The castle breathed darkness.
Its halls were carved of obsidian stone and jagged violet crystal, humming faintly with old, dead magic. Candles flickered in iron sconces, casting shadows along the arched walls. Every step Jaune took echoed like a challenge, one that had gone unanswered for centuries. His boots rang against the polished floor, and behind him, the Jabberwalker padded silently, still in its jackalope guise, ears twitching in the oppressive silence.
Then, without fanfare, she appeared.
Salem.
She stepped from the far end of the chamber, where the moonlight spilled through tall, crystalline windows that cut the gloom like ancient blades. The soft clack of her heels tapped over the stone, measured and slow.
Her appearance had somewhat changed.
Gone was the flowing gown of swirling shadow. Now she wore something sharper—elegant, tailored, cold. A long-sleeved black dress with open shoulders, cinched to her form like it had been carved from shadow itself. Crimson trim wound down her front and sides like blood spilled in slow lines, and three dark stripes ran the length of her skirt like reminders of past wars. Bone cuffs gripped her upper arms. A red, cross-shaped brooch glinted over her chest, resting atop the narrow window that exposed her collarbone and the soft curve of her bust.
A matching cape trailed behind her, trimmed in red. Crimson gemstones gleamed faintly in her pale hair, tied in its usual severe bun.
She was beautiful. Ageless. Yet was like dread made flesh.
And she was already watching him.
Her eyes narrowed, not with rage—but curiosity.
"I can feel it," she said, voice smooth and rich as poison in wine. "Not the Brothers. Something else. Someone… older. Watching you."
Jaune didn't flinch.
"Call off the Grimm," he said calmly, "and we can talk. I promise, it's worth it."
For a heartbeat, she said nothing.
Then, with a flick of her wrist, the shadows pulsed. Dozens of eyes, Grimm hounds, Lancers, creeping shapes unseen, vanished into the darkness without a sound.
Silence returned.
Salem stepped closer, curiosity burning behind her half-lidded gaze. "Who," she asked, "is the god that sends a Knight into my home? I have not seen a Jackalope for a long time."
Jaune met her eyes.
"The Mother of the Brothers," he said. "I am Jaune Arc. She sent me with her for a message. Not to punish you. Not to reward them. She's here… to fix their mistake."
Salem paused.
Then she laughed.
It was sudden and deep, a full-bodied laugh that echoed across the vaulted ceiling, sharp with amusement but not scorn. She stopped only when she saw he didn't react.
"So," she said. "You've come to parlay."
Jaune nodded once.
Salem's eyes glimmered. "Then by all means, speak your peace."
Jaune reached into a pouch at his side and drew out a single, shimmering leaf, red and gold and blue and green, a swirl of the impossible. Another gift from the Blacksmith.
He held it up and blew.
The leaf caught the air, twisting gently, like a snowflake falling upward. It drifted toward Salem.
She didn't flinch. When it landed in her palm, something in her posture stiffened.
A hum filled the chamber, quiet, harmonic, otherworldly.
Her eyes fluttered. Her breath hitched.
And then she saw.
She saw the Blacksmith's forge. The workshop where the Broken were reshaped, where fragments of stories could be reforged into something whole.
And she saw what Jaune had been shown.
What he'd chosen.
What he'd brought to her.
Salem blinked once, slowly, as the vision faded.
"How quaint," she murmured. "A storybook answer to a divine mistake." Her lips curled faintly. "And what if I say no, brave knight? What if I decide, even now, to wipe them all out? Remnant. Vacuo. Vale. Every city, every soul. What then?"
Jaune shook his head.
The Jabberwalker shifted behind him, its form melting back into its truest self—tall, bestial, striped in pale and violet hues. It stepped forward, massive forearm raising instinctively in front of Jaune, claws ready. Not to strike. To protect.
Jaune's voice didn't waver.
"Then it'll be the same."
He looked her in the eyes.
"You'll perish."
Salem's brows lifted.
Then she laughed again. This time, softer. Almost genuinely.
"Oh, I like you."
She turned on her heel.
"Come," she said. "Let's have tea."
Jaune blinked.
"…Seriously?"
Salem's voice echoed back as she walked. "You came to speak. So speak."
The castle's tearoom, if it could even be called that was a gallery of dying elegance. Black stone carved into shapes that mimicked warmth. A wrought-iron chandelier hung above, candles sputtering inside crystal bowls. A circular table sat at the center, set with two cups and a silver pot that steamed faintly with something floral and bitter.
Salem poured the tea herself.
Her sleeves trailed like wisps of shadow.
Jaune sat across from her, posture straight, eyes never leaving hers.
She studied him for a long moment as she stirred her own cup.
"I'm surprised you still drink tea."
Salem did not answer.
The Jabberwalker lingered at the edge of the room, silent, massive, eyes faintly glowing.
Salem gestured to it. "It's beautiful, in its way."
"It's not a weapon," Jaune said.
She tilted her head. "Isn't it?"
"No," Jaune said. "It's a gift."
"To me."
"To you," he confirmed. "Not to destroy you. Not to fight you."
He met her gaze without flinching.
"To give you what no one else ever has."
Salem went still.
"…And what's that?"
Jaune's answer was simple.
"Peace."
Her fingers tapped the porcelain once.
"You think I want to die."
"I think it's what you've wanted for a long time," Jaune said. "But the Brothers cursed you with immortality. You were left in a world where nothing makes sense, betrayed by gods, haunted by grief."
She looked away for the first time.
"You're wrong," she said softly.
"No," he said. "You just don't want to admit it."
Salem said nothing for a long time.
The steam from the tea curled between them.
Jaune sat still.
The Jabberwalker waited.
The quiet pressed in around them like a grip.
Salem's fingers lingered near her cup, but she didn't drink. Her gaze had dropped, not in submission, but thought. She looked at the steam curling from her tea like it might show her another path. A secret truth hidden in vapor.
"I've had centuries," she said finally, her voice low, distant. "To consider peace. To chase it. And every time I reached for it, something broke beneath my fingers. The world. Myself. Others."
She glanced up again, eyes unreadable.
"Peace is a pretty word, Jaune Arc. But do you know what happens when I stop fighting?"
"I think you finally rest," he said. "And maybe, for the first time, dream of something that isn't pain."
A pause.
Then Salem laughed again, but this time it was quiet. Softer.
"And if I say yes, your little creature this gift—ends me?"
Jaune looked at the Jabberwalker. Its eyes met his. Waiting.
"It doesn't destroy you," he said. "It delivers you."
Salem's eyebrow arched. "To where?"
"To her workshop," Jaune admitted. "But it isn't punishment. It's a door."
She stared at him for a long moment, and something in her expression… shifted. The poise remained. The power. But the edge of it dulled. She looked tired—not physically, but at the soul.
"You really believe that."
"I do."
"And you think I deserve it."
"I think… no one else ever tried to ask what you needed," Jaune said. "They only tried to end you. Like that would fix anything."
Silence.
And then Salem did something Jaune didn't expect.
She sighed.
She leaned back in her chair, fingers trailing over the edge of her cup. Her eyes didn't hold malice anymore. Just weight. Centuries of it.
"I never thought the final knight at my gate would ask me to surrender," she said. "Not like this."
"It's not a surrender. You are being given a choice."
"A choice… huh."
Salem closed her eyes for a moment. Her hand reached toward the Jabberwalker—slowly, tentatively. It stepped forward, lowering its head, and let her place her palm gently over its crown.
Her breath hitched.
Not pain. Not corruption.
Just… warmth.
Color flickered briefly in her eyes—brief and fleeting, like the memory of a summer that never was.
Then she stood.
"Come," she said. "I won't make this theatrical. Besides, what do I have to lose?"
Jaune could tell that too.
She was entertaining this out of curiosity. She still believed that no one can undo her, but she saw promise in what he offered.
Jaune rose with her. He said nothing. The Jabberwalker followed close behind, its massive body quiet as falling snow.
They walked together through the long, dark corridor, past forgotten statues, broken mirrors, and murals caked in dust. Salem said nothing. Neither did Jaune. There were no words left to say.
Only the end.
They reached the central chamber.
It was a high cathedral-like dome, bathed in red light from the cracked sky above. Gravity Dust crystals rose in jagged spires. And at the center, where once she had conjured destruction and ruled in solitude…
…she stopped.
"I don't know what comes next," she whispered.
Jaune stepped beside her.
"Neither do I."
Salem turned.
"For what it's worth…" she hesitated. "I never hated your kind."
"You just didn't believe in us."
She gave a ghost of a smile. "I believed once. That was the problem. But–"
She looked at the Jabberwalker.
"Let's finish it."
The Jabberwalker stepped forward.
Its form shimmered again, shifting from the jackalope, from the beast, into something both monstrous and serene. Its hands cupped gently around Salem. Not binding. Not hurting.
Just holding.
Salem closed her eyes.
The room dimmed.
Light shimmered across the creature's body, a bloom of color and calm.
And then—
Salem was gone.
No body. No scream. No fanfare.
Just silence.
The Jabberwalker slowly turned its head to Jaune.
Then lowered itself to one knee.
And was still.
Jaune stood alone in the hollow of the dark cathedral.
No Grimm howled. No monsters stirred.
Only the quiet remained.
He took a breath.
And then—
The world breathed with him.
[
The world fell away.
Not in fire.
Not in dust.
But in quiet.
And in the space beyond that quiet, where no time passed and no shadow lingered, she arrived.
Salem opened her eyes.
Not in pain. Not in a scream. Just a breath.
She stood in a place that didn't exist.
There was no sky. No floor. No edges to the world around her. Just a soft luminescence, like light passing through water, and a sense of stillness so complete it swallowed thought.
She looked down at herself. Her hands were clean. No black veins. No cursed flesh. Just pale, untouched skin. She flexed her fingers once, slowly.
"Hmm," came a voice. Calm. Knowing.
Salem turned.
The Blacksmith sat nearby, perched atop a bench of silver and shadow. Her anvil glowed gently behind her. Her form shimmered like oil across glass. She did not move with weight, but with presence, an entity more ancient than dust, and yet somehow gentle and motherly in every step.
"Welcome," the Blacksmith said.
Salem studied her for a long moment.
Then, her voice low. "So this is death."
The Blacksmith tilted her head. "Of a kind."
Salem looked down at her hands again, flexed them. "The Jabberwalker wasn't… unkind."
The Blacksmith's eyes softened. "It was made to guide. Not punish you child," She patted the space beside her. "Sit."
For a moment, Salem didn't move.
Then, with the same slowness she'd once reserved for royal courts and war councils, she stepped forward. She sat, her back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. A queen, even now.
The Blacksmith studied her.
"You ask why now," she said.
Salem didn't look at her. "You knew."
The Blacksmith nodded once. "Always."
"And you waited."
"I did."
"Why?"
The Blacksmith leaned back slightly. Her eyes didn't shine, but they didn't judge either. "Because no one asked you what you wanted. Not once. Not truly. They only asked what they could stop you from doing."
Salem was silent.
"And when they tried to stop you," the Blacksmith said softly, "they only made you stronger. Lonelier. Sharper."
"I was already broken," Salem murmured. "Ozma left me. The gods cursed me. My children—" Her voice cracked. She swallowed. "And I kept walking."
The Blacksmith didn't speak.
Salem's fingers tightened. "Do you know how long I've waited? How much of me was lost just trying to be heard?"
"I do."
Another silence.
Salem's shoulders sagged. Not in weakness. But in surrender.
Not to a higher power.
To rest.
"…He offered me peace," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "That knight. Jaune Arc."
"And you accepted it."
Salem looked at the nothing ahead of them. It wasn't bleak. Just… open.
"I didn't think I could anymore."
The Blacksmith's voice softened even further. "We all forget how to hope, eventually. That's why something else must remember for us."
Salem didn't respond. She just… breathed. Slowly. Eyes half-lidded. As if she were still trying to understand what her chest felt like without rage filling it.
She sat there for a long time. Minutes. Years. It didn't matter here.
And the Blacksmith?
She listened.
Salem remained still.
Not paralyzed. Not afraid.
Just… still.
For the first time in countless lifetimes, the world did not ask anything of her. No power to wield. No war to command. No mask to wear. Just quiet. Just her.
And in that silence, something old began to bleed through.
"I hated him," she whispered.
The Blacksmith said nothing.
"I hated Ozma for leaving me. For choosing humanity over me. For returning as my enemy. Again and again." Her jaw tightened. "And every time he looked at me like I was a monster… I became one. Just so he'd stop pretending."
The Blacksmith did not agree. Did not forgive. She simply remained.
Salem had done heinous things.
Ruined Kingdoms and Empires.
Salem's voice cracked. "I begged the gods for mercy. They gave me eternity. I begged for love. They gave me silence."
She looked down at her hands again. They trembled.
"I killed them. My daughters. I broke the world."
"And still," the Blacksmith said gently, "you came here."
Salem blinked, her eyes shimmering with something long forgotten. "Why does that matter?"
The Blacksmith finally turned toward her, not with judgement, but truth.
"Because even a broken heart knows which way to fall."
Salem looked at her then. Really looked.
Not as an enemy.
Not as a god.
Just as… someone.
"Do you believe I can be forgiven?"
The Blacksmith smiled, faint and strange. "No. And I think that's the wrong question."
Salem tilted her head slightly, confused.
"You ask if you can be forgiven," the Blacksmith said, "as if it's a gate with someone waiting to open it. But what if there is no gate? No lock?"
She gestured around them.
"Forgiveness is not a gift you wait to receive. It's a step you take alone."
Salem looked down, her voice small.
"I don't know where to step."
"Then sit a while longer," the Blacksmith said. "The world can wait. We all have the time in the world, girl"
And so she did.
There were no screams. No schemes. No vengeance. No gods.
Just the flicker of warmth in a place outside time.
Salem, tired, hateful, grief-wracked Salem let herself breathe.
Let herself stop.
The Blacksmith remained beside her.
She didn't offer answers.
She simply offered the one thing Salem had never truly been given.
A place to be.
Without needing to be feared.
Without needing to be fought.
Without needing to win.
And in that impossible place, a witch and a blacksmith sat in stillness.
And above them, high in that timeless sky, something changed.
A single leaf—gold and blue and soft with the colors of the Ever After spiraled down from nowhere.
It landed on Salem's knee.
She looked at it for a long, long time.
And said nothing.
Salem sat motionless for a long time. Her breathing had slowed, her shoulders eased. The fury that had defined her for centuries storm that never ceased was quiet now. It hadn't left. But it no longer screamed.
It simply… waited.
The Blacksmith, patient as ever, turned her hands slowly.
And in her palm was a small figurine.
Roughly carved. Unfinished.
But unmistakably shaped like Salem.
Her slender frame, her poised hands. The sweep of her hair. The faint suggestion of her cloak in the folded curves of the base.
It did not wear a crown.
It did not bear a throne.
It was just a woman.
And the Blacksmith began to work.
She lifted a small blade, glimmering faintly with the light from her forge and gently began to whittle.
Each stroke was soft. Intentional.
Not to reshape her.
Not to erase what she was.
But to understand her.
To see her clearly.
To carve away what the world had forced onto her. The armor. The mask. The wounds left unhealed. Until what remained was not a weapon. Not a witch.
Just Salem.
The woman underneath.
Salem didn't watch.
She didn't speak.
She had simply closed her eyes.
And rested.
For the first time in ages.
And in that quiet, the Blacksmith carved on, each curl of wood or glimmer of shaped essence falling away like memories no longer needed.
Until at last, there would be something true.
Not what the world had made her.
But what she had never been allowed to be.
Not a monster.
Not a queen.
Just human.
And so, Salem slept forever in the warm embrace of a forge.
And the Blacksmith worked forevermore.