Her father did not survive the night. His breath grew shallow, his eyes dim, and by dawn his body was cold. They had no coin for a proper burial, no means to pay the men who dug graves for the village. So they did it themselves.
Her mother clawed at the hard soil with her bare hands until her nails bled, and Mia, with her small trembling fingers, joined her. The earth was unyielding, cruel, but they dug until their palms split and their tender skin blistered beyond repair. At last, they lowered him into the shallow pit, wrapping his broken body in nothing but the cloth that once served as their bedding.
That night, the two of them wept until their throats were raw, clinging to each other in the darkness of their hut. The absence of his voice, his warmth, his protection—it was a wound deeper than any blade.
Life had already been cruel, but without a father, it became merciless.
A new fear bloomed over them. The villagers, who had once kept their distance in hushed whispers and sideways glances, now grew bolder. With no man to shield them, the mother and daughter became easy prey for scorn. Profanities followed them wherever they went—sharp words flung like stones. Vulgar comments hissed behind their backs, sometimes spoken loud enough to be heard.
Mia was still a child, but each word seared into her skin, branding her with shame she did not deserve. Her mother tried to shield her, tried to bear the insults alone, but cruelty has a way of seeping through the smallest cracks.
Although life was harsh, it was still bearable. Days passed in hunger and loneliness, but they survived—Mia by clinging to her mother's strength, and her mother by clinging to the hope that someday, things might change.
Until that night.
Her mother was at the riverbank, scrubbing clothes long after the sun had fallen, her hands raw from the cold water. The village slept, and only the sound of water lapping against stone kept her company. But then came the laughter—low, cruel, and slithering through the darkness.
Three men stepped from the shadows. Their eyes glimmered with malice, their words fouler than the stench of drink on their breath. They circled her like predators, their laughter growing louder as she tried to step away. Panic rose in her chest as they mocked her, spewing vulgarities, calling her names no woman should hear.
When one of them reached for her, she stumbled back, her heart hammering. But desperation gave her strength. Her hand closed around a stone from the riverbank, and with all the fear and fury inside her, she hurled it. The rock struck one of them across the face, splitting skin and silencing his laugh with a pained cry.
In the chaos, she broke free, her bare feet tearing against roots and stones as she ran. She did not stop until she reached their hut, bursting through the door, gasping, trembling.
Mia, startled from her half-sleep, stared wide-eyed as her mother collapsed beside her, clutching her and sobbing uncontrollably. The woman's hands shook as she stroked her daughter's hair, whispering broken words over and over.
"We can't stay here," she cried. "We won't live in this cursed place any longer. We will beg if we must—but in another village, another land. We'll leave… we'll leave tomorrow."
Her grief was almost hysterical, spilling from her like a flood. And though Mia did not yet understand what had happened, she knew one thing clearly—something in her mother had shattered that night.
They had packed the entire night. There was barely anything to gather, yet their hands trembled so much that every knot, every fold, every bundle felt heavier than it was. By the time the first light of dawn touched the thatched roof, their hut looked emptier than ever.
Their hearts were heavy. Each corner of that small house carried memories—of laughter, of tears, of survival. But now it had become a place of fear, a cage that suffocated them. Leaving was the only way.
They stepped out quietly, hoping no one would notice. But before they could even cross the threshold, shadows loomed. A crowd of villagers had gathered, their faces twisted in anger, their mouths spilling curses.
One man pushed forward, his voice sharp and cruel.
"You dare to hurt a respectable man?"
Her eyes shifted, and there they were—the same three men. Standing tall among the crowd, their lips curled into mocking smiles, their eyes glinting with revenge.
Mia's mother froze. Her throat tightened. She clutched Mia's hand, her body trembling, but her spirit refusing to bend. The men didn't come for justice. They came to crush what little dignity she had left.
The crowd's rage swelled like a storm. Their words were sharp, piercing, heavier than stones.
Mia clutched her mother's trembling hand, tears streaming down her face.
But no plea could soften the villagers' hearts. They called her mother a liar, a wretch, a woman who dared to taint the name of a "respectable man."
Mia's mother fell to her knees, begging for them to believe her truth. "They tried to defile me… I fought back… I protected myself, my daughter—please, believe me!"
But the mob only grew more violent. They spat at her. They shoved her. And then… they crossed the line no soul should ever cross.
They dragged her out of her hut, tearing at her dignity, beating her with merciless hands. Her screams filled the dawn, raw and broken, while Mia's cries blended with hers.
Even the sky seemed to mourn—bleeding with shades of crimson as the sun rose.
And in that moment… the line between man and monster vanished.
They burned her mother alive.
She cried… not just for herself, but for her daughter.
Little Mia's cries were drowned beneath the demonic roar of the villagers. Rough hands tossed her around as if she were nothing more than a rag doll, her tiny body flung from one to another.
Her mother's screams fell silent—her soul had already departed from this cruel world. Yet the mob's hunger for brutality did not end there.
"Burn this little demon too!" someone bellowed.
The irony in those words was too bitter to even laugh at.
They dragged Mia closer to the flames, ready to cast her into the fire. But then… everything froze.
A shadow fell over them. A presence that made the air grow heavier.
The villagers turned—
and there he was.
The Devil himself.
And in that instant, they knew—
they had messed with the wrong person.