Morning rose pale over the valley, its breath damp and heavy. Mist clung to the fields like a veil, beading along the threads of spiderwebs strung between leaning fence posts. Each drop shivered in the light, fragile jewels that would vanish by noon.
Leo trudged toward the village well, bucket swinging from one hand. The other he kept close, hidden in his sleeve, the throb in his palm a constant reminder. He prayed the rhythm of chores might numb it, drown it beneath the ordinary sounds of morning.
But nothing was ordinary anymore.
Every noise struck his ears with painful clarity. The smithy's bellows wheezed like thunder against the mountainside. The shuffle of sandals through mud thudded in his skull like drums. A child's laugh carried too far, breaking like glass in his head. Beneath it all pulsed the shard's steady beat, perfectly matched to his own heart, an echo he could not escape.
At the well, two women lingered with a cracked jug balanced between them. Their voices drifted, hushed but sharp.
"… hens refusing to lay since last moon."
"… tools rattling off the walls at night."
"… bad omen before harvest, you'll see."
The moment Leo's shadow touched them, their words faltered. Their eyes flicked toward him, then away. As he lowered the bucket into the dark mouth of the well, their voices died altogether.
The rope creaked, echoing too loudly, as though it were a groan pulled from the earth's belly. When he hauled it back, the water shimmered strangely, restless ripples sliding across its surface even after it stilled.
The women stepped back, fingers crossing in warding gestures.
Leo blinked at the bucket, at the strange flicker of light. "Just the sky's reflection," he muttered to no one but himself. His voice sounded brittle, unconvincing even to his own ears. He grabbed the handle too quickly and left, the women's silence prickling against his back like nettles.
By midmorning, he worked at Mira's family cart. The wheel leaned broken against its axle, and Mira's father had already muttered curses thick as smoke before retreating to fetch another tool. Leo stooped, lifting the splintered spoke.
The wood vibrated in his grip. Faint, impossible, like a plucked string humming through his bones.
He dropped it in alarm. The hum vanished.
Mira looked up from where she was gathering nails, brows drawn tight. "You've been strange lately. First you vanish on the hills, now you drop wood like it's burning you."
"They… slipped," Leo said, but the lie stuck to his tongue like ash.
She tilted her head, studying him. "The elders say the shrine path stirs again. Strange things in the night. If you've gone there, Leo-"
"I haven't." The denial came too quickly, sharp enough to cut.
Her lips pressed thin. Suspicion lingered in her eyes, the kind that would not easily be turned away. Before she could ask more, her younger brother bolted from the house, laughing as he chased a goat through the yard. Mira rolled her eyes and ran after him, muttering curses under her breath.
Leo stood alone with the wheel, heart pounding, breath shallow.
You're terrible at lying, the whisper teased, curling smooth and amused within his mind. Best to let me speak next time.
He ground his teeth, gripping the spoke until splinters dug into his palm. Stay out of my mouth.
But your mouth is mine, just as your hand is mine. In time, they'll look at you not with suspicion, but awe.
His skin crawled. He shoved the spoke into place with more force than needed, then turned and left, unable to endure Mira's watchful eyes.
That night, the village gathered in the square. Smoke from incense curled upward, clinging to the mist. A single drum thudded slow, marking the beat of unease. Children clung to their mothers' skirts, wide-eyed in the wavering glow of lanterns.
One of the elders stepped forward, his back bent, his voice cracked as bark. "The hills stir with restless signs. Animals cry at nothing. Lamps flicker with no wind. Even water will not lie still. These are omens before harvest. They are warnings."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, unease spreading like a contagion. Leo lingered at the back, half-hidden in shadow near the well. His stomach knotted as if a fist had twisted inside him.
They speak of me, little one, the whisper purred. They fear, yet they do not know. Imagine when they finally see what you carry.
Leo clenched his fist so tightly his nails carved crescents into his skin. He wanted to cry out, to confess, to beg someone to rip this thing from him. But when he bit down, blood filled his mouth instead, copper sharp on his tongue.
If they knew, he thought, they would not help him. They would drive him out. Or worse.
The elder's eyes swept across the assembly, pausing on Leo for a breath too long. Then the drum ceased, and the crowd dissolved into muttered prayers and hushed departures.
Back in his hut, Leo sat cross-legged on the mat, staring at his palm. The serpents glowed faintly in rhythm with his breathing, twining endlessly, never still.
"I don't want this," he whispered to the empty room.
The shard pulsed in answer, warm as fire crawling into bone.
You wanted to be more than no one. That is enough.
Leo buried his face in his arms, desperate to shut it out, to smother the voice. Sleep would not come.
Outside, dogs began to bark, one after another, as though something unseen walked the edge of the village. Then silence fell, thick and complete.
And in that silence, the shard laughed softly inside his skull.