she knelt and lowered the baby onto the doorstep. The infant slept peacefully, unaware of the fate being placed into other hands.
The maid hesitated.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the quilt, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Then she turned away.
She did not look back.
Her steps faltered only once, a shiver running through her as the thought of what *might* happen threatened to undo her resolve. She forced herself forward, disappearing into the forest before doubt could take root.
Moments passed.
The baby stirred.
Her eyes fluttered open, confusion knitting her tiny brow. The warmth was gone. The heartbeat she had listened to moments before had vanished.
She cried.
The sound cut through the wind like a blade.
The hut's door creaked open.
A woman stepped out, her presence seeming to dim the very air around her. She was dressed in black from head to toe, fabric hanging loosely from her thin frame. Wild hair—dark and untamed—spilled around her face as though it refused to be tamed.
She paused, scanning the clearing with narrowed eyes.
Then she looked down.
Her lips curled.
"What kind of psychopath leaves a baby at a witch's door?" she muttered, her voice sharp with irritation. "Humans truly never fail to amaze me."
She crouched, peering closer.
The baby's cries softened as grey eyes met the witch's gaze. Pale lashes fluttered, and a tiny hand escaped the quilt, grasping at nothing.
The witch stilled.
"Well," she murmured. "Aren't you interesting?"
She leaned closer, examining the child with a calculating eye. "White hair. Grey eyes. Rare." Her mouth curved into a thoughtful smile, revealing unnaturally sharp canines. "You could take years off my face. Decades, even."
The baby gurgled.
The witch blinked.
A laugh escaped her, startled and unguarded. "Oh."
She reached out and brushed a finger against the infant's cheek.
The baby giggled.
The witch's smile softened—just barely.
"Well, I suppose you're lucky," she said. "I sort of like you." She straightened with a huff. "No beauty potion tonight."
She lifted the child easily into her arms. The baby settled at once, content, as though she had always belonged there.
The witch snorted softly. "Looks like you and I are going to travel the world together."
Turning, she carried the baby inside the hut.
The door shut behind them.
Her laughter echoed faintly through the clearing.
"Oh," she said, delighted. "This is going to be fun."