A witch is amongst a boy trying to turn him into a

The old woman’s cottage smelled of woodsmoke and something else… something acrid, like burnt sugar and fear. Ten-year-old Finn knew he shouldn’t have wandered so far from the village, especially after dark. Now, trapped in the dimly lit room, a gnarled woman with eyes like chipped flint regarded him with unsettling amusement. Her lips, thin and cracked, curved into a smile that didn’t reach them.

“Such a plump little boy,” she crooned, her voice like dry leaves skittering across cobblestones. Finn felt a prickling dread crawl up his spine. He tried to back away, but she was faster. A flicker of emerald light erupted from her fingertips, and a strange, dizzying sensation washed over him. He felt himself shrinking, his bones aching, his skin tightening. He whimpered, the sounds muffled, as he felt his fingers and toes shorten, his body contorting.

Panic seized him as he realised he was shrinking, transforming into something small, something… rodent-like. The last thing he saw before his vision tunneled was the witch’s cackle, echoing in the suffocatingly small space of his rapidly diminishing body. He was a mouse, a tiny, terrified creature scurrying across the floorboards.

His grandmother, Elara, a woman as strong and sturdy as an oak, arrived at the cottage the next morning, her face etched with worry. She’d tracked Finn by the faint trail of his fear, a palpable thing that clung to the air. She burst into the cottage, her eyes blazing with righteous fury. The witch, now humming a jaunty tune, looked up, her eyes glinting.

Elara, a woman versed in the ancient arts of healing and protection, performed a counter-spell. She chanted, her voice resonating with power, weaving intricate gestures with her wrinkled hands. She poured herbs into a cauldron, sending wisps of purple smoke curling into the air, the scent a sharp counterpoint to the witch’s sickeningly sweet aroma. But nothing happened. Finn, still a mouse, watched helplessly as the powerful incantations seemed to have no effect on the witch or his shrunken form.

A cold fury settled upon Elara’s face. This wasn’t just some petty spell; this was a dark magic, a violation of the natural order. The witch’s laughter, once mocking, now grated on Elara’s nerves, a discordant note in the tense silence.

“You will pay for this,” Elara rasped, her voice low and dangerous. She didn’t need words anymore. Her experience spoke in the quick, silent movements of her hands, her eyes burning with an ancient power. The air crackled with energy, the scent of woodsmoke now mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of impending violence.

The battle was swift and brutal. There were no spells or incantations, only a raw exchange of power, a clash of wills. The cottage shook under the force of their conflict, furniture splintering, the very walls groaning under the strain. Elara, with a strength born of generations of protectors, forced the witch to her knees. The emerald light that had once held such power now flickered weakly.

With one final, decisive gesture, Elara reversed the witch’s curse. But instead of restoring Finn to his human form, she turned the witch herself into a tiny, trembling mouse, mirroring the fate she had inflicted upon the boy. The tiny, twitching creature was left alone in the rubble, a stark reminder of the consequences of tampering with forces beyond one’s understanding.

Elara, her face pale but resolute, scooped up Finn – still a mouse, but safe – and cradled him gently. The long road to his full recovery lay ahead, but for now, the immediate terror was over. The silence in the cottage was profound, broken only by the faint scratching of a tiny creature in Elara’s hand, a silent testament to the darkness that had been vanquished.