Morning came just like it always did: slow, cold, and unwelcome. It crept in through the cracks in the wooden planks like a ghost with no manners. The thin blanket clung to me, offering just enough warmth to feel taunting. Underneath, the straw mattress felt more like a pile of regrets than comfort. Most of its stuffing had flattened into a sort of half-hearted apology, as if it was sorry for not doing better but not sorry enough to try harder.
I groaned and stretched, making my spine pop with a series of worrying noises. My room, if you could call it that, barely had enough space for me to stand. A single wobbly chair leaned near the door, and the little table next to it looked like it had lost a fight with an axe. A chipped plate and a dented tin cup sat untouched, while a battered trunk in the corner held all the possessions life had given me.
To be clear, that meant a few worn clothes, a cracked wooden comb, and the quiet certainty that dreams belonged to people who didn't shovel filth for a living.
I sat up and ran my hand through my hair, regretting it instantly when my fingers caught on a knot the size of a sparrow's nest. I pulled it free with a wince. No time to fix it and no one to impress. Just another day as the village's unofficial errand runner.
Water was scarce. Soap was even scarcer. And so was patience, especially since half the village treated me like a stray dog they hadn't gotten around to kicking yet.
I dressed in my usual patchwork outfit: a tunic that had lived through more winters than I had, trousers that had more stitches than fabric, and boots that flapped when I walked too quickly—like they were protesting every step. One had a hole so big I had given it a name. I didn't know what that name was, but it deserved one.
When I stepped outside, the morning air hit me like a bucket of cold water. The village was already waking up. Thin trails of smoke curled from crooked chimneys, and the scent of baking bread bravely tried—and failed—to hide the unpleasant smells of livestock, mud, and something dead that had yet to be discovered.
I had taken about two steps when the familiar ritual of humiliation began.
"Hey, rat girl!"
Right on time.
A group of village kids lounged near the well like a pack of bored wolves. They weren't much younger than me, but their clothes were intact, and their faces were clean. That made them feel superior. And when people feel superior, they start to show it.
"What, no clever insult today?" one of them called out, all teeth and arrogance.
"Bet she's off to dig through trash again," another chimed in, nudging his friend as if he'd just delivered the best joke ever.
I clenched my fists and kept walking. Just walk. Just breathe. I had learned the hard way that snapping back only made things worse. Mockery escalated quickly in a village this small, and bruises took longer to fade than harsh words.
Then, thankfully, help arrived.
"Hey! Get to your chores before I tell your mothers you're loitering again!"
The butcher's wife stood in the doorway of her shop, arms crossed with a broom in hand like a weapon. Her hair was pinned up, her sleeves rolled, and her face set with the fury of someone who didn't have time for nonsense. The kids scattered like rats caught in light.
I nodded my thanks. She responded with a grunt that could have meant either "you're welcome" or "get moving." Hard to say.
Of course, standing still for more than five seconds in this place was just asking for trouble.
"You, girl! Take this to the compost pit!"
"You've got hands, don't you? Haul this wood to the baker's!"
"The midden's full again. Shovel it."
One after another, the orders came. No names, just "girl." No choices either. Just the sort of work no one else wanted, handed down with the expectation that I would do it without question. Because I always did.
Because what else was I going to do?
Back to work, then. That was how the day went—always another command given, another task no one else wanted. The kind of work that clung to you, lodging itself in your skin, ensuring you carried the stench long after the job was over.
The smell of the compost pit hit me well before I got close. A pungent mix of spoiled vegetables, sour milk, old straw, and a few things I didn't want to identify. It was a scent that made your eyes water and left your stomach questioning its choices. I gagged but kept moving. 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. My arms strained as I shoved the waste into place, every splinter a parting gift from the shovel's worn handle. Sweat soaked my tunic until it clung to my back, the fabric chafing against skin that was already raw from the morning's "opportunities."
By the time I finished, I felt half-rotten myself—stinking, sore, and likely growing a few new layers of grime that nature hadn't planned on. Flies buzzed lazily around me. My fingers throbbed, my back felt like it was aging in reverse, and my knees had begun thinking about breaking down.
Then Old Man Harrod called out to me with a whistle sharp enough to make birds scatter. He sat hunched on his usual stool by the baker's awning, his knees wrapped in wool, pipe clenched between teeth yellowed like old parchment.
"Girl," he rasped without looking up, flicking ash off his robe. "The herbalist's out of lungroot. Go fetch some from her hut. Tell her it's for me lungs or I'll come hacking up my soul on her doorstep."
I blinked, halfway through wiping grime off my hands. "Why me?"
He squinted one eye open, like it took great effort. "'Cause I asked, and because you've got legs that work. That's two reasons more than I need."
No one argued with Old Man Harrod—not because he was important, but because he had survived three wives and outlasted five of his own teeth. He was too stubborn to die and too mean to ignore.
That was excuse enough to leave. I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, smearing sweat and dirt together into a new kind of cover, and headed toward the forest trail.
The path out of the village was mostly dirt and disappointment, winding through dry bushes and the occasional gnarled tree that looked like it hated being alive. The deeper I went, the quieter it got. The air changed—cooler, cleaner, tinged with the scent of damp earth, pine needles, and something wild. Birds called overhead, flitting between branches, while somewhere in the undergrowth, something small and furry rustled out of sight.
I didn't like going out here alone. No one really did. The silence felt wrong. Not empty—watchful. Like the forest knew I was trespassing and was waiting to see if I'd trip.
Eventually, tucked half-hidden behind a slope and a tangle of thorns, I found the hut.
People called the woman who lived there the village "Witch," half-joking, half-afraid. Not because she did anything especially spooky but because she was good at things she wasn't supposed to be good at. Mostly alchemy. Strange brews that made fevers disappear, poultices that healed wounds faster than they should. No one else could make them, and no one really tried to learn.
After that time—when half the village had burned but her hut hadn't taken a scratch—people started whispering. Not accusations, exactly. Just unease mixed with envy.
I had only been here once before. Her hut still looked the same: a slanted roof draped in moss, a crooked chimney puffing out some strange-smelling smoke, and wind chimes made of bone and glass clinking softly in the breeze. The path was lined with herbs in pots I didn't recognize, and the faint scent of crushed mint and vinegar floated in the air.
I paused at the edge of her gate, not quite ready to knock. Even from here, the place felt... different. Like the forest had grown around it, rather than the other way around. It wasn't evil, not really. Just old. And maybe a bit too alive.
But something felt off.
It started subtly. A tightness in the air. A twinge in my throat. Then the scent hit me—sharp and completely out of place. Smoke—not the gentle kind from a fire, but the heavy, oily stench of something burning too swiftly and wrong. I froze, straining my ears. Then I heard it.
Shouting. Distant but rising.
Panic rushed through me. I turned on instinct, my feet moving before my mind could catch up. The closer I got to the village, the thicker the smoke became, turning the air heavy and bitter, coating my mouth like ash. My heart raced. The trees parted—and I stopped dead.
Black smoke twisted into the sky, thick and swirling. The village was on fire.
A cold knot twisted inside me. I had fled once before when everything I loved had burned. Back then, I had nowhere else to go but to another village that barely wanted me. I had sworn then that I wouldn't let it happen again.
Even if they never fully accepted me, even if I wasn't sure I belonged—this was still home. The cracked walls and broken fences, the grudges and whispers, the careless smiles and sharp tongues—they were mine. The people, even the ones who spat when they thought I wasn't looking, were my village.
I ran, my feet pounding the dirt path, my lungs aching. Screams echoed through the air. Chaos unfolded like a nightmare I hadn't been invited to. Villagers rushed in all directions, dragging children, clutching belongings, or simply fleeing with empty hands. Somewhere, metal clashed against metal, sharp and violent.
Then I saw them. Ogres and humans fighting together.
That wasn't right. Ogres didn't work with humans. They barely tolerated each other, usually long enough to trade punches. But there they were—charging through the village side by side.
The humans wore dark cloaks with hoods pulled low, their faces hidden behind masks, giving them a sinister look—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, rags 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 what I was seeing.
Then I spotted him. A villager—half-buried beneath the broken beams of his collapsed home. I knew him. He wasn't a good man. He had once thrown a rock at me for spilling water near his door. He cursed when I passed and yelled when I didn't move fast enough.
But he was alive. And pinned. And screaming.
I should've walked away.
Instead, I grabbed a stick. It was barely more than a branch—dry and splintered, useless as a weapon. But it was something, and at that moment, something felt better than nothing.
I ran at the ogre towering over him—not to fight, but to distract.
Brave? Maybe. Stupid? Definitely. But I couldn't just stand there and watch—not when someone was about to die and I was the only one foolish enough to try to buy some time.
The ogre turned, showing the lazy annoyance of someone asked to do chores. Then, with one huge swing, it sent me flying. I crashed against the side of a house. Pain surged through my ribs. My vision blurred, but I pushed myself up, gasping. The villager? He was already crawling away, panic in his eyes, leaving me behind without a single glance back.
Coward.
The ogre lumbered toward me, its club dragging behind like bad news. I rolled aside as it brought the weapon down. The ground shook with the impact. Every part of me screamed, but I staggered to my feet, my heart racing.
Then, before I could react, a massive fist swung out—fast and cruel. The last thing I saw was the rough, shadowed knuckles coming straight for my face.
Then the world went black.