The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

He knocked.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then he heard movement inside...slow, labored movement, as if someone was struggling to walk.

”Who is it?” came a woman’s voice from behind the door. It was thin, strained, tired.

”My name is Greaves,” he called through the door. ”I’m a merchant passing through Ashford. I was hoping to speak with you about local wool production.”

Silence.

Then: ”I don’t have wool to sell.”

”I’m not only looking to purchase,” Greaves said. ”I’m also interested in understanding the community. Perhaps you could offer some insight into local business practices?”

”No,” the voice said. ”I don’t speak with strangers.”

”Just a few moments of your time,” Greaves pressed. ”I’m leaving soon, and I would very much appreciate...”

”Go away.” The voice was firmer now, tinged with fear. ”Please leave. Now.”

Greaves waited a moment longer, but no other sound came from inside the cottage.

He turned and walked back toward the village, but not before he noticed something: the faintest outline of a figure at one of the shuttered windows, watching him as he left.

Someone inside had been watching.

Someone who did not want to be seen.

***

It was on the sixth day that Greaves first noticed her.

She sat in the market square against one of the merchant stalls, an old woman, blind, with clouded white eyes and weathered skin. She had a tin cup before her, and occasionally, when someone passed, they would place a coin in it.

Most people ignored her.

But Greaves, trained to observe patterns and details that others missed, noticed something interesting: certain people...not everyone, but certain people, would stop and put a coin in her cup. And when they did, she would whisper something to them. Brief conversations, words exchanged in low tones.

She knows things, Greaves thought. Or at least, people think she knows things. And they’re paying her for information, or perhaps to stay silent.

On an impulse, Greaves approached her.

He placed a silver coin, far more than she was asking for in her cup.

The blind woman’s head turned immediately toward the sound of the coin.

”That’s too much for a poor beggar,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong despite her frail appearance.

”It’s exactly enough,” Greaves said, settling onto a nearby bench as if he simply needed to rest. ”I’m new to Ashford. Trying to understand the village.”

The blind woman was quiet for a moment.

Then: ”Understanding Ashford is a dangerous business, stranger.”

”How so?” Greaves asked quietly.

”Because this village keeps secrets,” the blind woman said. ”And secrets, when they’re kept long enough, become dangerous.”

”What kind of secrets?”

The blind woman tilted her head, as if listening to something in the distance.

”Some people don’t want to be known,” she said slowly. ”And this village respects that. We keep their secrets. We protect them. Because protection is sometimes kinder than truth.”

”I see,” Greaves said. ”And who are these people? These ones who need protection?”

But the blind woman had already turned away, her attention apparently focused elsewhere.

Greaves understood: she would say no more.

But what she had said was significant.

Some people don’t want to be known. This village protects them.

***

That evening, Greaves positioned himself in the tavern at a time when it was moderately busy, full enough that his presence wouldn’t stand out, but not so full that he couldn’t observe conversations.

He noticed a man he’d seen before....the mill worker, Aldous, a broad-shouldered man in his forties with calloused hands and the weathered face of someone who worked hard for a living. The man was sitting at a table in the corner, nursing a single ale.

Greaves ordered a drink and settled at a nearby table, within earshot but not obviously listening.

For several hours, Aldous simply sat and drank. He didn’t socialize. He didn’t engage in conversations. He simply sat alone with his thoughts and his ale.

But as the evening progressed, the tavern filled with more patrons, and the atmosphere became looser, more relaxed. Conversations grew louder. Laughter echoed through the space.

And Aldous, having consumed several ales, began to look at the world through increasingly blurred eyes.

It was around the time Hal was beginning to suggest people might want to head home that Aldous stood unsteadily and moved toward the bar for another drink.

He stumbled slightly and caught himself against a table.

One of the other drinkers laughed.

”You’re deep in your cups tonight, Aldous,” the man said. ”What troubles you?”

Aldous waved a hand dismissively. ”Nothing troubles me. I’m simply drinking.”

”Liar,” the other man said, but it was said with affection rather than accusation. ”You always drink like that when something’s on your mind. Is it a woman? Is it work at the mill?”

Aldous accepted another ale from Hal and took a long drink before answering.

”It’s nothing,” he said. ”Just... old memories.”

Greaves pretended to focus on his own drink, but his ears were sharp, attuned to every word.

The other drinker seemed to accept this explanation and returned to his conversation with a friend.

But Aldous remained at the bar, drinking, and his eyes grew more distant, more lost in the past.

And Greaves saw an opportunity.

He moved to sit near Aldous at the bar, close enough to seem accidental, far enough to seem independent.

For a while, they simply sat in companionable silence.

Then Greaves spoke, his voice casual: ”Seems like you’ve got a lot on your mind tonight.”

Aldous glanced at him, assessing whether he was safe to talk to.

”Just thinking about the old days,” Aldous said finally. ”Before some things changed.”

”How long have you lived in Ashford?” Greaves asked.

”All my life,” Aldous said. ”Born and raised here. Seen a lot of things come and go.”

”Then you must remember when some of the current families arrived?”

Aldous took another drink. His movements were becoming sluggish, his responses slower.

”Some families have been here forever,” he said. ”Others... others are newer.”

”How newer?” Greaves pressed gently.

Aldous seemed to be wrestling with something internally. His jaw tightened. His hands clenched around his cup.

Finally, he spoke.

”Eighteen years,” he said. ”Give or take. A woman arrived. Alone. Pregnant.”