Episode 2: The witch doctor's burden

The old quarter of Crestwood was a labyrinth of crooked streets and crumbling facades, its air heavy with the weight of forgotten years. Tucked between a shuttered tailor's shop and a pawnshop with grimy windows stood Madame Lazare's modest storefront. The sign above the door—"Solutions for the Lost"—hung faded and peeling, barely legible in the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. Inside, the shop was a cluttered sanctum of mystery: shelves sagged under the weight of jars filled with dried herbs, murky liquids, and delicate bones, while the air carried the mingled scents of sage and a sharp, metallic tang.Madame Lazare sat behind a worn wooden counter, her presence as commanding as it was enigmatic. Her hands, weathered and steady, rested atop a deck of cards, and her eyes—piercing as shattered glass—watched the door with quiet intensity. She was a figure of contradictions: ancient yet timeless, her parchment-like skin stretched taut over sharp bones, her gray curls tumbling freely over her shoulders. A loose tunic, marked with dark stains, draped her frame, and around her neck swung a pendant—an eye-shaped talisman with an opal iris that seemed to shimmer with its own restless light.Tonight, she wasn't waiting for a customer. She awaited something inevitable, a shadow from her past that refused to stay buried.The bell above the door rang out, its brittle chime slicing through the stillness. A man entered—Elias, lean and weathered, his gray coat trailing behind him, a scarf hanging loosely at his throat. His dark eyes swept the room before settling on her, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips."Madame Lazare," he said, his voice a low rasp. "It's been too long."She didn't stir, her gaze unwavering. "You're not welcome here."He chuckled, easing the door shut. "Still bitter, I see.""Some debts don't fade," she replied, her eyes dropping briefly to his scarred hands—evidence of a life spent grasping at dangerous things. "Why are you here?""To talk," Elias said, stepping closer to the counter. "About Anne Baker and Deon Travers."Her fingers tightened on the cards, but she said nothing."They're making waves," he pressed. "A woman walks in with insomnia, walks out with a man stitched from dreams. People are asking questions. I'm asking questions.""Questions can cut deeper than knives," she warned. "You of all people should know that."His smile sharpened, but it held no warmth. "You're the one dancing with danger, Lazare. Tapping the dream world again—I thought you'd sworn it off."A flicker of pain crossed her face, quickly masked. "I don't wield it. I mend what I can.""Mend?" Elias scoffed. "You call summoning a dream into flesh mending? You know the toll that magic takes. You've felt it."She rose then, slow and deliberate, the opal pendant glinting in the dim light. "You have no idea what I've lost," she said, her voice rough as gravel.His smirk vanished, his gaze narrowing. "Then enlighten me. Tell me why you're still tempting fate."The silence stretched between them, heavy and charged, until she let out a sigh like the rustle of dead leaves. "Sit," she said, nodding to a stool in the corner.Elias dragged it over and sat, his coat pooling around him like spilled ink. She settled back into her chair, hands resting on the counter, and began her tale."I wasn't always this," she said, gesturing to the shop, to her worn form. "Once, I was a dreamer—born with one foot in the dream world. My mother had the gift too; she taught me to walk its paths, to shape its shadows. It's a realm of beauty and terror, Elias—a place where thoughts take form and magic flows like water. But it's alive, hungry. Creatures dwell there—spirits, shadows, echoes of lost minds—and they yearn for what we possess: life, solidity."Elias watched her, his face a mask, though his eyes betrayed a spark of recognition. He'd brushed against that world once himself."I was bold, foolish," she went on. "Thought I could master it. I'd slip into dreams, pluck visions of what might be, carry whispers back to the waking world. People paid handsomely—fortunes divined, fates twisted. But the dream world exacts a price. Each crossing took something from me—memories, joys, fragments of my essence, chipped away like stone."She paused, her fingers brushing the opal pendant, its swirling depths mirroring her unease. "Then I met Jonah. A scholar, gentle and wise, studying the edges where worlds meet. He saw me—all of me—and loved me still. We dreamed of a life unbound by magic, of sealing the dream paths forever."Elias leaned forward slightly. "What went wrong?"Her voice grew heavy, laden with sorrow. "I wanted more. One last task, I told myself—a wealthy man paid me to ruin his rival. I crossed over, wove a nightmare to break the man's spirit. But I lingered too long. The shadows found me—jagged things with teeth, ravenous beyond memory. They clawed at me, and when I resisted, they struck back."Her hand clenched, the knuckles whitening. "I woke to find Jonah lifeless beside me—his heart stolen in his sleep. The dream world had claimed him, a life traded for the one I'd sought to destroy."Elias let out a slow breath. "The cost of your greed.""Yes," she murmured, her gaze drifting to some unseen horizon. "I shut the paths after that, vowed to never touch the magic again. But the dream world branded me. I can't dream now, can't sleep without sensing its pull, its appetite. So I turned to aiding others—small remedies for broken souls.""And Anne?" Elias asked, his tone sharpening. "Deon?""That was different," she said, her eyes snapping back to him. "Anne's sleeplessness wasn't mere affliction—it was a breach, a tear between realms. Deon, her childhood imagining, was caught there, suspended in the dream world. I gave her dream dust—a tether to draw him out, to make him real. But it's a brittle thread. He's tied to her, and if it snaps…""He returns," Elias finished."Or worse," she said. "The dream world doesn't forgive escapees."Elias rose, pacing the cramped space. "So you're their guardian now, keeping the thread intact.""I'm their penance," she corrected. "I meddled once and lost everything. I won't let it claim them too."He turned, his smile icy. "And what about the ripples? The dream world's stirring—I feel it. Your little trick with Anne and Deon might've woken something."The pendant flared briefly, and she stood, her voice firm. "If it's waking, it's not their doing. It's yours—prodding at shadows you can't control."Elias raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'm not here to fight. I want to understand, to stop a collapse. Tell me more—about them, about your magic."She studied him, wary, then sighed. "I'll share what I can. But swear you'll leave them unharmed.""I swear," he said, his nod abrupt. "I'm not here to shatter lives—just to know."She didn't fully trust him, but she gestured to the stool. "Sit, then. This isn't a short tale."Outside, Crestwood slumbered, oblivious to the fragile boundary between its reality and the dream world's grasp. Madame Lazare spoke on, her words painting a life shaped and scarred by a magic she could neither escape nor fully abandon—a victim of a system that gave as fiercely as it took.