The licorice walls shuddered as if the house itself had drawn breath. Sugar glass windows rattled in their frames. From the hearth, fire surged—not red-orange, but an unsettling violet, tongues of flame licking the air like hungry serpents. Shadows lengthened, and in their stretching forms, Cipher saw shapes that were not his own.
Gretel's hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. Her gaze was locked on the oven, where the glow pulsed like a beating heart. A whisper crawled from its depths—low, rich, and silken as syrup.
"You've tasted my sweetness before, child. You know it fills you, makes you strong. Why fight what is meant to be yours?"
Gretel flinched, pressing closer to Cipher's side. But she didn't answer the voice. Not yet.
Cipher lowered his scythe, planting the haft into the sugar-crusted floor with a sound like cracking ice. His tone remained calm, almost too calm for the shifting madness around them.
"She's not strong because of you," he said, addressing the fire without fear. "She's strong because she's survived you."
The oven's door creaked open a fraction. Hot wind rolled out, carrying the scent of scorched honey and ash.
A laugh spilled from within, broken and beautiful, like glass chimes shattering on stone. "And yet she returns. That is the nature of stories, Teacher. Children wander too far. They hunger. They eat. And then they burn."
The house trembled, floorboards stretching into jagged ridges of rock candy. Gumdrop-shaped growths swelled and burst, spilling molten syrup across the tiles. Gretel stumbled back, her breath catching.
Cipher caught her wrist before she could retreat further. His grip wasn't forceful, but steady, grounding. He angled his head toward her, voice steady despite the chaos.
"Eyes on me, Gretel. Not on the fire. What do you see?"
Her lips trembled. "A trap. Everything is… it's all meant to keep us here."
He nodded once. "Good. Then the first step is not to panic. You already see it for what it is. Now—how do we move?"
Her eyes darted to the waves of molten syrup crawling toward them. She swallowed hard. "Around it. There's space along the wall. If we're quick—"
The Witch's laugh cut her off. The floor surged, thickening into a wall of hardened sugar, sealing the passage Gretel had pointed to.
"See how quickly hope is eaten?" the Witch purred. "Every path ends in fire. Unless, of course, you take mine."
From the wall, shapes pulled free—syrup-slick figures, two children molded from caramel and shadow. Their faces were indistinct, but when they opened their mouths, Gretel's voice came spilling out.
"We're hungry, Hansel. So hungry. We must eat."
Gretel's breath hitched. She shook her head violently. "No. No, that's not me. That's not me!"
Cipher tightened his hold on her wrist, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Listen to me. That's the story talking. Not you. You know who you are. Say it."
Her throat locked. The caramel children dragged themselves closer, their movements sticky and unnatural, every step leaving smears across the floor.
Cipher leaned closer, his voice quiet but firm, the way one would coax a frightened pupil into finding their answer. "Say it, Gretel. Who are you?"
"I'm…" She hesitated, trembling. The figures drew nearer, their mouths dripping tar-like sweetness. "…I'm Gretel. I'm not theirs."
The scythe flared. For a heartbeat, its runes shimmered like starlight, and the caramel figures froze mid-step, fissures cracking their syrup bodies.
The Witch hissed, and the oven banged shut, rattling the candy windows.
Cipher angled his scythe across his body, creating a barrier of light between Gretel and the advancing forms. His voice dropped lower, for her ears alone.
"You see? That was you, not me. You pushed them back. Your choice has weight."
Her eyes widened, and a faint, uncertain light sparked within them.
But the Witch wasn't finished.
The walls convulsed, peeling back to reveal more candy-things: gingerbread soldiers with candy-cane spears, licorice serpents slithering from the rafters. The whole house seemed alive, a confectionary nightmare intent on swallowing them whole.
Gretel staggered. "It's endless. She won't stop."
Cipher's stance didn't waver. "Then neither do we."
The Automaton stirred on his shoulder, wings flaring briefly with pale light. "Teacher, the Witch binds the tale tighter than the Wolf did. She is not content with endings. She thrives on control."
"I know," Cipher murmured, then turned back to Gretel. "Which means she'll press harder. She'll whisper louder. You'll be tempted to obey, because obedience feels like relief."
Gretel's voice broke. "How do you know that?"
Cipher's eyes softened. "Because I've seen it before. Students who'd rather surrender their will to someone else than risk failing on their own. But you're here. And you're still fighting."
The Witch's laugh roared, echoing from every candied surface. "Fight? She has no fight. She is mine. She came to me willingly, mouth open, eager for sugar and fire."
The licorice serpents lunged. Cipher swung his scythe in a wide arc, severing them into black mist that curled back into the walls.
He didn't look away from Gretel. "That's the trick. She'll tell you this is all you are. Hungry. Weak. Disposable. But you've already proven her wrong."
Her jaw tightened, tears trembling in her eyes. The gingerbread soldiers advanced, gumdrop eyes glowing like coals.
Cipher shifted his scythe, offering it almost like a staff instead of a blade. "Take the lead, Gretel. Tell me what you see. Tell me how to get through them."
Her breath came quick, but her eyes scanned the room. The soldiers moved slowly, heavy in their candy-armor. Between them, gaps flickered in and out as they marched in stilted rhythm.
"There," she whispered, pointing. "Between the third and fourth—if we move fast, we can slip through before the others close in."
Cipher smiled faintly, proud, even in this horror. "Good. Then we move together. On your mark."
She swallowed hard, gripping her torn cloak around her shoulders. "Now!"
They darted forward, slipping between the lumbering candy soldiers just as their ranks closed behind. Gretel gasped as one's spear grazed her arm, but Cipher's scythe knocked it aside with effortless precision.
The oven shrieked, flames flaring higher. The Witch's voice thundered, sharp and furious now.
"You dare turn her from me? She is mine! Her brother is mine! You cannot teach what has already been eaten!"
The walls groaned, seams cracking as molten sugar began to drip from the ceiling like tar. The house wasn't just defending itself now—it was collapsing in wrath.
Cipher pulled Gretel against his side, shielding her from the falling syrup. His scythe caught the droplets before they could sear her skin.
"We don't fight her on her terms," he whispered. "We endure. Step by step. And when she falters—we move."
Gretel looked up at him, wide-eyed. "And if she doesn't falter?"
He met her gaze, calm even as the world shook around them. "Then we make her."
The Witch roared, the house convulsing in fury. But beneath the thunder of collapsing sugar and shrieking flames, there was something else—something small, but growing.
Gretel's heartbeat, no longer frantic with terror, but steadying. Finding its rhythm.
Cipher smiled faintly. A teacher's smile.
The Witch had no idea what she had just awakened