“This path isn’t an easier one.”
The elder Matriarch looked at the young witch with resignation, rocking slowly in her chair. The witch was undeterred, sword in one hand and a conduit in the other, breathing through the rage in his veins.
“Think, witchling, for just a moment. All witches bend the world to their will, but to do so means you must understand when the world will bend you instead. You may yet reclaim your prize… but others will come. Others seeking to claim their own prizes. Are you prepared?”
The witch looked at the Matriarch, leveling his sword at her. “It doesn’t matter. Her soul doesn’t belong to heaven or hell or anyone else. It belongs to me. She swore it to me and I swore mine to her. I will get it back.”
“And what will you do when death comes for you? A witch may live a thousand years, but it’s a single breath for the cosmos, insignificant to the gods. They will take what’s owed to them, in the end, and your joy will be as fleeting to you as it was to them.”
“Then I’ll deal with them as well when the time comes. I’ll spend eternity with her by my side, no matter what. We promised each other that. I will not break that promise.”
“Are you willing to fight for that, until even the gods wither and die?”
“She’s my doll. Of course I am.”
“Then kill me, child. Take my curse for yourself, live and fight until the universe burns through its wick. You won’t know peace until then.”
“It’ll be worth it if she’s there, at the end of it.”
“Be sure that she is.”
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