Hunting the Broken-Heart Witch

Chapter 7 – Old Widow’s Tale

Elias rode through the late afternoon mist, the forest thickening on either side of the narrow path. Every step of his horse made the damp leaves shiver under its hooves. The air smelled of wet earth and dying foliage, a scent he had come to associate with secrets long buried. He had been traveling for days since leaving the village where the bard had warned him. Now, he sought another source of truth—a woman whose memory had survived the ravages of fear and time.

The villagers called her the old widow, though she had never truly been widowed. Her husband, if he had existed, was long forgotten; what remained was the story, passed on like a delicate thread through trembling lips and hesitant whispers. They said she had once known Mira, had witnessed her heal the dying, and had survived to speak of it.

Elias approached her small cottage at the forest’s edge. Smoke spiraled lazily from the crooked chimney, carrying the faint scent of herbs and candle wax. A garden of twisted roots and withered flowers surrounded the door. It was the kind of place where time itself seemed reluctant to intrude. He dismounted and approached quietly, knocking on the door with a measured tap.

The door opened before he could knock again. The woman who appeared was thin and bent, her hair silver and frayed, her eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. Her gaze measured him, weighing him, as though she could see straight into his intentions.

“Elias,” she said, her voice a rasp, yet carrying a strange certainty. “I have been expecting someone like you. Or perhaps, waiting for someone like you.”

He inclined his head. “I seek knowledge of Mira. They say you knew her… before she became… what she is now.”

The widow nodded slowly, stepping aside to let him enter. The cottage smelled of herbs steeped in boiling water, parchment, and smoke. A fire crackled weakly in the hearth, illuminating shelves crowded with dried flowers, jars of tinctures, and faded tomes.

“She was not always feared,” the widow began, settling herself in a high-backed chair and gesturing for Elias to take the bench opposite. “She was a healer first. A woman of extraordinary skill. People traveled from far beyond the village to see her. She could mend broken limbs, cure fever, even soothe hearts that had been torn by grief. I watched her hands work, smooth as water over stone, and saw the light in her eyes when a patient recovered. It was a joy to witness, though a dangerous one.”

“Dangerous?” Elias asked, leaning forward, his fingers brushing the worn wood of the bench.

“Because,” the widow said, her voice lowering, “the heart she gave was always bigger than she could bear. Mira loved, and she loved deeply. When her heart broke—when the one she trusted most betrayed or abandoned her—she carried that grief with her, and it changed her. What once healed began to wound.”

Elias felt a chill crawl along his spine. He had known grief, yes, but not in this magnitude. He had yet to understand how one soul could hold so much sorrow.

“She saved lives,” the widow continued, “even after she fell into despair. I saw her carry a boy on the verge of death through the snowstorm, his chest barely moving, his lips blue, and she whispered to him, sang to him, until the breath returned. The villagers did not see it, but I did. And yet, each life she saved cost her something—her warmth, her hope, a fragment of the light she carried inside.”

Elias’s hand twitched near the hilt of his dagger. He had been hunting a legend, but he now understood that Mira was more than myth. She was human, vulnerable, and terrifying all at once.

“Why do you tell me this?” he asked. “Why reveal this to a stranger?”

The widow’s eyes narrowed, reflecting the flickering firelight. “Because I have watched hunters and fools alike try to find her, thinking they could save her or kill her, and every one has returned—if they returned at all—less than human. You will need more than courage to face her, Elias. You will need compassion, and you will need a heart willing to bleed without breaking. Do you have such a heart?”

“I have tried,” he said softly. “And I have failed, many times. But I cannot leave this path. Not now. Not knowing.”

The widow studied him, then sighed. “Very well. You must know the truth of her power before you meet her. Mira does not simply curse the world because she is angry or spiteful. She curses it because grief has eaten her soul, and her magic is tied to the pieces she cannot mend. Her tears can heal or destroy, her voice can soothe or summon storms. You cannot predict her, nor can you tame her. You can only hope to understand.”

Elias nodded, absorbing every word. The firelight seemed dimmer now, as if the room itself had leaned closer to listen.

“Listen carefully,” she said, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “There is a tree in the forest, an ash with roots as old as the mountains. Beneath it, the first man who tried to find Mira left his mark in blood and despair. Follow the river from there. The path is treacherous, and time bends strangely. You may feel lost before you reach her. That is not the forest deceiving you—it is Mira’s sorrow manifesting. Do not be afraid of the shadows. Fear is the easy prey. The brave, the compassionate, they are the ones who can endure.”

The widow reached for a small vial on the table, filled with a liquid that shimmered silver in the firelight. She held it out to him. “This will guide you if you are lost. One drop on the tongue will keep your senses sharp, your mind anchored. But do not use it lightly. It is not magic, only a memory of hers—the way she preserved a fragment of light even in darkness.”

Elias took it carefully, noting the subtle warmth that seemed to flow from it. “How did you come to know all of this?”

“I walked with her,” the widow said. “I saw her save the dying, whispering to them when their families could not, holding their hands while their breath returned. And then I watched her heart break. I have lived long enough to see what love and grief can do, Elias. I see you now, and I know what drives you. Be careful, for the path ahead is one from which few return unchanged.”

He held the vial tightly, and in that moment, he felt the weight of the truth settle over him like a shroud. Mira was no ordinary witch. She was a woman carved from sorrow, and anyone who sought her would either be consumed by that sorrow or stand beside her and share it.

The widow rose slowly and placed a hand on his shoulder. “If you go, remember this: do not rush to judgment. Do not presume you can heal her. Only understand. And perhaps, if you are lucky, she may trust you enough to show you her heart.”

Elias nodded. “I understand. Thank you, for everything.”

Outside, the sky had darkened to a bruised violet. The forest beyond waited like a patient predator, branches swaying as if aware of his approach. Elias mounted his horse, the vial secured safely at his side, and set off toward the twisting path that would lead him deeper into the forest’s shadows.

As he rode, the widow’s words echoed in his mind. Do not rush to judgment. Only understand. He realized that the journey was no longer just about finding Mira—it was about seeing her fully, with all her grief, her magic, and the remnants of the healer she had once been.

The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the forest in darkness pierced only by fireflies and the pale glow of the moon. Elias’s resolve hardened. The story of Mira—the healer who had saved the dying—was no longer just legend to him. It was a truth he must face, and perhaps, a truth he must honor.

The wind sighed through the trees, carrying with it a faint whisper of hope and warning alike. Somewhere, beyond the shadows and the mists, Mira’s eyes watched. And the journey of understanding, of redemption, and of inevitable sorrow had truly begun.