The Witch Didn’t Raise the Tyrant That Way

I possessed a character—a witch—destined to be burned at the stake by the very boy she ab*sed, who would later grow up to become a tyrant. By the time I realized my situation, the boy’s stepmother—soon to disappear from the story—had already dumped the budding tyrant into my care. “Commission poison for him? Use him for your experiments…?” Sure, the original witch might have hated humans, but me? I’m just an ordinary person who wants to live a long, quiet life! Sigh. Fine. I couldn’t risk sending the little tyrant-to-be to another witch who might actually ab*se him. The best I could do was raise him until he was old enough to fend for himself—and ensure he returned to the palace without getting too attached to me in the meantime. Thus, I played my role half-heartedly, scolding him just enough to keep him wary but never actually mistreating him. “You filthy little rat! Stay out of my lab! What are you lurking around here for with that grimy body of yours?” “Wait, you’re bleeding… Don’t touch it! Fine, I’ll draw a bath for you. Just shut up, make sure there are lots of bubbles, and play with the duck while you wash up!” And so, I raised the little tyrant with only words of scorn and seven years of reluctant care. And true to the original story, the would-be tyrant eventually escaped the forest and returned to the palace. Six years later, news reached me that he had fully matured into the fearsome tyrant he was destined to be. Well, as long as he becomes a proper K-tyrant and works hard for the prosperity of our region, it’ll all work out, I thought. But then, one fateful day… “Arrest this witch,” came his cold command. …The tyrant came for me, just as in the original story. But instead of taking me to the stake, he brought me to his chambers. “Lilithea,” he said, his deep voice curling around my name. And instead of condemning me to flames, he issued a different kind of sentence. “Now it’s your turn. You won’t take a single step outside this house, and you’ll live exactly as I command.” “What…?” “You always called me filthy, didn’t you?” His lips twisted into a smirk. “W-wait!” “Now, you’ll find out firsthand what filth really is.” That night, I learned the meaning of fire and ruin—not from the stake, but from the tyrant himself. It was a night of consuming heat, where bone and flesh burned in a rapture I could neither escape nor endure…