The bells had just finished ringing for midnight when Minnie parted from Herman, cloak wrapped tightly around her and heart glowing with a quiet thrill. They did it. They’d found what they needed, left no trace, and returned unscathed. Everything had gone right, like she knew it would.

  She started toward her room with a bounce in her step. She wasn’t reckless, but something in her truly believed she was on the right path. The invisible current she’d been riding since she came to the castle now felt stronger than ever, guiding her like a river toward the sea. Toward Fin. Toward his release. She allowed herself a breath of hope.

  And then disaster struck.

  The stones beneath her feet gave a low, ominous hum, vibrating through her bones. The castle walls shivered with a familiar magic, and a heavy, suffocating pressure fell over everything. Minnie froze.

  The Crone was back.

  She was never back this late. Always before sundown. Minnie felt her muscles stiffening. She was out in the open, far from her room, far from anyplace safe. For one stunned moment, she stood paralyzed. She could feel the Crone lift her head somewhere in the castle, sniffing the air, tasting the wrongness.

  Minnie’s heart slammed against her ribs. The cloak wouldn’t save her. She knew that with a bone-deep certainty. If anything, it would make things worse. the Crone would feel the borrowed magic and strike without mercy.

  In one sharp motion, Minnie wrenched the cloak from her shoulders and stuffed it into a crack behind a statue. Then she turned and ran.

  The corridor stretched before her like a dream gone bad, shadows flickering, walls fading in and out. Her legs were leaden, her lungs on fire. Just reach the door. Just reach the room. If she could get there,

  Something sharp burst against her eyelid. A white-hot sting. She cried out, stumbling as her right eye swelled shut in seconds.

  A bee. One of her own bees. Startled by her panic. Acting on instinct. A simple reflex with disastrous cost.

  Tears of pain welled as she pressed a hand to her face, trying to keep running. But it was too late.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  A sound like rustling paper. A breath, slow and wet. A scent of something rotting sweet.

  She turned.

  The Crone was right behind her.

  In her own domain, she discarded the motherly disguise and wore her true form. Her silhouette was bloated, twitching, unnatural. Her skin shimmered with sickly veins, the flesh desiccated and wasted. Her eyes were wells of blackness, grossly unequal in size. Her smile, too wide, too wet, curved with manic delight.

  She leaned in, her head tilting at an angle no living neck should allow.

  “What happened to your face?”

  Her tone was bright, almost cheerful. A child discovering something grotesque and fascinating.

  Minnie tried to speak. “I… I was stung by a bee.”

  The Crone recoiled theatrically. “Ugh. I hate bees. Hate them!”

  Then she leaned in again, closer, her breath like sour herbs and scorched paper.

  “Are there more of them inside you?”

  Minnie couldn’t speak. She shook her head, trembling.

  With a sudden jolt, the Crone snapped upright. “Well, don’t wander at night,” she said in a singsong voice. “It’s bad for your… symmetry.”

  She cackled and lifted one finger like a child casting a spell in a game.

  Zzt.

  A green beam of slime struck Minnie’s chest.

  Pain crashed through her. Her lungs folded like parchment. Her skin shrivelled, her bones burned. She didn’t scream. She couldn’t. Her body locked, a statue of pain and horror.

  The Crone was already turning away, robes slithering behind her like oil come to life.

  “Sleep tight,” she sang into the dark, and vanished.

  Minnie collapsed.

  When she awoke, she was lying on cold stone in a dark hallway.

  And she was whole.

  Her chest heaved, but there was no pain. No burns, no wounds. Even her eye, once stung and swollen, was fine, the skin smooth and unblemished.

  She blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, trembling. Everything in her buzzed with leftover terror, like her body hadn’t yet accepted that it had survived.

  Then she saw it.

  A tiny body beside her. One bee. Still. Wings folded, legs curled.

  Dead.

  In the chaos, it had tried to protect her, in its own way.

  She reached out, gently cradled it in her palm. Her fingers closed around it like an apology.

  She hadn’t meant for this to happen.

  Her eyes stung again, but this time not from pain.

  It was the only evidence that the nightmare encounter had truly taken place. No burns, no green slime, no trace, only this small, still body.

  The Crone hadn’t meant to kill her. Of that, she was sure. But what had it been, then? A warning? A lesson? Or just the idle cruelty of an immortal toying with their hapless prey?

  She stood on shaky legs and made for her room.

  This time, the halls were still. No shadows stirred. No figures moved.

  She slipped inside and shut the door behind her. Only then did she let herself feel it, the full weight of what had almost happened.

  Her knees buckled, and she slid to the floor.

  She had been very, very lucky.