Ritual

Lian could not stop thinking about the witch. Her words stuck like a burr under his shirt. An ember sleeping under his ribs. A sun that forgot it could rise. He muttered the phrases to himself while he did chores. He muttered them as he fell asleep. He muttered them even when he was supposed to be paying attention to Kael brag about a new pellet idea.

“You are obsessed,” Kael said, handing him a mug that was half tea and half regret. “If you say ember one more time, I will start a betting pool on how long before you light yourself on fire.”

“I am not obsessed,” Lian protested. He sounded less convincing than he liked. “I just want answers. You would too, if a stranger told you you were basically a sleeping bonfire.”

Mira folded a cloth and watched him quietly. “If you want answers, ask the witch. She said she could help wake it.”

Kael snapped her fingers. “Then what are we waiting for? Road trip. Snacks. Dramatic entrance. I will introduce myself as Kael the Charismatic and she will hand me pastries.”

Lian blinked. “You think she has pastries?”

“She has everything. Of course she has pastries.”

So they went back. The path felt less ominous the second time. The jokes came easier. Kael invented a theme song for their group that involved a chorus of dramatic whoops. Mira hummed quietly and shook her head when it got too loud. Lian practiced being calm and failing in small, proud ways.

They found the witch in the same low chamber, still surrounded by her odd plants. She looked up when they entered and her smile was exactly the same as before. The bells braided through her hair chimed like a tiny applause.

“You are persistent little things,” she said. “Or one of you is and the others are dragged along by momentum.”

Kael bowed. “We are momentum.”

Mira set the little moss ring on the table and said, “We brought it. He brought questions.”

The witch’s eyes flicked to Lian. “Ah. The ember child returned. Sit. Tell me what you want.”

Lian sat carefully. He felt very aware of his hands. They looked ordinary. They did not glow. They did not hold secrets. He cleared his throat.

“How do I wake it?” he asked. “What is it? How do I make it work without destroying things?”

The witch steepled her fingers. “Three sensible questions and three impossible answers,” she said with a smile. “The first answer is this. I cannot tell you what the power is before it shows itself. Powers that sleep do not like being named. Naming wakes curiosities and curiosities sometimes run away. The second answer is this. I can help you make it wake. The third answer is simple. You will probably be ridiculous trying.”

Lian felt both insulted and hopeful at once.

“Ridiculous how?” Kael asked. She leaned forward with the eagerness of a cat approaching something loud.

The witch stood and wandered among her plants. “You must make three offerings. Not the kind you place on altars. The kind that belong to you. I will show you. It is part ritual and part chaos.”

Mira frowned. “Offerings?”

“Offerings of truth,” the witch said. “One for the body, one for the mind, and one for the small silly part of your soul. The last is important. No hero ever wakes from sleeping fire without laughing at a chicken at least once.”

Kael snorted. “Chicken theft is on the agenda then.”

Lian swallowed. “What do I do first?”

The witch handed him a small cloth bag. Inside were three odd things. A pebble that looked like it had a tiny swirl inside. A scrap of mirror. And a feather, gray as ash.

“Body,” she said, pointing to the pebble. “Hold it against your skin. Feel the weight of the world. Acknowledge that you are a body. That you were broken and you were fixed. Then breathe.”

“Sounds dramatic,” Kael muttered.

“It is not dramatic,” the witch said. “It is basic.”

Lian pressed the pebble into his palm. It was warm. He felt the skin on his palm draw close to it like two old friends. He closed his eyes and breathed. He thought of his other life and how small and empty it had felt. He thought of how this life was crusted at the edges with work and hunger and little victories. He noticed how his chest tightened and then loosened.

The pebble hummed. Just a faint little thing. Lian did not know if it was in his head, but it felt like the pebble approved.

“Mind,” the witch said next, handing him the mirror. “Look and speak the truth you have kept. Not a story designed for pity. Speak the ugly small thing and the brave small thing. Speak it loudly enough that the air listens.”

Lian stared at his reflection and saw himself as a stranger. He opened his mouth.

“I was bored,” he blurted. “I lived and I did not live. I woke up and there was nothing. I wanted to matter but I did nothing that lasted. I died with no answer. I woke up here and I am afraid of wasting this chance.”

He felt the words like stepping on a ledge, and he kept going.

“I want to stop being someone who watches. I want to do something that’s mine.”

When he finished, he felt oddly lighter and also empty in a helpful way. The witch’s bells chimed like curtains opening.

“Soul,” she said, handing him the feather. “Do something foolish. One ridiculous act that has no aim except to make you laugh at yourself.”

Lian’s stomach dropped. He looked at Kael and Mira. Kael stood up and grinned.

“Sing a song you made up about a heroic porcupine,” she said immediately. “If you cannot sing like a fool you cannot wake like a brave thing.”

Lian gaped at her. “What?”

“Do it,” Mira said softly.

Lian was an awful singer. He knew this. He also knew that the witch had said the small silly part mattered. He took a breath and sang with complete wrongness.

There was a porcupine. It wore a crown. It pranced through the market and accidentally sat on a hero’s cloak. It sneezed confetti and somehow saved breakfast for a small town. The tune was silly. He missed a note. He forgot a verse. He laughed halfway through and the laugh loosened something in him that he had not known was tight.

The witch clapped a slow hand. “Good. Now let us see.”

She reached into her cupboard and mixed a thin, silver paste on a plate. “This is nothing. It tastes like chalk. Smear a little on your wrist and think of the pebble and the mirror and the thing you sang.”

Lian did as she said. The paste tasted like chalk and cold. For an instant the cave swallowed his breath, and the feeling under his ribs flickered like a candle blown on and not quite dying.

It was tiny. So small that he might have convinced himself it had not happened if his heart had not thudded too fast.

“You felt it,” the witch said. She was smiling so gently it almost annoyed him. “A movement. A small rebellion. Now the hard part. You must practice focusing. Not looking, focusing. Till the ember stops hiding under cinders.”

“How?” Lian whispered.

“Bring me a truth each day,” the witch said. “Bring me a silly thing, a small pain, and something you are ashamed of. Come back and we will try again. Also bring snacks. The moss likes biscuits.”

Kael clapped both hands. “Snacks he can handle.”

Mira added, “We will train.”

Lian felt a wave of gratitude so sudden he nearly choked. He could not explain how scared he still was. The witch had seen him and said something true and dangerous. But he also felt less alone in the small corner of his chest where the ember sat.

They left with the vial and with new instructions. Kael hummed a baking hymn while Mira planned a schedule. Lian tucked the feather into his pocket and practiced breathing on the walk back.

When they reached the city, Kael barreled into a baker and bought a bag of flatbread with theatrical flourish. Mira paid exact change. Lian chewed quietly and thought about focusing until he could feel the soft thread of his power without being terrified by it.

That night, while Kael snored like a small thunder, and Mira read by the window, Lian sat by the repaired table and tried to focus on the ember. It was only a flicker, but it felt like the beginning of a promise.