Through the silverbane's white blades the raindrops slide, absorbed by its fur-like trichomes. Olivia, with surgeon-like precision, extracted the tiny red dot growing by the side of the steam with the sharpest, magic-enhanced knife. If she was living in the modern era, she could even call it a scalpel, and her gentle demeanor along with her soft, carefully calculated moves were more fitting of a doctor than those of a witch. But doctors didn't exist, and even if they did, Olivia wouldn't want to be one for a simple reason:

  "It's okay, Steamy. Just a tiny incision in your axillary bud, you won't even notice. Count to three, one, two. Ah, see? It's done already."

  She loved plants, and not people. Steamy shook its leaves, ruffled by an unseen wind. In the modern era, she would be a mixture between a green thumb and a delusional crazy person, but here...

  Perhaps, not so much.

  Olivia sighed, exhausted by the strain of concentration, taking a few steps back with her pebble-sized basket filled with red dots. Next, she would have to operate on Leafy's roots, on Buddy's to-be-hatched saplings, and even on Penelope's crown flower. She raised her head, breathing through her teeth as she wiped the sweat off her forehead. Her once carefully tied hair, of a beautiful metal-blue shade, was now disheveled and stuck to her face and neck. Her deep-green eyes, weary rather than sharp, focused on the glare of the sun through the greenhouse's glass as it reflected to the hanging plants that, purring, absorbed it, like cats sunbathing at noon.

  "I wish I was like you, guys..." She mumbled without hoping for a response. To her, that was the best part, not the idling, nor the visible growth. She could even bear being a fern, not have any fruits nor flowers as long as she didn't have to utter a word to anyone, ever again.

  "But we can't have that, now, can we?" an acute voice came from between the bushes, and shifting through the plants, a black squirrel popped its tiny head from between the leaves. Her familiar, she recalled.

  "Sometimes I forget you exist," she said, almost to herself.

  "Ouch, harsh."

  "Truth can be harsh sometimes."

  But her familiar was right. The reason why she continued to bear her human existence—her beloved needed her and her magic concoctions. The thought that every day that she delayed her potions, he suffered withering on a sickbed was enough to churn her heart. His cries of pain echoed in her head, rippling, like a skipping stone.

  "How many tries has it been now?" She pondered with glassy eyes. Her hope was beginning to wane that the disease he suffered was simply beyond her ability to cure. What had he done to deserve such punishment, what arbitrary judgment was passed from the Gods above? The answer was that they probably didn't even care, that they had forgotten him, just like they've forgotten her.

  "Too many for me to count... But, we're on a solid lead now! Maybe this is the one." If squirrels could smirk, her familiar would be doing just that. Instead, it looked like he was frowning, which she still found cute. Olivia held her tiny basket to her heart, thinking, "To hell and back for you, my love." And steeling her will, she forced the bags under her eyes to vanish, and her vision to sharpen.

  As she operated on Rootie's unripe flower buds, her mind wandered to visions of her mother, her mentor, when she had pinched and ripped the leaf of a mint plant growing by the side of the window.

  A flash of pain, and her eyes welling with tears. On her mother's hand, a full patch of her blue hair.

  "How do you like it when I rip off your hair, huh?"

  "But! Mommy, I wanted mint tea...!" Her childish voice made her cringe, searching for excuses to avoid punishment.

  "Plants are living beings, too, Olivia. You must never forget that, always respect all life. When you must take, be thankful for their sacrifice and make sure it's not in vain."

  The memory blurred and faded as she focused on applying the right force on the lime sector of the bud, to make sure Rootie didn't feel much pain and that the bud didn't suffer damage either. One wrong move, and the bud would burst, sparking the magic that it contained.

  A familiar aroma flooded the greenhouse, pumpkin-chocolate latte, the smell of her infancy.

  "You want some, Olivia?" Her familiar, awkwardly walking on his hind legs as he carried the cup between his paws, offered her some relief. With Rootie's bud extracted, she took a moment to breathe and drink. She smiled as the aroma reached her nose; it reminded her of him. Was it wrong for her heart to flutter for a man? But no, he was different. The bitter-sweet memories spoiled the flavor of her drink, as if the pumpkin had turned to rotten mush and the chocolate was but rat's extract, all filtered in waste water.

  She was still just a little kid, barely in the age to be aware of her surroundings. It was an autumn's day, just like any other when she was eating with her mother. Someone knocked then on the door, short, decisive, interrupting. Olivia peeked from a corner with curiosity as her mother let in an ashen woman with a baby in her hands.

  "He's not breathing, he's not breathing!" She yelled. Olivia had never seen another person before, and the panic of the woman seemed as alien to her as it was to see monkeys and giraffes to other kids.

  Her mother, calm as always, placed the baby on the table and massaged him with a Red Lavian and magory sap balm. After a few moments, the baby coughed and cried as if the balm that saved its life was made of molten lava. But he lived. The woman thanked her, and the stern face of her mother darkened as if she saw the calamities to come.

  "Mom, why are you sad? That woman, she looked really happy. Maybe she'll bring us sweets, as thanks!" Olivia imagined the wonders of other people's candy, like they came from another planet where bees and sugar canes didn't exist and they had to sweeten their lives with outlandish, unimaginable things. Multi-hued rocks, flavored after the rainbow, perhaps. Her eyes sparkled greedily, even if she couldn't imagine what gift would come from saving that woman's baby, she did think it would be both plentiful and precious.

  But their only reward was more sick people coming in, barging into their lives. Her mother could barely teach her anything, as she spent every waking hour toiling making balms and healing people.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Each one healed brought two more sick, and those that were healthy would return after a while, sick again. Olivia ranted to her mother again and again to just let them sort the issue on their own, as she saw both their garden and her mother's own health wither. But the answer was always the same: "All lives are precious, Olivia. Never forget that."

  One day, one of the sick decided to bring a gift. Some unimpressive red rock, slightly shiny that Olivia bit, spitting the earthy and definitely not sweet flavor. She remembered thinking, "No wonder they get sick."

  Her mother couldn't care less about the rock; she left it in one of the house's corners, soon forgetting about its existence. But that was the beginning of the end.

  A few days later, a troop of men came looking for the rock, claiming it was the heirloom of some important duchess. Her mother vaguely recalled the gift, so she shrugged and told them to look for it, that she didn't know where it was. She returned to tending the sick.

  The men barged in and started tossing everything to the floor, be it porcelain, sculptures, food—even the plants weren't spared.

  "Hey! What do you think you're doing! We need those!" Olivia's mother screamed. The men pointed at her accusingly.

  "You witch! The plague, it's your fabrication isn't it? To strip these poor people of their belongings with your fake healing!"

  The sick turned their heads towards my mother, finally getting a proper host to blame for their misfortune.

  "Fake healing? You came knocking on my door. Do you have any idea how much I've given for you?" She uttered in a raspy, weary voice.

  "If the healing is real, why do people get sick again? Huh? So you can drain them of their things, that's why!"

  "Yes!" One of the crowd screamed. "She made me pay the blacksmith for a new bucket, claiming the one I had was cursed!"

  "Rusted, you fool! It was for your own good!"

  Another, with hands quivering in anger, exploded: "And the water! You had me pay hundreds of coins to have the royals test the water!"

  Her mother shook her head, baffled at their imbecility. Olivia stared agape, fearful at their sudden anger. The accusations kept mounting, and things turned to violence. Grabbing her mother by the collar, the men searching for the rock started to slap her demanding answers. The others, joining the forceful interrogation, kicked and punched. Olivia ran through the house, crying as she looked for the damn rock. Her tiny and soft hand got bloodied as she burrowed through the greenhouse, looking in every nook for it until she finally found it. A dirty thing, barely even worth looking twice, soul-less, dead. She ran back to the mob and screamed while holding it high for everyone to see:

  "Here's your stupid rock! Leave my mom alone, leave!"

  But it was too late. Her mother was dead, killed by the angry mob. The men snatched the rock and left, leaving her lifeless body on the floor like a bag of trash. And then, as if a charm spell chain suddenly snapped, the sick looked down at their dead doctor, the only one that could help them, and the little girl they'd turned into an orphan. They left quietly. Perhaps they didn't even mean to kill her mother, perhaps they were just angry at their own king for having left them to die. But intentions didn't matter. Olivia was alone, utterly alone, in a broken house.

  She sighed for the third time. What a tiring life she had lived. She remembered lying on this very floor, famished, on the brink of death. Her mom hadn't lived long enough to teach her how to grow new things, and the men had killed almost every plant they had in the house. She clung, then, to the one sapling that survived. Barely even a few inches tall, the inception of an apple tree. Olivia had spent countless nights imagining herself savoring the fruit, but no matter how hungry she was, the tree couldn't grow faster.

  "He's sad." A soft voice reached her, as if a part of a dream.

  "What...?"

  "The tree. He's sad that he can't feed you. The guilt is eating him away, and he's consumed every resource at hand to speed his growth. The poor thing..." A hand reached to her to lift her up, as soft as his voice. She looked at him with wary eyes, but his beautiful, sharp features broke her flimsy guard. He drew a kind smile, and extended a juicy green apple.

  He taught her how to grow flowers and trees, and each day he vanished like an illusion, returning at night with new, alien seeds and delicious fruit. He taught her how to find new life in the wild, and how to transport the trees in the forest to her garden. Soiling his pristine hands and cotton clothes, he taught her how to handle the trowel, the hoe, what to cut, what to leave. Each passing night, they grew closer as he told her of a faraway kingdom where his father, the king, had cast him out for defying him. He told her of creatures that her mind struggled to imagine, furry creatures of the wild. Her very favorite was the squirrel, that helped the forest grow with each passing winter. Most importantly, he had taught her to read the plants' thoughts, so she never felt alone.

  Wasn't it every orphan's dream to be rescued by a lonely prince?

  But all good things come to an end. As she reached her mid-teens, the prince's visits became erratic. Sometimes, he wouldn't show for weeks, and only appear to her for a few hours only to vanish as if nothing had happened. His kind smile became tired, his fair skin yellowish, and his voice, so sweet, was now on a thread—barely audible. One night became the last, as his figure against the oak became ethereal.

  "My prince, what's the matter?" Olivia asked, afraid of the answer.

  "My witch. I must go now, as the curse my father had placed on me has become too strong for us to remain together."

  "What? What curse? There's no such thing as curses! Whatever you have, whatever is going on... we can solve it, I can solve it!"

  He shook his head. "No, not this time. I enjoyed our time together, and no matter how we part ways, I'll always love you, my Olivia, my witch."

  Tearing up, both in the present and the past, she remembered his last words:

  "I'll heal you, my prince! There's no curse, no king that can keep us apart...!"

  "No. You hear me, Olivia? No. This is something you cannot, will not heal. Forget about me. Live your life, be happy. Goodbye."

  She shattered the cup in her hand. Her familiar, that she had fashioned after the prince's stories, lowered his head in understanding.

  "Enough breaks. Enough memories." Olivia's mind whirred at full speed as she collected roots, leaves, flowers, sap. It wasn't enough, as proven by previous attempts. She needed more. In jars, preserved by magic, she kept adding to the boiling cauldron. Eyes, blood, even a heart. Her mother thought all lives were precious, and look where that had gotten her.

  "No. Not all lives are precious," Olivia thought as she finished stirring and began filtering. She almost had it, but it wasn't enough. She grabbed her sharp knife, the same one she had used to operate on her friends. Her familiar seemed to be about to protest, but a strong glare made him shut up. Olivia then drove the knife to her neck, and with the last minutes of consciousness drew the passage circle on the floor. As her physical body fell to the ground, Steamy shook his leaves, ruffled by an unseen wind. In Olivia's cold hand, where the potion she'd been concocting should be, there was nothing.

  Reality warped. Inside the firebloom leaves, through its midrib lava flowed, absorbed by its veins. Olivia calmly cut the leaf with her hand, as she had no magic knife this time around. Only as the firebloom's leaf entered the flask did the potion become homogenous—integral, perfect. Olivia smiled. She made it.

  Walking down, so far down that the fire became extinguished and replaced by ice, enduring the gelid winds of the ninth circle, she made it to her prince, who lay on his deathbed, bound by invisible chains. She approached him, but his eyes were locked in battle with the king—unseeing. He couldn't drink, as he was completely absorbed by the astral battle, so she would do it for him. Filling her mouth with the potion, she grabbed both his cheeks and forced the salvific liquid into his mouth with a deep, loving kiss.

  A few moments passed, and the focus in the prince's eyes returned. A smile formed on his lips, but not the one she knew. This one wasn't kind, but savage, wild, revengeful. Olivia didn't know what the prince would do with his newfound strength, now free of the king's curse. But she didn't care: she loved the prince, not people.

  He laughed.

  "Thanks, my witch."