I turned the curse into a spell, but what I spoke found me as well.

We've almost reached the crossroads from Spooked.

Stay.

Every 30 years, they rebuilt their altar.

The temple they call up the round.

And there they dance and sanctify a child as their new Messiah.

I knew nothing of their scripture.

Except they were witches that dealt in magic and blood and spirits,

but witches that paid good coin.

Still, I refuse their entreated to build the round.

Choose another, I told the elder, my head bowed low when they came to ask again.

It was not the crone who knocked, nor her soldiers, but a woman torn from dream.

A beauty made of song I felt every eye in the village burn with envy and fear as I invited her inside.

Her smell was like moonflower.

Her smile happy memories.

I bade her sit and pretended I would not instantly do anything she asked of me.

She accepted tea and said simply that it was foretold that I was the one, the one.

And that anything I desired was mine to ask anything, but I must build the temple.

Anything.

She said meaningfully.

I am no innocent, but I swear to you now, I did not touch her.

I did not.

...