However, Alistair was entirely unaware of the tension hanging in the air. His focus locked instead on one specific word.
Witch.
That word was cursed.
In the soul-bound worlds he'd wandered, magic-wielders had always walked a razor's edge. Teachers of sorcery, especially those bearing the title of "witch," lived perilously close to death. Merchants at least had a survival rate. Witches? Their existence was a countdown.
Which meant the one before him deserved scrutiny.
He glanced at the blue-skinned woman seated calmly beneath the massive brim of her hat, and spoke with a guarded tone.
"Might you teach me sorcery?"
The woman paused, her expression flickering almost imperceptibly before shifting toward Melina at his side. There was stiffness in the way her jaw tightened.
"You may call me Ranni," she said. "And no. You lack the qualifications to study my art. Nor do I intend to take on an apprentice."
No qualifications?
Alistair opened his status panel, scanning his Intelligence stat. Ten. Double digits. Not great, but better than a clueless knight with nine. How could he be unworthy?
Or had the bar been raised?
Melina, ever the quiet observer, stepped in to ease the silence. "Ranni stands at the pinnacle of sorcerers. Her magic is not for novices."
Ah. That made more sense. High-tier spells, inaccessible without ridiculous stat requirements. Like trying to cast Soul Spear with five points in Mind.
Before Alistair could dig further into it, Ranni abruptly extended her hand.
"This is for you."
She placed a bell and a soft, gray cluster of ashes in his palm. Her touch was swift, like a passing breeze. Then she quickly withdrew, eyes flicking toward Melina.
"I was tasked by Torrent's former master to deliver this. With it, you may summon spirits long separated from the Erdtree's call. They will recognize you… temporarily."
Her tone had grown hurried. She stood as though the conversation was already over.
"The task is done. If there is nothing else, I'll take my leave."
"Wait, one thing."
Ranni hesitated, clearly irked.
"Could you leave me a way to reach you? Or a place I can find you again?"
Both women stared at him.
"You want my… contact information?" Ranni's voice was flat with disbelief.
"I think we won't be crossing paths again," she said coldly, and vanished.
Melina glanced sideways at Alistair. There was a brief pause before she asked, with all the restraint of someone suppressing a smirk:
"You're not… interested in her, are you?"
"No."
He realized the misunderstanding and tried to explain, fumbling for the right words.
"It's just… I can sense when death clings to someone. Especially those who walk near the edge of fate. And when I looked at her, I… I had the feeling she was going to die."
Melina said nothing. She didn't believe him. Not entirely.
She knew who Ranni was. The one who had stolen a fragment of Rune Of Death. The one whose fate wound through treachery, betrayal, and a plot against the Golden Order. Alistair had lost his memory. He couldn't have known any of this. And yet…
If she hadn't heard their conversation with her own ears, she would have thought he was mocking her.
"I won't interfere with your personal decisions," Melina said finally, her tone subdued. "But if it's her, I would advise you… to be careful. She is dangerous."
Alistair nodded, but inwardly shrugged. Dangerous sorceresses were a tradition at this point. At least half the witches he'd met had been assassins, poisoners, or worse. Ranni was just another shade of that old pattern.
He let the conversation die and turned to Kale. The merchant, oddly silent while Ranni had been present, stirred from what appeared to be an unnatural slumber.
"I... fell asleep?" Kale murmured, confused. "Strange. I don't remember closing my eyes."
The two exchanged a few words. Alistair restocked his supplies, their earlier rhythm resuming as though nothing had changed.
The sky darkened as they spoke, the wind turning sharp.
When it was time to part, Kale suddenly snapped his fingers.
"Ah. There is someone I think you should meet."
He leaned closer, as if sharing a secret.
"If you hear a wolf howl, give the signal—like this." He demonstrated the motion again: a single, deliberate snap of the fingers. "They'll find you."
Alistair raised a brow, skeptical. But Kale's introductions had been solid so far. With a nod, he left the ruins behind and summoned Torrent.
The hill nearby offered a view of the surrounding wilds. There, he stopped, drove a spiral sword into the earth, and sat before the flickering fire that rose in its wake.
He stared into the embers, silent.
Undead did not need sleep. But the mind could fatigue even when the body refused to falter. And after the day he'd had, the thoughts pressed in heavy and constant. Melina sat nearby, barely visible in the firelight. Alice stood apart, ever at the fringe, her eyes reflecting the stars.
The three kept silent vigil around the flames.
Then a raindrop fell.
Melina caught it in her palm.
"Rain?"
Alistair glanced up. Storm clouds were thickening overhead.
"It was clear earlier," he muttered.
Alice, still gazing into the distance, spoke softly. "A heavy one. All that heat from earlier… something had to give."
"You two don't have umbrellas, do you?"
"An um... what?" Alice asked, genuinely puzzled.
"A thing that blocks rain. Never mind."
Alistair rummaged through his inventory, eventually drawing out the Dragon Slayer's Greatshield. Shaped like a silver mushroom, it offered more than enough cover. He propped it upright with a spare weapon and gestured.
"This can block most lightning too."
Alice tilted her head, then vanished and reappeared under the shield. Melina hesitated, then quietly stepped beside her.
The rain came.
Heavy, persistent. The world fell into stillness, broken only by the crackle of fire and the soft drumming of water on steel.
Then Melina moved. Her gaze settled on her shoulder.
A Marika's butterfly, its wings smoldering with emberlight, sat there. The rain had dimmed its fire. Its wings were tattered.
She stared at it.
They were drawn to fire. To warmth. And they died for it, burning themselves away in silent immolation.
Drawn to flames that would always consume them.
She lifted her hand, meaning to brush it away.
But another hand reached out first.
A soft glow sparked from Alistair's fingertips.
A muted flame. A healing warmth, the smallest ember of a spell.
The butterfly burned again. But not with the ravenous fire it once bore.
This time, it glowed orange-gold, steady, bright. Its wings knit whole. It rose into the rain, trailing sparks that did not die. It flew far, farther still, until the darkness swallowed its light.
Alistair scratched his head.
"That was a healing spell. I didn't know it would work on a butterfly. Just figured... why not try?"
Melina didn't respond.
She watched the space where the light had vanished, her scarred hand motionless.
Somewhere, deep within, the pain faded.
Alistair said no more. Nor did she.
The night stretched long and wordless. Until the storm broke. Until the sun returned.
And then, as dawn light crept over the hills, she asked a question.
"Where did you get the map?"
***
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