Regrets of a witch 1:Fool me once

Chapter 8:heed my warning child

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Clara twirled the fragile spider web in her hand, the delicate strands glinting in the fading sunlight as a mischievous smile tugged at her lips. She inhaled deeply, savoring the crisp, clean air, letting every gasp fill her lungs as if she were drinking in freedom itself. Dreams do come true indeed… she thought, a faint smirk curling the corners of her mouth.

“You are dismissed. I’ll call for you when I need you,” Clara said, her eyes scanning the village below. “I have important matters to attend to…things I need to see ended.”

The fae bowed slightly, its long, flowing hair shifting like living shadows. As it turned to leave, Clara’s eyes darkened. She stepped forward, tilting her chin with a predator’s grace. “Try to double-cross me,” she warned, “and you will become food for my spiders.”

In an instant, millions of spiders materialized from thin air, their clawed legs and steel-like fangs glinting as they swarmed around her hand like a living storm. The fae took a cautious step back, a weak smile coating its sharp teeth. “You always deliver as you say,” it murmured, its voice sweet as poisoned honey. “Tonight you will have your potions and your fair cut. No need for threats…you can trust us.”

Clara released the fae’s chin, and with a blink, she teleported to the village. Chaos and ruin waited for her there, and she had no time to waste. The wind carried the scent of dust and charred earth as she approached, the familiar streets eerily silent.

Then, she saw her.

Her mother stood blocking the entrance. Clara froze. “Mama…what are you doing here? Who sent you? How did you get out?” The questions tumbled from her lips in rapid succession, her heart hammering in her chest.

The living corpse that was her mother stepped forward. Almost all of her flesh had been stripped away, leaving pale, sinewy muscles stretched taut over bones. Her eyes were hollow pits of darkness, yet they burned with a terrible, venomous intelligence. Blackened veins crawled across her neck and arms like a map of corruption, and every breath she took rasped through exposed cartilage, sounding like the hiss of dying embers.

“Where are your sisters, Clara?” her mother asked, her voice cold, venomous, and heavy with accusation. Each word cut through the air like shards of glass, and Clara felt the color drain from her face.

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