The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

Greaves woke on the morning of his fourth day in Ashford with a clear understanding: direct questioning would get him nowhere.

The village had closed ranks. They’d made a collective decision to protect whatever secrets they held, and Greaves’s presence, obvious as it was, had only strengthened their resolve.

So he changed his approach.

Instead of asking direct questions, he would observe. He would listen. He would become part of the village fabric rather than standing apart as an outsider conducting an investigation.

He spent the morning in the market square, purchasing small items he didn’t need, a loaf of bread from the baker’s sister, some cheese from a merchant, a new rope for his satchel from the general store. Each purchase gave him the opportunity to engage in casual conversation without it seeming like interrogation.

The baker’s sister, when he complimented her bread and asked how long she’d been baking in Ashford, gave him a brief smile and said, ”Long enough.” Then she turned her attention to the next customer.

The cheese merchant, when Greaves asked if there were any local specialties worth trying, recommended the aged cheese from a farm ”north of here” but declined to provide specific directions.

The general store keeper, when Greaves asked about local crafts or products he might purchase for gifts back in the capital, politely suggested he look elsewhere.

It was clear: the village was united in its determination to offer him nothing more than basic commerce.

But Greaves had patience.

And he had time.

***

By afternoon, Greaves had settled on a different strategy.

Rather than questioning adults, he decided to observe children.

Children, in Greaves’s experience, were far less guarded than adults. They talked more freely, questioned less, revealed things without understanding their significance. If there were secrets in Ashford, children would know them, or at least, pieces of them.

He positioned himself in a quiet area of the village, near what appeared to be a common area where village children played, and simply waited.

Around mid-afternoon, as the sun began its descent toward the western mountains, a few children emerged from various cottages and began to gather in the square.

They were perhaps seven to twelve years old, an age where they were old enough to explore but still young enough to play freely. They scattered around the square, some playing a running game, others sitting and chatting, one older girl helping an even younger child with a wooden toy.

Greaves remained at a distance, watching.

He noticed something interesting: the children’s play had invisible boundaries. They would run to certain points in the square and stop, as if they’d hit a wall. They wouldn’t venture into certain streets. When one child started to wander toward the edge of the village, an older child would call them back.

They’re being contained, Greaves thought. Not violently. But deliberately. Kept within certain areas.

The Baker’s sister appeared in the doorway of a cottage, not her bakery, but a residence, and called out to one of the children.

”Elise! Come inside!”

A girl of perhaps ten years old immediately abandoned her game and ran toward the voice.

Greaves noted the child’s obedience. It was immediate and without question, suggesting either genuine respect or genuine fear.

***

That evening, Greaves made his way to a small shop he’d noticed on the edge of the village center but hadn’t yet visited.

It was a humble place, barely larger than a cottage, with dried herbs hanging in the window and the smell of various dried plants and remedies wafting from inside.

The proprietor was an elderly woman with sharp, intelligent eyes and hands that bore the stains of decades of herb work. Her name, Greaves learned from a small sign, was Marta.

”Welcome,” she said when Greaves entered. ”What brings you to my shop?”

”I’m a merchant passing through,” Greaves said, his prepared introduction becoming second nature. ”I noticed your shop and thought I’d see what local remedies might be available. For travel, for common ailments, that sort of thing.”

Marta regarded him carefully, as if she could see through his cover story with ease.

”I have remedies for headache, stomachache, fever, cough,” she said finally. ”Basic things. Nothing exotic.”

”The cough remedy interests me,” Greaves said, speaking with genuine purpose for the first time. ”I’ve heard that respiratory illness can be a problem in this region. Dampness, perhaps? Poor air?”

Marta was already moving to a shelf, selecting a small jar of dried herbs.

”Cough can have many causes,” she said. ”In Ashford, we have those who suffer from simple seasonal cough. And we have those whose cough is... deeper. More chronic. More serious.”

She paused as she measured out the herbs, her hands steady but her expression thoughtful.

”The more serious cases require special care,” Marta continued. ”Proper medicines. Rest. And sometimes, a certain amount of... acceptance. Some ailments cannot be cured. Only managed.”

Greaves watched her carefully. ”And are there many such serious cases in Ashford?”

Marta placed the herbs in a small cloth bag and tied it with twine.

”There are those who suffer,” she said. Her eyes met Greaves’s for just a moment. ”And there are those who suffer in silence, preferring privacy to judgment.”

It wasn’t quite an answer. But it was more than she’d said so far.

***

On the fifth day, Greaves decided it was time to attempt a more direct approach.

He’d learned from the innkeeper’s wife that there was a cottage on the edge of the village, the cottage where, according to vague hints and careful avoidance in conversation, a woman and her daughter lived in isolation.

Following the directions he’d carefully pieced together from overheard conversations and subtle observations, Greaves made his way to the edge of the village in the late afternoon.

The cottage he found was small and weathered, set apart from the main settlement by perhaps a quarter mile. It was surrounded by a neglected garden...overgrown, untended, suggesting no one had worked in it for months or years.

Smoke rose from the chimney, indicating someone was home.

Greaves approached carefully, noting details: the shuttered windows that revealed nothing of what lay inside, the heavy door that showed no signs of frequent opening, the way the cottage seemed to exist in a kind of isolation despite its proximity to the village.