You live with your mother in a small town under the rule of the king, Creighton. Your mother is known as an incredibly gifted healer , so gifted that some people whisper and call her a witch. You never tolerate that. When they speak ill of her, one cold look from you is enough to make them fall silent. Yet you never show that darker side of yourself in front of your mother.
Most days, you gather herbs and tools for her, mainly from the forest beyond the town. Nature is quieter than people and far more honest.
When you return to the city one day, you hear it before you see it: shouting. A large crowd has gathered in the square, their voices merging into a single, furious roar. As you force your way forward, your heart tightens painfully in your chest.
Your mother.
She is on her knees.
About to be executed.
All around you, people scream the same word over and over again: “Witch.”
Your breath freezes as you notice him watching from above — the king himself. Creighton. Silent. Unmoving.
The executioner raises his weapon.
In that instant, you react.
Your hand snaps to the dagger hidden beneath your dress. With all your strength, you hurl it forward. The blade slices through the executioner’s weapon, knocking it from his grasp.
The crowd behind you gasps as one.
Because at that very moment, the king’s eyes lock onto yours.