It is night three, and after going through more slugs in hues of blues and violets this time, yellow apples falling from trees and sunflowers growing on his clothes: Hector finally has a clue, a trail to follow the witch and beat her to her own game.

  As the legends say, the witch very well lives in a cave, and as Hector watches her leave, watches her long ginger hair plaid to one side, her dress almost touching her toes as she slides into the forest with utmost discretion—yes, he thinks, this is it.

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  He looks around, makes sure she is truly gone, then steps forward, his cape catching the wind. This is my moment, the words ring in Hector’s mind as he marches toward the cave, my purpose. A glint of passion burns in his gaze. He smirks, and enters the witch’s domain.

  My glory.

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