The village square stank of smoke and damp straw. Lanterns hissed in the humid air, their flames guttering in the faint wind. Their glow pooled weakly against the darkness, throwing long, wavering shadows over the elders seated on low stools. Around them, the villagers pressed close, whispering behind their hands, fear sharpening their voices into knives.
Leo stood apart. His head bowed, his shoulders tight. He had bound his palm in cloth, but the strip itched as though crawling with fire. Beneath the wrapping, the shard's pulse throbbed in rhythm with his own heartbeat, too steady, too alive, impossible to silence.
Harun, oldest of the elders, raised his hand. The crowd fell silent at once. His beard was long and silver, his back bent, but his cloudy eyes pierced through the haze with the weight of judgment.
"You all saw," he rasped, voice dry as weathered stone. "The boy raised his hand, and the beast fell. That was no trick of muscle, no craft of man."
A wave of murmurs rippled outward. Curse.Blessing.Danger. Words clung to the air like gnats.
Mira forced her way forward, breath quick, face pale. "He saved us! The ox would have killed Father, maybe more. Without Leo, someone would be lying dead in that pen."
Harun's gaze lingered on her for a moment, then drifted back to Leo. "Perhaps. But power that answers so swiftly is never free." He struck his cane against the packed earth. The sound cracked the night. "We have seen omens for weeks now, water shimmering, tools humming with no hand near. And now this. The shrine has marked him."
Another elder spat into the dirt. "Mark or curse, it is the same. He should be cast out before worse comes upon us."
Gasps fluttered through the crowd. Some nodded quickly, as though afraid to hesitate. Others shifted uneasily, torn.
Mira's father stepped forward, shoulders bowed with age, but his voice firm. "He is only a boy. I've known him since he could barely walk. Would you drive a child into the mountains to starve?"
"He is not a child," the second elder snapped. His tone was brittle, unyielding. "He is a vessel. And vessels break."
The words fell like stones into a well. Even the night insects seemed to quiet, the silence thick with dread.
Leo lifted his head at last. His throat was raw, but he forced the words out. "I didn't ask for this."
The villagers stirred, the sound like wind moving through reeds.
"I never wanted it," he continued, louder now, his voice shaking but fierce. "I don't even understand it. I only wanted to help." His breath caught, but he did not stop. "I swear, I'll never use it again. Just let me stay."
The elders' eyes flicked toward one another, their silence heavier than speech. Harun leaned forward on his trembling cane. "And if it takes you anyway?" His voice rasped like sandpaper. "If it eats at you from within, as such things always do? Will you swear to fight it then, even as it tears you apart?"
Leo's mouth opened, but no sound came. The shard coiled hot in his palm, its whisper rising through his veins.
Swear nothing. They will never trust you. They will always fear.
The pause stretched too long.
"He cannot swear."
"He hesitates."
"It already holds him."
The villagers' voices sharpened, suspicion hardening into a blade.
"Enough!" Mira's voice cracked as she cried out, her fists clenched at her sides. "He is not cursed, he is Leo! If you cast him out, you'll regret it. You'll see!"
Her words rang through the square, raw and desperate. But they only deepened the divide. Some faces softened with shame. Others turned away, muttering prayers, as though her defense was more proof of corruption.
At last Harun struck his cane once more. The sound echoed like a verdict. "Then it is decided. By dawn, the boy must leave this village. He will take nothing that bears his mark. If he returns, the fault is his own."
The lantern flames hissed, their light wavering as though mocking him. The crowd unraveled in murmurs and wary glances, villagers slipping back toward their huts as though eager to escape the weight of the night.
Later, when the square had thinned, Mira found Leo at its edge. She carried a lantern, its glow painting her face gold, but her eyes were dark with sorrow.
"I tried," she whispered, voice breaking. "I swear I did."
Leo's throat burned as though he had swallowed fire. "It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does. You saved us." Her hand hovered in the air, trembling as if to touch his arm, but she faltered before closing the distance. "Where will you go?"
He shook his head. "I don't know."
She bit her lip, caught between fear and the weight of words unsaid. Footsteps sounded in a nearby lane, and she flinched. Quickly, she lowered her lantern. "Then go before dawn. Don't let them see. And… don't let it take you."
Her plea hung like ash in the air as she turned away.
Leo climbed the ridge alone. The fields lay silent beneath him, the dogs no longer barked, and the stars gleamed cold and sharp, as though they could cut flesh.
See how quickly they turn, the shard whispered, warm as a hand pressed to his chest. You saved them, and still they cast you aside. Do you understand now? Only I will remain.
Leo closed his eyes. His fist clenched around the mark until his nails bit deep. The heat of it seeped into bone. He thought of Mira's face, of the home dissolving behind him, and felt something within him harden into stone.
By dawn, he would be gone.