Mireya walked the narrow streets of Qwronias, her hood drawn
low over her face. The village had been restless since the
attack—shutters slammed closed, and whispered prayers
followed her as she passed. The shadows' presence lingered
in the air, clinging to the walls like a sickness.
She reached her home—a modest stone cottage tucked near
the outskirts of the village—and stepped inside. The familiar
scent of herbs and parchment filled her lungs, grounding her.
Mireya bolted the door and placed her satchel on the worn
wooden table. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to
breathe.
But rest never lasted long.
A sharp knock startled her, and she turned to see Daelviaha's
silhouette in the window.
"You felt it too," the old witch said when Mireya opened the
door.
Mireya stepped aside, letting her in. "The shadows?"
Daelviaha nodded. "They're growing bold." Her gaze
hardened. "And they're watching you."
Mireya swallowed. "They've always watched me."
"Not like this." Daelviaha's voice dropped lower. "They know
something's different about you. They know you're more than
what you pretend to be."
Mireya clenched her fists. She had spent her entire life
keeping her power buried. But now, the shadows seemed to
sense it—circling closer each night, testing her limits.
"I can handle myself," Mireya said firmly.
"Can you?" Daelviaha's voice softened. "Or are you just
pretending you can?"
Mireya said nothing. The truth was, she didn't know how much
longer she could keep pretending. Not when the shadows
seemed to be waiting for her to slip.
That night, Mireya lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The wind
howled outside, rattling the shutters. Her thoughts twisted like
tangled roots—memories of her parents' lifeless bodies by the
river, Daelviaha's voice warning her of the scar she had always
believed was just a birthmark, the fear of what would happen if
the coven ever found out the truth.
Sleep finally took her in restless fragments, but as her eyes
closed, she swore she felt something cold breathing against
her skin.