Three riders arrived into the guest yard that smelled of sauerkraut, sausages, and horse manure. They were two men in light leather armor with a two-headed red basilisk on the coat of arms, indicating their belonging to the royal troops, and a woman in a dark green cloak that hid almost her entire body. Her face could be called beautiful if not for the furrowed brows and evil black eyes that did not reflect the light and seemed dead.

The groom boy, the same one who never managed to get money from Crow, immediately noticed not only the men's royal symbols, but also a heavy medallion in the form of a golden scorpion that hung from the neck of a black-haired woman who was looking imperiously at the yard peasants. Another witch! But not just a witch like the one that was sitting in the cellar now, but one of the council of seven! He must warn the owner, otherwise, the man will box his ears later, and the boy could forget about candies and sugar apples during the summer fair.

 The owner of the tavern and his older brother ran out into the yard to meet such influential guests.

 “To what do we owe such an unexpected visit, lady witch? Would you like to rest after a long journey and drink our best plum wine?” the head of the village groaned. There was fear in his voice.

 "Where is Svartalf?" quietly but piercingly asked the woman. Her silky black hair shone in the evening sun.

 “So, she’s probably still in the cellar with the damned witch, sorry madam, I love and respect all witches very much, but... she’s just a vagabond assassin, a swindler. We didn’t kill her at once just because we were waiting for elves or sorceresses in charge to deal with her. We are simple people; we don’t need troubles...” the adult man babbled like a baby.

 One of the riders jumped off his horse; he pointed with the tip of his sword at the farmer’s throat.

 “Please don't kill me,” the farmer whimpered. His wife and Fillania wailed out loud, knowing that after his death no one would buy them expensive dresses, trinkets, and chocolate sweets from capital. The rest of the household and guests huddled in dark corners or scattered in all directions.

 "Shut up, trash!" the warrior sharply cut his pathetic laments.

 The woman in the dark green cloak nodded to the man.

 “Show the way to the cellar,” her voice seemed gentle at the moment, which contrasted with her harsh expression.

 The guard grabbed the farmer by the collar making him stand. The head of the village ran to the tavern as fast as he could, "Don't kill me, good sir! I’ll show you whatever you want."

 A few minutes later the guard returned alone with a lock of hair in his red gauntleted hand.

 “There is no one in the basement, mistress, the back door is not locked. They had must have run off into the woods or hidden somewhere in the adjoining barns across the field.”

 “Search the barns,” she calmly addressed the other rider, “but something tells me they went to Crow Mountain...” she took a strand of black hair from the warrior's hands. The cloaked woman brought it to her nose and inhaled its pleasant smell. Her eyes widened. “Don’t harm the witch, not another hair off her head. Treat her, boys, like you’d treat your queen.”