When Restag woke later to Witheric’s concerned voice, it was so dark he thought himself blind. However, then he saw the slight crack of a door, through which came a sliver of light. He sat up with the grogginess of one who has slept but without refreshment, groaning, “Where are we? What happened?”

“In a closet, I think,” said Witheric, his voice miserably sheepish. “Well, friend, you were right, yet again. It would seem we were enthralled by a spell. The wine must have been a witch’s brew!”

“Maybe,” said Restag. Then recalling the iron broach attached to his cloak hanging by the door, he said, “Or perhaps it simply strengthened the magic’s hold. I don’t suppose it matters either way, though.”

“No,” sighed Witheric. “No. I suppose not. So, now what? I tried the door, but it must also be enchanted. I tried to force it open, but it is like hitting a mountain and hoping it will move.”

Before Restag could answer, there was the sound of a catch, followed by a panel sliding back, letting in a brief stream of dim light before a face filled it. It was a horrible, wrinkled face covered in veins spreading across the skin like dark green roots. Bright, golden eyes glowed slightly in the dark. The face’s thin lips pulled back into a smile, and a voice, unmistakably female but also so old it sounded covered in dust, said, “Did the children have a good nap?”

Witheric glared indignantly at the old woman, snapping, “What are your purposes, hag?”

“Hag?” said the old lady, breaking out into laughter that sounded like the crackle of old parchment. “Yes. I suppose I am a hag. You forget, sometimes, when you have lived on the edge of Faerie for so long, the names given you. Safer that way. Hm… but I do like ‘hag.’ I think I’ll keep it for a while.”

Forcing himself to his feet, grunting in pain as he put weight on his injured arm, Restag reached for his sword and found it missing. The witch grinned toothily at him, saying, “A Dar’s-word for you two boys: remember your stories. Never enter a woman’s house in the middle of the woods. She may just be a witch. And never, ever relinquish your iron, especially of your own will. Oh, and don’t let anyone take your weapon. That’s a silly thing for a shield-man to do.”

Flushing angrily, Restag clenched his good fist and said, “You were asked a question, Witch. What are your purposes? If you mention the stories, then should I think you wish to eat us?”

Witheric paled, but the hag laughed again, saying “Such ill-speech for a child. Your mother must weep for that tongue of yours.” The flush deepened across Restag’s cheeks, reaching his ears and down his neck. The witch went on, “But that’s a man for you. Always thinking with his stomach! You are right, though. It’s been quite a while since I’ve had the taste of fae-blood, even if it’s only half the potency. It will be quite welcome, this time of year.”

“But-but aren’t you an Asgradi, too?” said Witheric. “Your face… aren’t those….”

The hag answered, “Ah, yes. Well, that was a long time ago. Back when I did not need my fae-gift to fish for pretty little boys who love a pretty little face.”

So, thought Restag, that explained the strange feeling from earlier. As only half-fae, iron did not stop or weaken an Asgradi’s magic, but it did react to it, often generating discomfort or something like an itch for the wearer. It was why the Asgradi had long used steel for their metal armor, rather than iron. Iron rings or plates became a distraction whenever the wearer used or was hit by another’s magic, and a moment’s distraction could mean death in battle. This witch could probably sight-bend or weave some other cunning through which Restag’s Sight could not penetrate. When they had entered into her spell’s influence, the broaches had sensed the fae magic, but he and Witheric had not listened and instead walked right into the snare.

Witheric, having come to a similar conclusion as Restag, looked apologetically to his friend, who shook his head. They shared the blame for this doom, to some extent. The thane knew, though, that his share was the greater, as was his duty to free them from the noose. To the hag, he said, “Is… is there no way to sway you against eating us?”

The hag looked at him like he was an idiot, but after her eyes scanned them, they narrowed, and her said thoughtfully, “You do look rather more like bones than flesh. Of course, I could just plump you up a bit…. Or, if you have something, some token or treasure that I deem worth your worn bone-houses, perhaps I may take that than use up my larders feeding two grown men.”

Hope pulsed within Witheric, and he said excitedly, “What about the broaches? We don’t have much of value, but–”

“Bah!” said the hag, swatting the idea away. “I’m a witch! What use have I for iron? Besides, didn’t I just tell you that’s a fool’s deed? Do you have sieves for ears, you hollow-head! No, no. Iron is no good. I need something more. Something useful. Something… precious, something that holds a piece of you worth keeping.”

A shiver ran down Witheric’s spine as he realized the witch was not truly looking at him. Her eyes were focused on his torso, right where the little draw-string bag carrying fragments of home brushed against his chest beneath his shirt. With shaking hands, he reached into his tunic and pulled it out, slipping the contents out onto his hand. The witch’s eyes gleamed greedily.

Restag, meanwhile, said, “Witheric! What are you–”

“Stay out of this, Restag,” said Witheric, not looking away from the hag. “This is thanes-work. Not yours.”

Restag fell silent, his emotions falling behind a mask.