The Hedge Witch lived where the Sump forgot itself.
It wasn't just dangerous; it was a place where the map stopped. The Temple Guard didn't patrol this deep. No profit. Tax Collectors didn't levy tithes from people who had nothing left but breath. The warrens here were the oldest layer, carved from volcanic rock that predated the empire.
Luna clutched her trade-bundle to her chest: three spools of stolen thread, a misshapen copper coin, and a glass bead that caught the light. Trash. But the Hedge Witch didn't deal in blood-glass. She bartered in need.
The air tasted different here. Less like choking dust, and more like... green. A thick, wet scent that felt alien in the Sump's landscape of mud and grey stone.
Herbs. The Witch cultivated life.
Luna had made this pilgrimage once before. The Witch had given her a poultice that reeked of dirt, and Mother had recovered. The cost had been a lock of hair and a warning: Don't come back unless you are truly desperate.
Luna was desperate.
She ducked through a jagged gap in the wall. The passage was razor-thin, scraping her hipbone, before it opened into a space that shouldn't exist.
A garden.
Not the sterile glasshouses of the High-Tier, but something raw. Plants growing in volcanic soil, roots seeking purchase in cracks, leaves straining toward the weak light filtering through the debris above. The smell hit her like a physical blow—rich earth and vibrant green.
The Hedge Witch sat in the center, grinding something in a stone bowl.
She looked impossibly old. Skin like cracked leather. Hands gnarled like rope. She didn't look up.
"You've shot up," the Witch rasped. Her voice sounded like dry stones rubbing together. "And gotten stupider. Stealing sun-melons. The Guard will find you eventually, girl."
Luna's stomach dropped. "How did you—"
"I listen." The Witch lifted her gaze. Her eyes were clouded with cataracts, but sharp behind the fog. "The Sump whispers. The Guard shouts. You've made yourself a smudge."
"I didn't have a choice." Luna's voice was thin. "Father is dying."
"Everyone is dying. Some just do it with more fanfare." She gestured to the garden. "Put your trade there. Tell me what you need."
Luna placed her bundle on the dirt. "Medicine. For the Ashen Rot. To dull the cough. To buy him time."
The grinding stopped.
"There is no cure for the Rot," the Witch said flatly. "The dust settles in the lungs and never leaves. I can give you something for the pain. Buy him a week. Maybe a month. But I cannot manufacture time."
Luna's chest constricted. She knew this. Hearing it spoken made it real.
"Weeks, then," she whispered. "I'll take the weeks."
The Witch nodded. Her clouded eyes fixed on Luna.
"Come closer. Let me look at you."
Luna stepped forward. The Witch tilted her chin up. Her grip was iron.
Luna felt a shift behind her eyes. The Sight flared.
The Witch's aura blazed. Not the simple gold of the healthy or the grey of the dying. It was a riot of colors, threads tangling and knotting.
Magic.
"Ah," the old woman breathed. "So it is true. You possess the Sight."
Luna tried to look away. She couldn't.
"How long?"
"Since I was small. I see... colors. Gold means well. Grey means ill."
"You see auras." The Witch released her. "Life-light. You're reading the resonance of living things."
"I thought it was just... something silly. Like bending your thumb back."
The Witch laughed, a dry, brittle sound. "No, girl. This is raw power. The kind the Radiant Lords harvest to run their engines."
Coldness spread through Luna's chest. "Harvest?"
"Why do you think they demand blood-tithes?" The Witch gestured to the Sump. "They test for magic. People with strong blood vanish into the Temple. They are refined into fuel."
Luna thought of the Tax Collectors. The obsidian needles. The people who disappeared.
"The merchant," Luna whispered. "He saw my eyes. He reported me."
"Then you are marked." The Witch went back to grinding. "The Guard will find you. The Temple will test you. And if your blood glows bright enough—and it will—you'll be harvested. Drained until there is nothing left but a husk."
The garden felt smaller. The green air tasted like fear.
"What do I do?"
"Run. Hide. Or become so valuable they decide to keep you alive as an asset rather than fuel."
"How do I do that?"
"You don't. You are twelve. You have no leverage." The Witch reached into her robes. She produced a leather cord with a piece of carved obsidian. "Wear this. Never take it off. Never tell anyone."
Luna took the charm. It was warm.
"It muddies the reading," the Witch said. "It won't save you if they are determined. But it might buy you time."
"Why help me?"
The Witch's eyes softened, just for an instant.
"Because I was twelve once," she said. "I had the Sight. They came for me. I ran. I've been running for sixty years."
"You escaped."
"I survived. There is a difference." She nodded at Luna's bundle. "Take your trade back. Keep your thread. You'll need it."
"But the medicine—"
"Is free. Payment for the lesson: Magic is a beacon for destruction, girl. Do not let them see what you are. And if they see anyway—" Her face hardened. "—make them regret it."
Luna left the garden with the herbs tucked in her tunic and the charm warm against her chest. The word Harvested spiraled in her mind.
Mother was at her loom when Luna climbed the ladder. The false sun was dimming.
Mother looked up. She saw the horror on Luna's face. She set the shuttle down.
"What happened?"
"The Witch knew. About the melon. About the bounty." Luna pressed her hand to the charm under her tunic. "About my eyes."
Mother went still.
"What did she say?"
"That they harvest people like me. That the Temple takes blood until there's nothing left. That I'm in danger."
Mother didn't speak for a long moment. Then, "Come here."
Luna sat beside the loom.
"I need you to listen," Mother said. "I have known about your Sight since you were four. I knew the Temple would want it."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I hoped you would outgrow it. That we could pretend it didn't exist until you were too old." Mother's hands twisted in her lap. "The Temple prefers young blood. Once you cross fifteen, the risk drops. I thought we had time."
"The merchant saw me."
"Then our time is up." Mother's face was grim. "You must hide. No more stealing. You stay here until they stop looking."
"Father needs the herbs—"
"You need to stay alive!" Mother's voice broke. "He is dying, Luna. We know this. But you—you can survive. If you are careful."
Luna looked at her mother. Really looked, with the Sight. She saw the grey streaks in her hair. The lines around her eyes.
She saw the aura flickering. Gold shot through with grey.
Mother was sick too.
"You're—" Luna's breath caught. "Your aura is dimming."
Mother smiled sadly. "The Sight shows you everything, doesn't it?"
"What is it?"
"Exhaustion. Malnutrition. Breathing ash for forty years." Mother tucked a strand of hair behind Luna's ear. "I'm not dying tomorrow. But yes. Eventually. Everything ends. The only thing that matters is what we do with the time we have."
Luna clenched her jaw. She refused to cry.
"Then I'll make every second count," she whispered.
Mother pulled her into a fierce embrace. She smelled of chemicals and ash and home.
"I know you will," Mother murmured. "You are strong. Nothing can break you unless you let it."
She began to hum. The lullaby.
After a moment, she sang the words softly:
When the dust settles,
When the sun remembers,
When the blood runs clear—
You'll come home.
"What does it mean?" Luna asked.
"It means," Mother said, pulling back, "that even when the world falls apart, there is a path back to who you are. The sun remembers its purpose. So will you."
She stood. "Come here."
She led Luna to the window. On the sill sat a small clay pot.
Inside, growing in the ash, was a flower.
It was impossible. Flowers didn't grow in the Sump. But this one was alive—petals dusty grey, tipped with a deep red center.
"An Ashen Rose," Mother said. "They used to grow wild before the empire. I coaxed this one to life."
"It's beautiful," Luna whispered.
"Beauty survives," Mother said. "Even here. Even in the ash. Remember that. When you are lost. Beauty survives. Hope survives. You will survive."
Luna looked at the impossible flower. She made a promise.
Not just to keep them breathing. But to survive. To be the flower growing in the ash.
That night, Luna lay in her room. The melon hidden. The obsidian bird in her hand. The Witch's charm against her skin.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Treasures. Weapons. Promises.
Outside, the Guard hunted for a girl with magic eyes.
Let them search.
Luna was Sump-born. She knew how to be small. How to be quiet. How to be forgettable right up until the moment she chose to be something else.
She hummed the lullaby.
When the dust settles...
Someday, she would find her way home.
But first, she had to ensure there was a home left to protect.