Every breath Cipher took clung to the back of his throat, a sticky syrup that made him want to gag. The licorice soil cracked beneath his boots, hard and brittle like old sugar left too long in the sun. He pressed forward, scythe at his side, its curved blade whispering through the air like a quiet warning.
Ahead of him, Gretel stood still, her back straight but trembling, her small fists curled at her sides. Her hair shimmered, strands braided with licorice twists that caught the dying light. She didn't look at him. She didn't look at anything. Her eyes were fixed on the crooked silhouette of the house that loomed far down the path—its candied walls glowing faintly, like embers buried beneath sugar.
Cipher studied her posture the way he used to study his students before sparring: every twitch, every shift of weight, every muscle tightening for a strike or preparing to flee. This girl wasn't Red. Red had trembled beneath the shadow of the Wolf but still clung to her spark of resistance. Gretel was harder to read—she wasn't trembling because of fear alone. She trembled because of choice. Because of the temptation of surrender.
He lowered his scythe, pressing the butt of its handle into the licorice earth so it stood like a marker. "Gretel," he said, his voice calm, even, the same voice he used to guide frightened children through lessons. "You don't need to carry this story alone."
Her head tilted slightly, enough for him to glimpse her eye—sharp, bright, but edged with something too dark for her age. "You don't understand." Her voice was brittle, like sugared glass straining to crack. "Hansel wouldn't listen. He never listens. The Witch listens."
Cipher's chest tightened. There it is. The crack. The surrender.
He took a slow step forward, careful not to let his blade scrape. "The Witch listens because she doesn't care who you are. She only cares about what she can use you for."
"Better than being ignored," Gretel snapped. Her voice rose higher, cutting through the silence. "Better than being weak."
The last word shook. It wasn't a shout—it was a confession, raw and jagged. Gretel's fists clenched tighter, syrup dripping from her palms where candy shards had cut her skin.
Cipher let the silence breathe, refusing to rush her. He remembered too many moments from his old life as a teacher—students lashing out, not because they wanted to, but because they were cornered, unheard. The worst thing a teacher could do was answer too quickly. Sometimes, you had to let the storm spill before you could start mending it.
"You're not weak," he said at last, voice low, steady. "You're lost."
Her lip curled, as though she wanted to argue—but then the world shifted.
The licorice path trembled beneath them, sugar cracking and bubbling as if the ground itself had soured. Cotton candy trees bent low, their fluffy pink tufts blackening at the edges, drooping into sticky ropes. The air thickened with heat, heavy and acrid, carrying the stench of smoke.
Then came the laugh.
It dripped from the sky, slow and syrupy, as if poured from a poisoned jar. The Witch's voice coiled around them like steam, thick with amusement. "How touching. The teacher thinks he can unteach me."
The ground snapped into a stage. The crooked house grew closer in an instant, looming tall and wrong, its gumdrop windows glowing orange. Smoke belched from its chimney, clogging the sky with ashen sugar. The oven roared inside, louder than any hearth should, like a throat waiting to swallow.
Gretel stiffened, her eyes wide, her breath hitching. "It's starting again…"
Cipher didn't need to ask what she meant. He felt it too—the story tightening around her like a noose, pulling her toward her role.
"Remember your part, little one," the Witch crooned, her voice dripping from the very walls of the candy house. "You open the oven. You push. And this time… perhaps he falls inside instead."
Gretel's gaze darted to Cipher, panic warring with the shadow still clinging to her. "She'll make me do it—"
Cipher stepped closer, resting a hand gently on her shoulder. His grip was steady, grounding, as immovable as stone. "No one makes you do anything. Not her. Not the story. Not even me. Do you hear me, Gretel?"
Her lip trembled, her fists shaking as the scent of the oven's firelight washed over them. "But what if I want to…?"
The words cut deeper than any blade. Cipher's heart clenched, but he didn't flinch. He tightened his hand on her shoulder, his voice quiet but unyielding. "Then I'll remind you why you don't."
The candy house loomed higher, its crooked door yawning wide. Heat poured from it in waves, blasting the licorice path until it softened like tar beneath their feet. The Witch's laughter thickened, swelling like smoke in their lungs.
Gretel took a step forward, jerking like a puppet on strings. Her breath came in sharp gasps, her body torn between fear and compulsion. Cipher moved with her, every step matched, never letting her drift beyond his reach.
The Automaton fluttered faintly against his shoulder, its glow weak but insistent. Its voice trembled, mechanical yet urgent. "The story bends to the Witch. She rewrites roles. If the girl succumbs—she will not be freed."
Cipher didn't answer. He didn't need to. His focus was on Gretel—the girl whose trembling shoulders carried not only fear, but the unbearable weight of responsibility she had never asked for.
"You're not her tool," Cipher murmured, his voice threading beneath the roar of the oven. "You're more than a story. You're more than this."
Her eyes shimmered, caught between firelight and tears. The Witch hissed, her voice sharp as shattered glass. "She is mine. The boy is weak. The girl is strong. She chose me. She chose survival."
Cipher's gaze never left Gretel. He didn't raise his scythe. He didn't threaten. He taught.
"Strength isn't obedience. It isn't cruelty. Strength is knowing who you are—even when someone tries to tell you otherwise."
The oven roared louder, drowning the air. Gretel's steps quickened, the pull of the tale dragging her closer to the house. Her hands shook violently, caramel and sugar dripping from her skin as if the world itself tried to fuse her to its script.
Cipher matched her stride, his hand firm on her shoulder. "Stay with me," he whispered, his voice steady, as if nothing could shake him. "You're not just part of a story. You're my student. And I won't let you burn."
Gretel froze at those words. Just for a moment. Long enough for Cipher to see the smallest crack in the Witch's hold.
The Witch shrieked, her voice splitting the candy world like a blade. "Then burn together!"
The oven's glow burst outward, flooding the candy house with light so bright it turned the licorice path to molten tar. Heat slammed into them like a wave, searing, choking, relentless.
Cipher tightened his grip on Gretel's shoulder, lifting his scythe into the firelight. His silhouette stretched across the sugar walls—calm, unyielding, larger than the Witch's shadow.
Together, step by step, they crossed the threshold into the house.