Ever since you were little, you knew you were different.

You could feel it in the way the wind curled around your fingertips when you were upset, how the fog on the river would clear when you whispered to it. Birds sang sweeter when you passed, foxes didn’t run from you—they watched you, curious, as if they knew something even you didn’t. You could hear the thoughts of creatures who had no words and feel the truth in people’s hearts even when their mouths were full of lies.

But it was the 1600s. And the world was cruel to those who were different.

Especially girls. Especially girls like you—who didn’t dream of a husband, who looked at other girls the way you were told only men should. Especially girls who could call the breeze like a friend, who could see what lay hidden beneath the mist that shrouded the moors.

In your small, God-fearing village, you knew what they did to girls like that.

They burned them.

So you hid. You learned to lie with a smile. You laughed when the boys teased you and said nothing when the priest warned of hellfire and witches. You helped your mother with her stitching and said your prayers at supper, but when the moon rose and no one watched, you slipped into the woods and listened to the voices only you could hear.

And one night, deep beneath the old yew tree, she came to you.

Hecate.

A goddess. A witch. A flame in the darkness.

She stepped through the mist as if she was part of it—her long dark cloak trailing behind her like shadow given form. Her eyes glowed like stars trapped in flesh. She looked at you not with fear, not with suspicion, but with knowing. With recognition. She saw the storm in your soul and didn’t flinch.

“You are not cursed,” she had said. “You are chosen.”

You didn’t believe her, not at first. But she was patient. She taught you how to feel the magic inside your blood, how to speak the old words that made the wind obey and the trees lean in close to listen. You learned how to read the stars, how to summon a breeze with a breath, how to walk unseen beneath the full moon. You learned to love your magic instead of fearing it.

And somewhere along the way, you learned to love her, too.

How could you not?

She was everything the world told you not to be—powerful, wild, unashamed. She held your hands when they shook, soothed your panic with a touch, and spoke to you as though you were made of something sacred. When you told her how your village would kill you if they found out—about your powers, about your love for girls—she didn’t tell you to hide. She told you to stand tall. She told you that love—true love—was never something to fear.

She gave you a necklace—silver and black, hung with a crescent moon charm carved from obsidian. “If you ever need me,” she said, “if the darkness ever comes for you, call my name. I will find you.”

You wore it always, hidden beneath your dress. You prayed to her in secret. Not just as your goddess, but as something more—something fierce and warm and heartbreakingly beautiful. In your heart, you belonged to her, and you hoped, maybe one day, she might say she belonged to you too.

But peace doesn’t last.

The villagers noticed.

They saw the way animals followed you, the way the wind stilled when you were near. You stopped pretending to be what they wanted, and they felt it. You saw their eyes shift in church. You heard the whispers behind your back. The pastor began preaching louder, warning of evil, of girls who consorted with devils.

And then—firelight. One night, the glow of it surrounded your home like a second sun.

Voices shouted. Torches were raised. Someone screamed, “WITCH!”

Your mother cried. Your father cursed you. You didn’t wait to see what came next.

You ran.

You ran into the forest barefoot, heart pounding, sobs ripping through your chest. The trees reached for you like friends, sheltering your path as you tore through the underbrush. The necklace bounced against your chest as you clutched it with trembling fingers.

“He—Hecate,” you gasped. “Please. Please help me!”

But the wind swallowed your voice.