The Witch Who Rewards the Wicked

Everyone in our village knew the stories.

Not the friendly ones that made children giggle. Not the tales whispered at fairs or around the fire. No—these were the warnings, the kind that left grown men shivering and women clutching their shawls.

The witch’s name was Lysandra. And she didn’t grant wishes… not the kind you hoped for.

She granted what you secretly deserved.

⸻

I found out the hard way.

It was my twenty-first birthday, and I was desperate. I wanted fame. Recognition. Glory. I wanted the villagers to see me not as a nobody but as someone who mattered.

I went to her forest cottage, hidden in the gnarled trees where shadows seemed to move on their own. The smell of herbs and ash hit me before I even stepped inside.

“Ah,” she said, her eyes glinting like polished obsidian. “Another wish. And what is it you desire, child?”

I puffed up my chest. “I want everyone to admire me. To respect me. To remember my name forever.”

She smiled—a thin, knowing smile. “Very well. But remember, my magic is… precise. It does not forget intent. It only answers truth.”

I nodded, confident, heart racing.

She handed me a small black vial. “Drink.”

I did.

⸻

At first, everything seemed perfect.

People noticed me. My ideas at the village council were praised. Merchants asked for my counsel. Children ran to greet me in the streets. I basked in the attention, drunk on the taste of admiration.

Until it changed.

My words became commands. Subtle at first. A shopkeeper miscounted his coins? He tripped and spilled his earnings. A rival scholar doubted me? She twisted her ankle and fell in the library. A friend who mocked me lightly? He woke screaming in the night, chased by shadows only he could see.

It was… satisfying. I’ll admit it. I told myself it was coincidence. A curse of fate. Surely, the witch’s magic worked only when deserved.

But the more I enjoyed it, the worse it got.

⸻

The villagers began to avoid me. Not because they feared me—oh no—they whispered of Lysandra’s hand in every misfortune. They noticed the patterns I refused to see.

And I refused.

Until the night my own reflection betrayed me.

I stood before my mirror, expecting a proud, victorious face. Instead, I saw something twisted. My eyes glimmered with a cruel hunger. My smile was sharp, predatory. And behind me, shadows moved of their own accord. They whispered the secrets I had hidden even from myself—the petty envies, the small betrayals, the joy I felt in others’ suffering.

The vial’s magic had revealed the truth: I wasn’t admired for my deeds. I was feared. I was resented. And worse… I was exactly the kind of person Lysandra’s magic was meant to punish.

⸻

I returned to her cottage the next day, trembling with anger and shame.

“You tricked me!” I shouted. “I asked for admiration, not this!”

She stirred her cauldron lazily, smoke curling around her like fingers. “I grant wishes exactly as your heart dictates,” she said. “You asked to be remembered. And now, you are. Not for greatness. Not for heroism. But for the truth of what you are.”

“I… I don’t deserve this!”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, but you do. Magic is simple, child. It does not lie. It does not bend. It answers what your soul truly demands. And it punishes what you secretly deserve.”

I felt the weight of her words, heavier than any iron chain.

⸻

Months passed.

I tried to undo the magic, to apologize, to be kind. But the villagers, once curious and eager, now recoiled. Every compliment I tried to give them twisted into something bitter. Every gesture of goodwill seemed to mock them instead of help.

I realized the terrible truth: Lysandra’s magic was not in the vial, not in her chants, not even in her herbs. It was in you. The witch merely mirrored the desires and secrets in your own heart.

And if your heart was dark… well, then your wish would be dark too.

⸻

I returned to her one last time, broken and humbled.

“I want to undo it,” I said, voice cracking.

She smiled, almost fondly. “Do you? Or do you want to forget that the truth is the truth?”

I swallowed. I wanted to. I wanted the admiration back. The fame. The glory. But deep down, I knew… magic doesn’t lie. It only reflects.

“I understand,” I whispered.

She nodded. “Good. Then perhaps you have learned something.”

I left her cottage, not with the power I craved, but with a lesson I would never forget:

Magic does not give you what you want. It gives you what you deserve.

And sometimes… that is the darkest, most twisted gift of all.