Morning arrived like it always did, the chilly breeze seeping in through the cracks between the wooden planks. The threadbare blanket clung to me like a wet leaf, barely providing any warmth, and the straw mattress beneath me was anything but comfortable.
I groaned, stretching until my spine, each joint crackling. My room, though calling it that was generous, was barely large enough to stand up in. A single worn chair leaned near the door, and a little chipped table beside it.
A chipped plate and dented tin cup sat untouched, and the battered trunk in the corner housed all of my personal belongings. Which, to be clear, amounted to a few worn clothes, a cracked wooden comb and a pair of ruined sandals.
I sat up and ran a hand through my hair, immediately regretting it when my fingers snagged on a large knot. I yanked it free with a wince, letting out a deep sigh. There was no time to fix it, no one to impress. Just another day as the village's unofficial errand rat.
Water was scarce, patience scarcer. Especially when half the village treated you like a stray dog they hadn't gotten around to kicking yet.
I dressed in my usual outfit: a worn, slightly oversized tunic, trousers filled with stitches, and my sandals.
When I stepped outside, the morning air washed over my face, the sun blinding me. The village was already waking. Thin curls of smoke drifted from crooked chimneys, the scent of baking bread barely masking the less pleasant aromas of livestock, mud, and garbage dumped in the slums.
I had made it about two steps before the ritual humiliation began.
"Oi, rat girl!"
Right on schedule.
A cluster of village brats lounged near the well like a pack of wolves. They weren't much younger than me, but their clothes weren't worn, and their faces weren't smeared with dried out dirt.
That made them feel superior. And when people feel superior, they start trying to prove it.
"What, no clever insult today?" one called out, grinning smugly.
"Bet she's off to dig through garbage again," another added, nudging his friend like he'd just delivered the line of the year.
I clenched my fists and kept walking. I'd learned the hard way that fighting back only made it worse. Mockery escalated fast in a village this small, and bruises took longer to fade than words.
Then, thankfully, salvation.
"Oi! Get to your chores before I tell your mothers you're loitering again!"
The butcher's wife stood framed in her shop doorway, arms crossed over her broad chest, a broom held tight in one hand. She wasn't looking at me, but her glare was fixed on the boys.
She was the only one in this place who ever bothered, and even then, it was more about keeping the peace than any kindness.
The brats scattered like roaches, shouting a few last, weak insults over their shoulders as they ran.
I caught her eye and gave a small, quick nod. Her only answer was a grunt and a jerk of her head that could have meant anything from "you're welcome" to "don't stand there gawking." Either way, the path was clear. For now.
The moment I stopped moving, someone found a job for me.
"You, girl! The compost pit won't empty itself!"
Before I could even turn, another voice cut in. "This wood needs to go to the baker's. You've got hands, don't you?"
And another. "Midden's full. Shovel it."
The orders came like stones, each one striking my back. No names, just "girl." No please, no thank you. Just the work no one else would touch, handed to me like my only purpose was to carry their filth.
And I did it. What else was I going to do? Say no? Then I'd have no food, no corner to sleep in. So I kept my head down and my hands moving.
Back to work, then. That was how the day went, always another order barked, another chore no one else wanted. The kind of work that clung to you, buried itself in your skin, and made sure you carried the stink long after the task was done.
The smell of the compost pit hit me before I even got close. A pungent mix of spoiled vegetables, sour milk, rotten meat, and a few things I didn't want to identify. It was the kind of stench that made your eyes water and your stomach twist.
I gagged but didn't stop. You didn't stop. That was the rule, especially not when the work had been dumped on you because nobody else wanted to get their boots dirty.
I grabbed the shovel and got to work. My arms burned as I heaved the slop, the rough wooden handle digging splinters into my palms.
Sweat soaked through my tunic, making the rough fabric cling to my raw back. The stink clung to me, too, sinking into my skin and hair like it was claiming me.
By the time I was done, I felt like something that had been left out too long. My whole body ached, my fingers were stiff, and my knees felt loose and shaky.
Just as I was wiping my filthy hands on my trousers, a whistle cut through the air, sharp enough to scare the crows from the rooftops.
Old Man Harrod was hunched on his stool by the baker's, wrapped in a ragged wool blanket. His pipe was clenched between teeth the color of old bones.
"Girl," he rasped, not even looking at me as he flicked ash from his sleeve. "The herbalist is out of lungroot. Go fetch some from her hut. Tell her it's for my lungs, or I'll come hack up my soul on her doorstep."
I blinked, my mind still slow with exhaustion. "Why me?"
He cracked one eye open, as if the question was a personal insult. "'Cause I asked. And 'cause your legs work. That's two reasons more than I need."
Nobody argued with Old Man Harrod. He wasn't important, just stubborn. The kind of man who'd outlived three wives and most of his own teeth, too mean for death to bother collecting.
It was an excuse to get away, at least. I wiped my face with my sleeve, smearing grime and sweat, and turned toward the forest path without another word.
The dirt path out of the village thinned the further I walked, swallowed by dry scrub and the occasional twisted tree that looked like it had given up on growing properly.
The usual noise of the place, the shouting, the livestock, and the clatter faded away behind me, until the only sounds were my own footsteps and the wind hissing through the grass.
Out here, the air changed. It was cooler, sharp with the smell of damp soil and pine, undercut by something wild I couldn't name. Birds flitted between the branches, their calls sharp and clear, and once, something small rustled in the underbrush and darted away before I could even turn my head.
I didn't like going out here alone. No one really did. The silence didn't feel natural, and I couldn't help but look around to make sure nothing would jump at me. Finally, after rounding a slope tangled with a wall of thorns, I saw it.
The hut.
Everyone in the village called her the Witch. Not because she'd ever put a curse on anyone, but because she was good at things that made normal people nervous.
Alchemy, mostly. She brewed potions that could knock out a fever in an hour or seal a wound that should've festered. Things no one else knew how to do.
When the fire swept through half the village years back and her hut didn't get so much as a scorch mark, the whispers really started. Not mean, mostly. Just wary. Some of the kids called it a test of courage, a dare to get close. I heard she hated that.
I'd only been here once before. It hadn't changed. Moss clung to the roof, and weird-smelling smoke coughed from the chimney. Wind chimes made of bone and glass tinkled softly, and the path was lined with little pots of herbs, making the air smell faintly of mint and vinegar.
I stopped at the gate, my hand hesitating before I touched it. The whole place felt like it had been here forever, rooted deeper than the trees. It didn't feel evil. Just old… and watchful.
But then something felt… off.
It was small at first. A tightness in the air that made it hard to breathe deep. A faint sting in the back of my throat. Then the smell hit me.
Not the soft, earthy smoke from a hearth, but something acrid and heavy, like oil burning. My body locked up before my mind even caught up.
That's when I heard it. Shouting, faint, but getting louder.
Panic shot up my spine, cold and immediate. I spun around and ran, my lungs pulling in air that already tasted of ash.
The further I went, the thicker the smoke got, until the forest was choked in a bitter, grey haze. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat pushing me forward.
When the trees finally opened up, I stopped. Thick, black smoke curled into the sky, swallowing the sun. The village was burning.
A memory twisted in my gut, sharp and sickening. I'd seen this before. Fire eating everything I knew, leaving nothing but silence and ash. Back then, I'd had nowhere to go but another place that didn't want me. I'd promised myself it would never happen again.
This village might have never welcomed me. I might have never truly belonged. But it was still mine. The cracked walls, the broken fences, the quiet grudges and loud insults, the rare smiles and the constant whispers… they were all mine. These people, even the ones who spat when I walked past, were my people.
I was running again before I knew it, my feet pounding the dirt, my lungs burning with every gasp. Screams ripped through the air, raw and terrified.
The village was pure chaos, people stumbling through the streets, clutching children, bags, or nothing at all. Somewhere close by, steel rang against steel, a sharp, ugly sound that cut through the noise like a knife.
And then I saw it. A group of ogres and humans, fighting together.
That wasn't right. Ogres didn't work with humans. They barely tolerated each other, usually only long enough to trade punches. But there they were, charging through the village shoulder to shoulder.
The humans wore dark cloaks with hoods pulled low, their lower faces hidden behind masks, not like any bandits the village had seen before.
The ogres towered over everything, almost as tall as a small house, their green skin stretched over massive muscles, and ragged brown cloths hanging loosely around their waists. Together, they swung weapons and tore through buildings and people like they were nothing but kindling.
I couldn't move. My breath came in ragged gasps as I tried to process the impossible. Then I saw him. A man trapped beneath a collapsed roof.
I knew him. He was the one who'd thrown a rock at me once for spilling water near his door. The one who spat when I walked past. The one who always made sure I knew I didn't belong.
But he was alive. Screaming and pinned, but alive. He was a miserable bastard, but he was one of ours.
I should've turned away. I almost did.
But instead, I grabbed the nearest stick I could find. It was barely more than a branch, thin and splintered, barely better than nothing. But nothing wasn't good enough.
I charged the ogre. Not to fight, just to buy him a few seconds.
Brave? Maybe. Stupid? Definitely. But standing still wasn't an option, not when someone was about to die and I was the only one stupid enough to try buying time.
The ogre turned, looking at me like I was an annoying fly. And then, with one lazy swing of its club, it sent me flying. I crashed into the side of a house hard enough to rattle my teeth, pain flaring hot through my ribs.
My vision blurred, but I pushed myself up, gasping for air. The man was already crawling away, eyes wide with panic, leaving me behind without so much as a backward glance.
Coward.
The ogre lumbered toward me, its club dragging behind against the dirt. It brought it down with a crack that shook the ground, but I rolled aside, gasping as my body screamed in protest.
Then, before I could react, a massive fist swung out fast, and the last thing I saw was the rough, shadowed knuckles coming straight for my face.
Then the world went black.