Trust the process...?

They became a daily spectacle.

For three mornings in a row, Lian, Kael, and Mira marched up the mountain path as if they were on a parade route. The witch’s cave door had become less ominous and more like the door of a friendly critic. Birds seemed to whisper gossip. A goat once stopped to stare and then wandered off with dignity.

Kael jingled as she walked. Boomer made soft clicking noises that sounded suspiciously like applause. Mira carried the moss ring in a small pouch and walked with a quiet purpose. Lian held the pebble in his palm like a talisman, the scrap of mirror wrapped in cloth, the feather carefully tucked behind his ear.

They went through the ritual exactly as the witch had instructed. Body, mind, and the small ridiculous thing. They breathed. They spoke truth. They sang about heroic porcupines. They smeared the chalky paste on Lian’s wrist and waited.

Nothing.

On the first day, the witch applauded politely and then accepted the snacks. "Good," she said. "This pastry is acceptable."

On the second day, Lian felt a tiny, hopeful tickle under his ribs when he laughed at his own porcupine song. It vanished like a shy animal and left him embarrassed. "Maybe that was it," he whispered to Mira on the path home.

"Maybe," she answered, unconvincing.

On the third day, Kael brought a ridiculous hat and insisted that Lian wear it during the chorus. Lian wore the hat and sang with full theatrical embarrassment. The witch clapped, tears of laughter in her eyes. She ate the snacks and made small approving noises. Then she blew a soap bubble and poked it thoughtfully.

"That was delightful," she said. "But no awakening yet."

They tried variations. Lian told darker truths. He practiced focusing for longer, sitting in the cave like a monk with a low tolerance for quiet. He tried other silly acts: reciting a poem about a heroic sock, dancing like a frightened crow, and attempting to juggle three small stones he was not good at juggling. Each attempt earned a polite nod from the witch and a pouch of biscuits in return.

Kael grew increasingly dramatic. "This is preposterous," she announced on the fourth visit. "Either this witch is holding back, or Lian has the most stubborn ember in existence."

"Or he is allergic to being special," Lian mumbled, cheeks pink from singing a stanza about a lost slipper.

Mira handed him a glass of water. "Keep trying," she said.

The witch sipped tea and watched them as if they were a stage act she had commissioned. Her bells chimed when she laughed. Her plants leaned forward as if to get a better view.

On the fifth morning, Mira arrived carrying three different kinds of biscuits. Kael brought homemade confusion pellets in a tiny jar and labeled them "For morale." Lian wore a ridiculous cape that Kael had insisted upon, trimmed with fake feathers.

They went through the motions. Lian focused. He breathed. He revealed a secret about having once been too afraid to climb a ladder. He sang a song about a goose that did paperwork. He smeared the chalk paste with exaggerated solemnity.

After the song the witch put down her cup and clapped once.

"You are both entertaining and tragically predictable," she said. "And you bring snacks exceedingly well."

Kael raised a sticky eyebrow. "So? Is it waking or not?"

The witch let her smile widen until it was a little cruel. "There are two parts to this, children. One part was for you. The other part was for me."

Mira blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," said the witch, setting her teacup down like an accusation, "that I enjoy being amused. I enjoy pastries. Snack offerings are much better than the kind of entertainment the cave usually gets. I also enjoy the spectacle of people who practice humility and foolishness with such vigor."

Lian sat down hard. "Are you saying this was all… for your snacks?"

"For my snacks," she confirmed. She sounded pleased. "And for my amusement. I have watched a hundred hopeful faces. Many are dramatic, some are noble. You three are refreshingly stubborn. But that is not all."

Lian folded his hands over the pebble and felt heat where he had not felt it before. It was not the ember waking. It was the small, hot twist anger makes in your throat.

"You played with us," he said slowly. "You told us things to get us to come back every day for cookies and a show."

The witch shrugged. Her bells chimed. "It is not a crime to enjoy a good routine. I am a witch and a watcher. I will not apologize for liking teatime."

Kael slammed her palm on the table. "That is outrageous. We wasted days. We sang about crows and porcupines and heroic socks. I demand justice."

"Justice?" the witch echoed, already amused. "My dear, justice in my cave looks a lot like a novelty pastry and the occasional tragedy. You appear to be asking for something truer."

Lian's face had gone red. He felt foolish and betrayed. He had bared small secrets and the witch had smiled and eaten and smiled some more.

"You told me things would happen," he said. "You told me you could help. You told me I had something."

"And you did," the witch replied, softer now, like a voice changing when a storm stops. "You have something. I said so because I saw it. I also enjoy company. Those two facts are not contradictions."

Lian scrambled to his feet. "So which is it? Did you trick us for food, or are you actually a prophet now serving biscuits?"

The witch stood too. Her bells rang clear. She came closer until her face was near his and her eyes were the color of dried herbs.

"I may mock," she said. "I may laugh. But I do not lie about what I see. What I said about you was true. The ember is there. It stirs. It is patient and lazy and attached to comfort. It woke a little when you sang badly and smeared paste on your wrist. That was real. I did not invent that feeling."

Lian’s anger melted into a bewildered ache. He could not tell if he wanted to hug the witch or punch a pillow.

Kael leaned in, a grin slicing across her face. "So you admit you were feeding on our snacks."

"I do," the witch said. "But I also admit that you have been trying. Your half-baked passions and your real attempts both count."

Mira folded her hands and looked at Lian with something like quiet pride. "You kept going."

He swallowed. "Yes. But you could have been honest."

The witch’s smile softened. "And now I will be. I will tell you the true method."

Kael whooped, nearly spilling the jar of confusion pellets. Lian felt his chest both lighten and tighten. Hope arrived like a bus that was late but finally turning the corner.

"Tell us," he said.

The witch nodded and then, as if savoring the moment, raised a finger.

"First," she said, and the chapter ended there.