Witcher Warrior Scholar Spy

“They say the Witcher is one of their own ilk,

Unlike the other Four, alone and unable to be soothed.”

The road out of town was dusty and run-down, but it didn’t much bother Olea. She’d both traversed worse and better, neither mattering in the end when it came to how fast she reached her destination. She was on foot, with no cart or wagon to haul her, just what she could carry in her pack and cloak.

Olea’s eyes lit up a pale pink, lighter than their usual mauve, and wind whipped around her—spinning and twirling unnaturally into a wind tunnel that hung low to the ground. Pulling her pack off her back, she deposited it into the cyclone. As she walked, it followed closely behind. Olea stretched her arms with a sigh.

“That’ll do,” she hummed, surveying the barren forest lining the road. The leaves had long since fallen and the bark had been petrified before Olea had been born. It was a wonderful sight—one the country she’d found herself in was famed for.

Between one blink and the next, a cloaked figure began approaching from the other end of the road. Olea didn’t dismiss her working but had the cyclone move closer to her. So close that the wind brushed her calves, and the straps of her pack hit her thigh.

Olea wasn’t quite on guard, not yet. She’d rather simply pass the person by without interaction.

The stranger had other plans.

Once they were within a few paces, about to pass each other, they spoke.

“That’s quite the complexion, my dear,” came the croaking voice of an old woman, the cloak sliding back to reveal her grey hair and wrinkled face. “Are you quite all right?”

Unlawfully taken from NovelFire, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Olea met the woman’s eyes, a frown pressed onto her sickly pale face—once upon a time it had simply been pale. “I’m fine—the color was a gift from my father.”

The woman grinned, a nasty thing with several gaps of missing teeth, and her eyes lit up in an electric green. “One of the few he’s given out of goodwill.”

Olea’s frown pressed further down, her back straightening and the cyclone dropping. In its place, a purple light began to form in Olea’s palm. “Excuse you?”

“You know, I heard a limerick once.” She hummed, singsong words filling the deserted path, “The Witcher, with their magic, tears the world asunder. The Spy, with their words, puts it back together. Fate and Folly tie them to one another.”

Olea grit her teeth, clenching her jaw tightly before forcibly relaxing the working she’d manifested in her palm. “Your Well?”

“Ah, would you believe Miracul the Miraculous?” She laughed lightly at first, but quickly, it grew into a manic cackle.

Olea’s frown lifted, and she huffed. “Not in the slightest. I would say Orakle.”

There was no use engaging with the woman any further. She wouldn’t even remember the words that had started the fight. That was the way of Orakle. Their words were meant to be heard by one and one alone.

Waving her hand dismissively, Olea called the cyclone back and said, “You forgot the most important part of that limerick.”

This time, it was Olea’s voice that became singsong, filled with power and humor both.

“Beware the Exiled

The Four thrown from their home

Cursed by the blessing bestowed

Their lives nothing but fodder

Amounting to nothing but Divine Phlegm.”

The woman barked another laugh. “Tsk, tsk, you made that up!”

Olea held her hand up, a wry smile on her face as she watched the green light fade from the older woman’s eyes. Before it was fully gone, she said, “Guilty.”

Stepping back, Olea began walking down the path again, as did the woman. When they were separated at last, a wind blew, natural and strong. It lifted the dirt of the path up.

When it cleared, the old woman was gone, and Olea was alone once again.