It had been a dream for her to be left alone, a simple fairytale she knew could never last.
For two months, Deya had lived in peace with the old woman named Baba and her son, Kirin.
Their small tavern, tucked in the heart of the village, became her sanctuary. She wasn't much help, so she stuck to cleaning and serving, grateful for their kindness.
But the nightmares never left her. Every night, she saw her father burning alive, his screams ringing in her ears.
She'd wake up panting, drenched in sweat, gasping for air as the phantom flames consumed her dreams.
She'd dyed her hair black and learned to keep her gaze on the ground so no one would notice her striking eyes, a cursed mark of her bloodline.
It had been nearly a year since she last saw her family. The absence was a wound that refused to heal, leaving her devastated and hollow.
