The licorice forest gave way at last, thinning until the trees stood like blackened spires, their roots bleeding syrup into the earth. The air grew hotter with every step, the sweetness so thick it curdled in Cipher's throat.
Ahead, the house waited.
It rose from the ground like a festering jewel, walls of gingerbread warped and cracked, icing dripping in slow rivulets like melting flesh. Candy shutters hung askew, their colors faded to sickly pastels, while the windows glowed with a dull orange light—like ovens still burning behind the glass.
Gretel's steps faltered. She gripped Cipher's arm, her eyes wide and glassy. "It's… it's still here. After everything. It's waiting for me."
Cipher's gaze didn't waver. The scythe rested lightly against his shoulder, runes glimmering like distant constellations. "It's not waiting. It's clinging. Stories don't like to end, even when they should."
The Automaton flickered on his shoulder, wings of light briefly flaring. "Correction: the story is fractured. The Witch remains its anchor. Remove her, and the narrative stabilizes."
Gretel's voice broke into a whisper. "Remove her…" Her eyes fell to the glowing windows. "Or… remove me."
Cipher turned sharply, crouching so his eyes met hers. His voice cut clean, firm without cruelty. "No. Listen to me. You are not her story's prisoner. Not anymore. This ends with your choice—not hers."
Her lips trembled, but she nodded faintly.
A sound stirred from within the house. Wood creaked. Glass cracked. And then, the door swung open.
From the darkness inside, the Witch emerged.
She wasn't whole—her form was patchwork, stitched together from melted sugar, spun glass, and charred bread. Her claws glittered like shards of crystal, her face stretched into a smile far too wide, syrup dripping from her teeth. Her voice was both mocking and maternal, sweet and venomous.
"My dear Gretel. Back again. Did you miss me?"
Gretel flinched, clutching Cipher's sleeve.
The Witch's molten eyes slid to Cipher, narrowing. "And you've brought a teacher. How quaint. Tell me, man of wisdom—did you know the oven was never meant for me? It was always meant for her."
She pointed a clawed finger at Gretel. "The greedy little girl. The jealous little sister. She burned her own brother to save herself. That is the truth of the story."
The house groaned, as if in agreement, its walls heaving like lungs. The smell of scorched sugar poured into the clearing, sickly sweet and suffocating.
Cipher rose slowly, scythe gleaming as he stepped forward. But instead of attacking, he set the blade into the ground between them, leaning on it like a teacher at his lectern.
"You can't scare me," he said calmly. "And you don't get to decide who Gretel is."
The Witch hissed, syrup spattering the ground. "And who are you to speak for her?"
Cipher's eyes flicked to Gretel, steady, unwavering. "No one. That's why she has to speak for herself."
For a long, trembling moment, Gretel stared at the Witch—the towering figure of everything she feared, every doubt she'd nursed since Hansel was gone. The house loomed behind it, glowing hotter, as if begging her to step back inside.
Her legs shook. Her voice broke. But she forced the words out anyway.
"I am not your child."
The Witch froze.
Gretel's fists clenched at her sides, tears spilling but her voice growing stronger. "I am not your meal. I am not your prisoner. I am Gretel… and I will live."
The air cracked like thunder. A crimson glow burst from her cloak, spilling across the clearing. The licorice trees shuddered violently, their syrup running like blood.
The Witch screamed, her voice splintering into dozens, each one a distorted echo of Gretel's fear. She lunged, claws slicing the air, but the crimson light seared through her melted form. The sugar cracked, splintered, and fell away like shattered glass.
"No! You are mine! You are my ending!"
Gretel's cry cut her down. "No. I choose my own!"
The Witch collapsed in a storm of ash and sugar dust, her scream trailing into silence. The gingerbread house followed, crumbling into ruin, its icing melting into the earth until nothing remained but scorched black soil.
Gretel swayed, her glow dimming, and Cipher caught her before she fell. Her tears wet his shirt, but her sobs carried something different now—release, not despair.
The Automaton's glow pulsed softly, voice quiet as reverence. "The anchor has been severed. The tale repairs itself. Stability returns."
Slowly, the forest shifted. The licorice trunks softened, their black sheen fading into the rough bark of ordinary trees. The ground dried beneath their feet, no longer sticky with syrup but firm with soil.
The nightmare had ended.
Gretel looked up at Cipher, her voice hoarse. "Will I… see you again?"
Cipher brushed a strand of hair from her face, his expression steady, kind, and distant all at once. "No. My place isn't here. But what you've learned—what you've chosen—that stays with you. Always."
Her lips quivered, but she nodded. Her grip on his sleeve lingered before she let go, standing on her own.
Light rose from the soil, curling upward like smoke, wrapping around Cipher and the Automaton. The void was calling him back.
"Teacher…" Gretel whispered as the light thickened. "Thank you."
Cipher's lips curved, faint but real. "Teacher is my occupation," he said gently. "My name is Cipher Starlight. Call me Mr. Starlight."
Her lips quivered, but she nodded, clutching the name like a talisman.
His smile lingered only a moment longer before the void swallowed him whole.
Cipher gave her one last small smile, the kind he might have offered a student who'd finally found the answer themselves. Then the void swallowed him whole.
Darkness. Silence.
Until the stars returned.
Cipher floated once more in the endless black, his scythe slung across his back, the Automaton perched at his side.
The voice of the gods came, deep and resonant, not in his ears but in his soul.
"Two stories mended. Countless remain. Not every tale will wish to be saved. Guide them. Test them. Teach them. Lead them."
Before him, another door began to form, its edges glowing faintly, humming with a darker promise than before.
Cipher tightened his grip on the scythe, his expression unreadable, but his gaze unshaken.
The next lesson was waiting.