The morning after the festival, the village seemed quieter than usual. The torches had been extinguished, the square was empty, and scraps of bread and fruit cores lay scattered where children had feasted.
Ayra woke to the sound of roosters and the faint smell of woodsmoke. She blinked slowly, her body still heavy from the excitement of the night before.
Her mother was already up, tending to the small fire in their hearth. "Sleep well, little star?" she asked gently.
Ayra only nodded. But deep inside, she knew her sleep had not been ordinary.
That night, her dreams had been vivid—too vivid. She remembered floating high above the earth, among countless lanterns, watching them flicker and fade into the endless sky. But as the lanterns drifted farther, they turned into stars, and the stars into something else entirely—eyes, countless and cold, watching her from beyond the void.
She woke with the echo of those gazes still lingering in her mind. Even now, as she sat up, she felt as though the world around her carried a faint hum, like an invisible thread plucked taut.
She shook her head. It's nothing. Just a dream.
But she couldn't ignore the way her skin prickled when she stepped into the morning air.
The villagers went about their chores as always. Men carried bundles of wood, women tended to gardens, and children fetched water from the well. Everything looked normal—ordinary.
Yet to Ayra, the ordinary seemed… different.
She noticed how Mira laughed before her brother even finished telling a joke, as if she had already known it would be funny. She noticed how old Widow Lenna muttered to herself near her door, her lips forming words no one else heard, though Ayra could almost feel the weight of them in the air.
Even the wind seemed to behave strangely—it carried scents and sounds with more clarity than before, as if whispering directly into her ear.
No one else reacted. Only her.
Later that afternoon, Ayra went with the other children to fetch water. They lined up with clay jars, chattering about the festival, boasting about whose lantern had flown the highest.
Ayra knelt beside the stone rim of the well, her jar in hand. She peered into the dark water below.
Her reflection stared back, pale and solemn. But for a moment—just a flicker—her eyes in the reflection glowed faintly, like sparks hidden beneath glass.
She blinked, and it was gone.
"Ayra, are you daydreaming again?" Mira asked, nudging her.
Ayra swallowed. "…No."
But her hand trembled slightly as she lowered the jar into the well.
On her way home, Ayra heard a sharp cry from the trees. She looked up and saw a raven perched on a branch, its feathers glossy black against the pale sky.
It tilted its head, watching her intently.
Ravens were not uncommon in the forest, yet this one felt different. Its eyes seemed too bright, too deliberate, as if it understood something she did not.
Ayra paused, staring back. For an instant, she swore the world hushed again—no wind, no rustle of leaves, only the raven's gaze pinning her in place.
Then, with a harsh croak, it spread its wings and vanished into the treetops.
Ayra stood frozen, heart thudding.
Was it just a bird? Or something else
That evening, Ayra sat quietly at the hearth, picking at her food. Her mother watched her with gentle eyes.
"You've been quiet today," she said softly. "More than usual."
Ayra hesitated. Part of her wanted to speak of the strange dream, the glowing reflection, the raven's eyes. But something in her warned against it. She remembered the storyteller's tales—how those who were different often walked paths far lonelier than others.
"I'm just tired," she murmured instead.
Her mother smiled faintly, brushing a strand of black hair from her face. "You'll grow stronger. You always do."
Ayra lowered her gaze, the words stirring something deep inside her. She wanted to believe them.
Nightfall
When night came, Ayra lay in her small bed, staring at the ceiling beams. The silence of the house pressed close around her, broken only by the soft crackle of embers.
But her mind refused to rest.
The dream still lingered, vivid as if it had been more memory than imagination. The reflection in the well haunted her. And the raven's eyes—sharp, knowing—made her skin crawl with a strange awareness she could not explain.
She turned over, clutching her blanket tight.
For the first time, Ayra wondered if the world around her was less ordinary than it seemed.
And deep within her, something stirred—still faint, still hidden, but waiting.