The Sorceress’s Braid

 

The Sorceress’s Braid

The fire crackled low in the camp, casting flickering shadows against the towering trees of the ancient forest. The scent of damp earth and smoldering wood filled the air, but Tristan barely noticed. His attention was fixed on her—Lirien, the enigmatic sorceress who had joined their party only a few weeks ago.

She sat cross-legged by the fire, methodically braiding her impossibly long, silken hair. The strands shimmered like spun silver in the moonlight, weaving in and out of her deft fingers with practiced ease.

“You keep staring like that, and I’ll start to think you’re enchanted,” she said without looking up, a smirk playing at her lips.

Tristan cleared his throat, suddenly feeling like an awkward squire instead of the seasoned warrior he was. “It’s just… your hair. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Lirien chuckled, tying off the braid with a delicate twist of magic that made the strands shimmer before settling into place. “It’s more than just for show, you know.” She reached for her staff, tapping the end of her braid with its crystal tip. A soft glow spread through the woven strands before fading.

“A spell component?” Tristan guessed, leaning forward.

She nodded. “Woven with runes only I can see. My magic is stronger when I channel it through something deeply connected to me.” Her gaze lifted to meet his. “It’s also useful for other things.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Without warning, the end of her braid shot forward, moving like a living thing, coiling around his wrist. Before he could react, it gave a playful tug—firm, yet teasing. His breath caught.

Lirien’s smirk widened. “Control.”

Tristan swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. “That… could be useful in battle.”

“Mm. In battle, sure.” Her voice was laced with amusement, but there was something deeper in her gaze—something that sent a different kind of shiver down his spine.

The braid released him just as quickly, falling back over her shoulder as if it had never moved. She turned her attention back to the fire, stretching out her fingers to the warmth.

Tristan flexed his wrist, still feeling the ghost of her touch.

Dangerous magic, indeed.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Brady Bunch: Hair-Raising Hijinks

It was a bright Saturday morning in the Brady household, and Jan Brady stood in front of her mirror, sighing dramatically. "Why can't I have hair like Marcia?" she lamented, tugging at her straight blonde locks. "Her hair is so perfect—glossy, thick, and always falls just right!" Marcia, sitting on the edge of the bed brushing her golden waves, turned and gave a knowing smile. "Jan, your hair is great just the way it is! You just need to find the right style for you." But Jan was on a mission. She had found a magazine article titled Transform Your Tresses: The Secret to the Perfect Do! and was convinced she needed a whole new look. "I'm going to curl it!" she declared, grabbing an old set of Carol's hot rollers. Cindy, ever the curious younger sister, peeked into the room. "Oooh! Can I curl mine too?" she asked, bouncing her pigtails excitedly. "Not now, Cindy! This is serious!" Jan said, carefully winding a ...
Read more

the Collector

  The first time Caleb took a lock of hair, it had been an accident. A single strand had caught on his glove as he brushed past the girl in the crowded train station, clinging to the leather like it wanted to go with him. He had stared at it later, fascinated by the way it shimmered under the light—golden, delicate, perfect. That night, he placed it in a small glass vial. By the time the second strand joined the first, it was no longer an accident. ### The city whispered of missing women, but no one connected the disappearances. They weren’t the usual victims—no clear pattern, no forced entries, no signs of struggle. Just young women with one common trait: impossibly long, beautiful hair. Caleb was careful. He was patient. He didn’t kill out of rage or desperation. No, his work was art. He took his time selecting each one, watching them from afar, memorizing the way they moved, the way their hair swayed with every step. When he chose, it was intimate. A slow, deliberate hunt. Tonig...
Read more

The Algorithm of Her Hair

  The Algorithm of Her Hair The mirror wasn’t real. Not in the traditional sense. It was a pane of hyperglass, scanning, analyzing, feeding data into the system with every flick of her wrist, every pass of her fingers through the thick strands of hair that fell down her back. Processing… Processing… Her hair was too long. The system flagged it instantly. "ERROR: Non-compliant length detected. Efficiency rating: 64%." She sighed. The voice was always there, cold and clinical, reminding her that excess was unnecessary. Long hair served no functional purpose. It required maintenance. It got in the way. It was wasteful . She ignored it, lifting the heavy length into her hands, twisting it absently, feeling the impossible softness between her fingers. The strands slipped through like liquid silk, catching the sterile white light from the ceiling, moving in ways that no algorithm could predict. She knew what the system wanted. The others had complied. Sleek, regulation cuts...
Read more