Chapter 2
The family recoiled at the name, though they did not understand why. It rang in their bones, struck chords older than memory. Some bowed their heads without knowing why, as though instinct bent them before her. One whispered, "It sounds… holy," while another murmured, "No, not holy. Terrible, Cursed."
Mira stood amidst their awe and confusion, radiant, unshaken. "You fear me," she said, "because you see in me what is beyond your measure. But hear me: the love you knew was not a mask. The stories, the warmth, the care—it was all mine. I did not feign it. For seventeen years, I have lived among you as your Nonna Mira. And every embrace, every lullaby, every stitch of cloth was truth."
Her eyes glowed, fierce and eternal. "But I could not give you my name. Not until now. For something terrible is about to happen, something I must stop. Something I must not let come into fruition."
Mira's gaze swept the room, golden eyes burning like suns veiled in storm. "You doubt me? Then remember. Remember what you were before I came." Her words struck like thunder, shaking the silence. "Seventeen years ago, you were shadows of a family—frayed, starving, desperate. Your house was no more than a husk. Its timbers wept with rot, its roof sagged with holes. The walls shivered when the wind clawed through, and in the rain, you huddled together as water poured onto your bedding. Your firewood ran out faster than it could be scavenged. Some nights, you shivered till dawn with nothing but rags to shield you."
Faces around the room shifted, lips pressed tight. For though the children had grown in comfort, the older ones could not deny her words. They remembered the endless gnaw of hunger, bellies growling through sleepless nights. They remembered begging for scraps at markets, watching merchants sneer, swatting them away as if they were vermin. They remembered shoes with holes, feet cracked and bleeding in the winter frost. One cousin lowered his eyes, shame burning through him as he recalled stealing bread, only to be beaten in the streets and left for dead.
Mira's voice deepened, velvet edged with steel. "And your name—your name was worth nothing. You were spat upon. Whispered about as if cursed. Your bloodline was dismissed, mocked, unwanted. You bore no standing, no honor. None would wed into your line. None would raise you from the muck. You were despised. Forgotten. Left to wither."
A hush rippled across the room as the memories tightened like a noose. They had all felt it once: the humiliation of being nobodies, of being turned away from warm doors into cold nights. One aunt pressed her hand to her mouth, tears pricking her eyes as she recalled burying her infant who had starved before his first year. Another uncle clenched his fists, his shame mingling with grief.
Mira straightened, her form radiant, her crimson hair catching light that seemed not of this world. "And then I arrived." The words rang like a coronation. "I came with nothing but my will, my song, my craft. And yet—through me, you were remade. Through my hands, bread filled your table. Through my weaving, your bodies were clothed in warmth. Through my song, despair was lifted from your nights. But more than this—through my magic, your lives were reforged."
She lifted her wand, the black wood gleaming like a vein of night threaded with silver fire. "The house you stand in—its walls stand because I willed them to. Its roof holds because I bound it with spell and stave. The hearth burns steady because I whispered to the flames and bade them never falter. The locks upon your doors turn not only with keys but with wards of my making, keeping out thieves and worse things that stalk the dark."
She lowered her wand, her tone softening, yet still vast. "When fevers threatened your children, I sang them away. When you my dear Francesca's bones ached with sickness, I brewed the draught that restored her legs. When Antonio burned with fever as a boy, I sat at his side three nights without rest, forcing the sickness to break with every breath of my will. When roofs in the street collapsed in storms, yours held strong. When famine gnawed at your neighbors, your table never emptied. All by my hand."
Heads turned—Francesca's mouth parted as she remembered nights she could not walk, and the strange, sweet draught that had mended her bones. Antonio flinched, recalling fevered nights when a cool hand rested on his brow, soothing him till dawn. The younger ones, too young to remember hunger, looked to one another in dawning shock as if only now realizing how charmed their childhoods had been.
Mira's gaze grew fierce. "And not only healing. Prosperity. When your coin purses were empty, I bent chance itself. I tilted dice at the gaming table, I bent the mind of merchants so their scales weighed in your favor. I guided your steps to work, to trade, to opportunity. I bent the river of fate so that fortune would spill upon you like rain."
A murmur stirred among them, for it was true. They had risen swiftly, improbably. What once was a family of beggars became merchants. Merchants became respected. And now they stood with near-gentry comfort: a roof that gleamed with polish, thick carpets beneath their feet, lanterns steady and bright, cupboards filled with salted meats and sugared fruits. Even the children wore clothes of fine stitching, their fingers soft, untouched by work.
Mira's voice broke into their awe, low but unshakable. "Do you believe this was chance? Do you believe the world gave this to you freely? No. This was my will. My craft. My love. I did not come to take from you—I came to give. And I gave everything."
Silence fell again, heavy and suffocating. Some lowered their heads, ashamed, realizing the enormity of their debt. Others clung stubbornly to disbelief, but the weight of truth pressed too hard. They looked to one another with wide, troubled eyes, as though daring someone to deny her words aloud. None did.
"From beggars, you rose to merchants. From merchants, you rose to near gentry. You have a name now. You are respected, envied. Doors open where once they slammed shut. Men who would have spat on you now bow to you. And every step, every breath, every luxury you enjoy was carved from my sacrifice."
She extended her hand—long, pale, radiant, the gesture both tender and imperious. "And I did it not for glory, not for gratitude, not for worship. I did it because you were mine. Because I chose you. I bound myself to you as though you were my blood, and I have loved you as fiercely as if you were my children. The lullabies, the stories, the laughter—all were mine. All true."
A shiver swept the family. Some wept openly now, hands trembling, realizing just how much they had dismissed her, how little they had understood. The walls themselves seemed to lean inward, holding her words as if they too bore witness.
Mira's voice deepened, carrying the sorrow of centuries. "And yet… there are debts I cannot forgive myself. For though I gave much, I came too late. Too late to save those whose lives ended before I arrived. Too late to cradle the children who starved, their ribs sharp beneath fragile skin. Too late to shelter the sick who coughed their lungs into bloodied rags. Too late to shield the beaten whose backs bore scars like maps of torment. Too late for the ones who froze in winters with no fire left to burn."
Her gaze drifted upward, as if watching ghosts moving along the beams. "I should have been here when hunger first gnawed at your bones. I should have stood before you when lashes fell, when sickness spread like fire. I should have come when despair whispered that no one would ever save you. But I did not. And so the graves behind this family's name are heavier than they should be. And those absences… are mine to bear."
Pietro, his hands trembling, spoke in a broken rasp. "My sister, Sofia… she died that winter. I burned the last of our chairs, kept her hands wrapped around the coals. But she slipped away before morning. If you had come then—" His voice cracked into silence, his eyes drowning in old tears.
Francesca pressed her hand to her lips, her body shaking. "I remember it too," she whispered. "The rain dripping through the roof. The blankets never drying. Praying for morning but dreading it. And then… you came, Nonna. You filled the house with warmth. With bread. With song. If only it had been sooner…"
A murmur rose, others recalling their own scars. One uncle muttered, "I begged for work and was beaten in the streets." Another whispered, "I buried a child with my own hands." The voices trembled, not in anger, but in grief unburied at last.
Mira's eyes closed briefly, as though the weight of their words pierced her as surely as blades. When they opened again, golden fire smoldered within. "Your suffering is carved into me as much as into you," she said. "Not a night passes when I do not see their faces—the hungry, the sick, the enslaved, the beaten. Some nights they sit at the edge of my bed, silent, only watching. Their silence says everything. I will carry that until the world itself ends."
Antonio, pale and trembling, raised his head from the floor. "I cursed Micah," he whispered. "I cursed him for having what I thought you denied me. If I could trade my breath for the ones we lost, I would. If I could unspeak my words, I would."
Mira's gaze fixed upon him, stern and unrelenting, yet wrapped in a mantle of love. "Child," she said, her voice vast, steady, inexorable. "You were never unloved. I clothed you, fed you, healed you when fever burned. I guided you when your own mother abandoned you for coins. Do not mistake the fire I have for Micah as a theft—it was a call I answered. But hear me, Antonio: envy is a chain, and chains drag men into ruin. Break it. Break it now. For love I have in abundance—but I will not abide envy's poison within my house."
Antonio bowed his head, tears wetting the floor. The family watched in silence, awed by the iron and tenderness braided in her words.
She gestured around them. "This house—your roof holds, your hearth burns, your walls do not crack—not because of coin or chance. Because I made them so. I wove strength into every stone, whispered warmth into every fire, bent storms so they broke elsewhere. When fevers came, I crushed them. When famine threatened, I bent fortune. When despair lingered, I sang until it fled. Every breath you took in comfort was mine, given freely."
Gasps spread as old memories aligned with her words. Francesca remembered the sweet draught that had healed her crippled bones. Antonio recalled fever breaking in the night as her hand rested cool on his brow. A cousin's mind flashed back to storms tearing through the street—yet their roof never caved.
"And do you know why?" Mira's voice rose, not loud, but heavy with truth. "Because you were mine. Chosen. Bound to me not by blood, but by love. I gave without asking. I gave without thanks. I gave because you were family."
Silence fell heavy. Some wept openly. Others bowed their heads, unable to meet her eyes. A child tugged at his mother's dress, whispering, "Is it true? Did Nonna really do all that?" The mother only pressed the child close, her tears the only answer.
A timid aunt whispered, "We… we told ourselves it wasn't as bad as it seemed. That others suffered worse."
Mira shook her head, her crimson hair like fire. "It was worse. And where I could, I bore it for you. But I am one soul. I could not bear it all. For those I failed, I set lanterns that never dim, I whispered their names into the wind, I built graves when no one else would. They are gone—but not forgotten. Not by me."
A small child, trembling, whispered, "Are they here now?"
Mira knelt, her beauty terrifying and tender all at once. "Not as you fear," she said. "They are not trapped. But when truth is spoken, the past listens. Tonight, it listens still."
Another voice broke. "My father… he died coughing black. He thought he was cursed."
Mira's eyes glowed, fierce and merciful. "He was cursed. Cursed by cruelty, cursed by poverty, cursed by neglect. If I had come a year earlier, perhaps he would have lived. Ten years earlier, perhaps many would. I did not. That wound is mine to carry."
She rose, radiant as dawn, her voice like thunder rolling through a temple. "But hear me now: you will not suffer as they did. You will not be bent as they were bent. The cycle ends here—with me."
Pietro's voice trembled. "And if the world takes everything? Our coin, our home, our name?"
Mira's gaze blazed like a golden flame. "Then we will build anew. Coin is not safety. Name is not safety. Will is safety. Love is safety. And though I may wield magic, hear me well— I will teach you everything I know of this world: how to conduct business so no merchant cheats you, how to keep accounts so no banker robs you, how to bargain so no lord can break you. You will learn to build, to trade, to lead—not as beggars hoping for mercy, but as masters of your own fate. You will not only survive—you will prosper. And nothing—not famine, not envy, not fate itself—will take you from me."
Then her voice shifted, low and vast, carrying the weight of eternity. She lifted her hand, and though no flame burned there, the air shimmered as if touched by unseen fire. "But I will give you more than words. I will give you a blessing. A gift that no thief can steal, no tyrant can chain, no death can unmake." Her voice deepened into a vow. "When the world asks what you are, you will answer: "We are the living, and we do not bow. Born graceless in dust and despair, yet we stand; we rise, for her love remade us, and through her we shall endure eternal."
The words did not merely echo—they entered them. Each syllable sank into their bones, thrummed in their blood, settled into the very marrow of their being. The children gasped, clutching their chests as warmth bloomed within them; the elders felt their minds sharpen, their memories stretch wide like doors opening. It was as though Mira's blessing poured rivers of knowledge into them: the cunning of merchants, the wisdom of ages, the discipline of builders, the unyielding strength of survivors. Fortune itself seemed to thread into their veins, a legacy not of coin, but of will, resilience, and prosperity.
Eyes widened, tears streamed, breaths caught. The family stood transformed—not by trinkets or spells, but by the sheer force of her gift. Her love had become law, her blessing had become blood, and her vow had become theirs.
Mira lowered her hand at last, her golden eyes sweeping the family like a final benediction. "Now I must go," she said, her voice soft yet immovable, like the tide retreating to the sea. "Micah needs me, and I will not tarry while shadows gather at his path. Do not think this is farewell. It is not. It is only see you soon." Her gaze lingered on each face, fierce in its tenderness. "But hear me well: the name I have given you tonight—Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov—you must never speak it beyond these walls. Not to friend, not to priest, not to blood nor stranger. To the world, I remain Mira Anna Petrillo, your Nonna. Nothing more. If you betray this truth, even in innocence, the hunters will find you. Swear it to me now."
The family, trembling yet resolute, whispered as one: "We swear." The vow seemed to bind itself in the air, sealing like molten wax on parchment. Mira's smile was faint but radiant. "Good. Then no matter what comes, remember: my love does not end here. It walks with you, unseen, unbroken, until the last star falls."