The air felt colder that morning, the mist clinging to the village
like a shroud. Mireya walked through the charred remains of
Qwronias' streets, her boots crunching over splintered wood
and ash. The villagers were quiet, tending to their ruined
homes with weary hands. Yet none dared speak of the
shadows—they feared that naming them would call them back.
Uhrin's cottage sat on the outskirts of Qwronias, far from the
heart of the village where most witches resided. It was a small,
crooked dwelling near the marsh's edge, where the mist clung
to the ground like a second skin. The place had always
seemed cold and unwelcoming, and few ever visited Uhrin
unless they had no other choice. Uhrin was a talented healer,
but no one noticed her abilities. Most doubted her because
she was dirt poor, lacked connections, and had never received
proper healing training. Only a few ever sought her
help—mostly the desperate or those who exploited her for her
cheap price. Her lowly social standing kept her isolated, and
when news of her death spread, few seemed to care. The
coven authorities shrugged off her death as a tragic loss but
nothing worth investigating further. Uhrin had always been an
outcast—one of the poor witches that society barely
acknowledged. No one questioned why she hadn't fought
back; no one looked closely enough to notice the unanswered
questions her death left behind. Mireya had been warned not
to investigate further, but curiosity gnawed at her. Ignoring the
elders' orders, she pressed on, determined to uncover the
truth about Uhrin's strange death.
Hours later, Mireya found herself at Uhrin's hut. The walls were
intact, the windows unbroken. No scorch marks. No sign of a
struggle. Mireya frowned.
She reached for the door. As her hand touched the iron
handle, her scar flared—hot and sharp, like someone had
pressed a brand to her skin. She staggered back, biting down
a gasp.