The Witch of Thornvale Chapter 1: Streets of Steel and Fire
The Witch of Thornvale is an allegory of Ludwig von Mises’ lesson on capitalism, one of the Six Lessons. Told as a portal fantasy.
Before I begin, enjoy the little book description I freehanded and looked at twice:
Eirwyn Starweaver is a witch on the run from the king’s huntsmen.
Drake Ridgeback is a disillusioned hockey writer living in a world where violent protestors on both sides of the political spectrum clash.
When Drake takes refuge in a mysterious magical shop to escape the unrest, he falls through an enchanted mirror and into another world, crossing paths with Eirwyn.
The huntsmen gain ground and believe Drake is helping Eirwyn stay one step ahead of them, labeling him a criminal.
If caught, Drake will be killed, and the huntsmen will force Eirwyn into the king’s military ranks, her power exploited to serve his imperial interests.
While on the run, they encounter a thriving village that respects property rights and free markets. The villagers offer solace in exchange that Drake and Eirwyn contribute, but it’s only a matter of time before the huntsmen discover their whereabouts. This time with reinforcements.
And they’re willing to kill anyone who stands in their way.
Streets of Steel and Fire
Drake Ridgeback lifted his media badge like it was a middle finger encased in plastic. The jittery security guy wearing a rent-a-cop vest that barely fit nodded him through the barricade with the kind of apathy that said, You’re not important, but you’re not a threat.
Pittsburgh’s winter gnawed at Drake’s neck as the arena doors hissed shut behind him. Drake adjusted the strap of his soaked laptop bag and zipped up the Penguins pullover he wore for show. Black and gold across his chest convinced everyone he was on their side.
Beneath it rested his real loyalty: a faded Sabres tee. Blue and gold, worn thin from too many seasons of heartbreak. No playoffs in over a decade, but it was real. That’s what mattered.
The crowded hallway buzzed under fluorescent lighting and excited voices. Drake wove through the fans, head down just enough to avoid small talk, but high enough to project a don’t mess with me vibe.
Two familiar reporters passed, one a podcast puppet, the other from a site that used to print his work before they drank the diversity Kool-Aid. Both looked right through Drake. Perfect.
His phone buzzed and the burner account he used with Spotify popped up. Notifications from the podcast. One he’d turn into his real job. Anonymous, sharp-tongued, and so unfiltered that it’d send the establishment mob into a frenzy.
Six months in and already more traction than six years of credentialed sports writing fluff that kept the masses pacified. But hey, every band of self-righteous moral supremacists needed someone to keep an eye on them. Drake smirked as he let himself into the booth just as the National Anthem ended.
The game slogged into the first period. Neutral zone dumps, blocked shots, and background noise for bored minds who looked more interested in falling asleep than watching two dysfunctional teams.
Drake typed half a sentence, deleted it, then acted like he was enjoying the game. The Sabres were losing the intimidation battle and couldn’t keep the puck in the offensive zone any longer than a few seconds.
Drake let his mind wander to the riots, pulled out his phone, and clicked over to Rumble, where drone feeds from Fifth Avenue lit up his video recommendations. Protesters packed the sidewalks, marching in the arena’s direction, chanting the same slogans they probably heard others yelling when CNN aired the Chicago riot. Cold never froze outrage in any major American metropolis.
Drake thanked fate when the horn signaled the intermission and he slipped out of the building before half of those in attendance bustled for the concessions.
Cold air slapped him as he pushed through the east doors. Part of him wished he grabbed his jacket, but it wasn’t like that intermission would last longer than twenty minutes. Anything beat the arena’s artificial oxygen. If security gave him hell, he’d have them grab his laptop and he’d catch the game from a restaurant.
Plus, he needed to get a look at those riots so he could claim he saw at least a few minutes of them live on his podcast.
Two crowds faced off a block from the south entrance. One side waved rainbow flags and looked like something out of a winter-themed drag show. The other wore flannel jackets, with some carrying Gadsden flags. Both sides carried megaphones and barked slogans into the void like war cries.
“Equity Now!”
“Stop Grooming Our Kids!”
“Decolonize Math!”
“Bring Back Common Sense!”
Drake shook his head. “All this because the State thinks it owns your kids’ brains.”
Down the street, riot cops lined up with their visors down, batons and shields ready, waiting for the one idiot to strike.
It came fast. A firecracker, then a bottle. And before Drake knew it, fists flew.
The line collapsed like drywall under pressure. Someone screamed, and a girl went down in the slush. Elbows flew, flags tore, boots stomped, and pepper spray hissed into the crowd and the air turned sharp with chemical panic.
Drake backed away, filming at a low angle. He kept his mouth shut, letting the footage speak. He’d commentate on it when he ventured into his studio.
He ducked into an alley as the tear gas rolled. Sirens rose as a trash bin crashed into a patrol car, shattering glass. Drones buzzed above, their red lights blinking and recording every second of the mayhem.
Drake ran deeper into this deserted alley, his shoes slipping on wet concrete, lungs burning.
Then, nothing.
It was like the alley forgot the rest of the world existed.
Drake slowed and put his phone in flashlight mode.
The beam caught something odd. A narrow building of weathered brick wedged between two others. It had an ancient wooden door with fogged glass windows flanking it. Symbols carved into the building’s frame.
Steady, unnatural light pulsed behind the door’s cracks.
Drake found his hand clasping around the knob. He pushed it open further and it responded with a groan, as if no one opened it in years.
Inside, the noise from the streets faded. When he let the door close, it grew so quiet that nobody in here would’ve known a full-scale riot erupted.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with locked tomes, storm-glass globes, and wax-sealed boxes. Drake’s eyes darted around the shop, looking for a clerk, a counter, or even one of those old-school cash registers. The place looked like it’d been around long enough to have one.
Then he saw it.
A towering floor-to-ceiling mirror framed in runes that shimmered the way objects do when one looks past a burning grill.
He stepped closer, and the air thickened. His reflection twisted and flickered, shimmering in the same way as the runes.
A forest and starlit sky emerged in the mirror, then light, a blast of blue, and a strange, fluorescent hum.
Drake raised his hand before he realized what he was doing and it brushed a single rune—Dagaz, the rune of breakthrough.
Then everything went white.
