The house was waiting for them.
Cipher felt it before he saw it, the way a storm hums in the bones before the clouds split. The path had narrowed, its edges bleeding into sugar-cane stalks taller than a man, the stalks creaking and bending toward him as if eavesdropping. Every step was sticky, the ground softening under his boots like half-melted caramel.
And then it rose from the clearing: the cottage.
Walls of gingerbread, crusted with icing like mortar, sagged under their own sweetness. Peppermint shutters clicked open and shut as though they breathed. A chimney exhaled smoke, but the smoke curled downward instead of up, thick and dark, falling into the earth like spilled ink. Windows glistened with panes of molten sugar, glowing faintly from within.
Beside him, Gretel stopped.
Her eyes widened—not in horror, but in something perilously close to awe. "Home," she whispered, voice trembling. "Do you see it? Do you feel it? The story always leads us here. Always."
Cipher turned his gaze from the cottage to her. The firelight of her eyes flickered, uncertain. She looked younger here, as though the sugar air had peeled years away, but her words carried a weight no child should bear.
"This isn't home, Gretel," Cipher said softly. "This place doesn't care for you. It consumes."
She didn't answer. She stepped forward, her bare feet sinking slightly into the caramel earth, her gaze fixed on the house. Cipher almost reached for her arm, but stopped. To grab would be to treat her like a prisoner. To guide was all he had.
The Automaton, perched on his shoulder, tilted its tiny head, gears clicking. Its glow pulsed faintly. "The tale builds its cage from hunger. The more she believes, the stronger it grows."
Cipher said nothing. His eyes stayed on Gretel as she moved closer.
The candy cane fence was broken in places, jagged ends gleaming like sharpened teeth. As Gretel stepped across, the air thickened. Cipher followed, the scythe's weight across his back grounding him. Every instinct screamed that this was no dwelling—it was a throat, ready to close.
Inside, the cottage was worse.
Tables made of gingerbread groaned under platters of candied fruit. Chairs of spun sugar cracked and healed in endless cycles as though eager to be sat upon. Dolls lined the shelves—gingerbread children with frosting smiles—but their heads turned ever so slightly when Cipher passed, their eyes following like flies on glass.
"Do you remember this?" Gretel asked suddenly. She stood at the table, fingers brushing the sugared edge of a plate. "We were starving. Lost. And then this appeared. A miracle. Salvation."
Her voice shook, but it wasn't grief— it was devotion.
Cipher approached her slowly. "And then?"
Her lips parted. For a moment, the words seemed caught. Then she whispered, "Then she came. She always comes. Because that is the way of the story."
Her shoulders trembled, but it wasn't fear. It was longing. Cipher felt his chest tighten. Red had clung to despair, certain her story must end. But Gretel… Gretel was leaning into the chains, polishing them like jewels.
"You don't have to let her rule you," Cipher said. His voice was steady, calm, the way he spoke to his students before exams. "The story isn't salvation. It's a cage."
Her head snapped toward him. For the first time, anger flashed in her eyes. "You don't understand! Without her, there is nothing. No house. No warmth. No food. No us. She gave us everything."
Her voice broke on the last word, but the house groaned in answer, icing dripping down the walls like sweat. Cipher glanced toward the ceiling—saw the frosting bulge, saw shadows shifting above.
The Witch was listening.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "She didn't give you anything. She took. She took Hansel. She took your fear. And now she's taking you."
Gretel's breath quickened. Her hands clenched into fists. For a heartbeat, Cipher thought he saw a crack in her conviction—her eyes darting toward him, searching.
Then the laugh came.
It wasn't loud. It seeped from the walls, soft at first, like sugar boiling in a pot. Then it deepened, thickened, until the entire room shook with it. The dolls on the shelves shivered, their smiles widening as the laughter spilled through them.
Cipher froze, one hand on his scythe. Gretel didn't flinch.
"She hears you," Gretel whispered, a smile tugging at her lips. "She hears everything. You can't change me. You can't change this."
The Automaton's voice was barely audible over the laughter. "Teacher. The house grows. The tale coils tighter. If she surrenders, the Wolf was mercy compared to what waits here."
Cipher took a step closer to Gretel. Her eyes flickered—anger, hope, devotion, fear all battling in their depths.
"You are not hers," Cipher said firmly. "You are yours. And you are Hansel's. That bond is not hers to twist."
For a moment, silence returned. The house stilled. Gretel's fists loosened slightly. Cipher saw it—the hesitation, the crack where truth could wedge itself.
But then the sugar window cracked open.
And a hand slid through.
It wasn't a hand of flesh, but of blackened caramel, sticky and dripping, nails sharp as candy shards. It scraped the wall as it reached inside. A voice followed, syrupy and low:
"Sweet… little… ones…"
Gretel's eyes lit up with reverence. Cipher's heart sank. The Witch was coming.