The murmur of tavern voices drifted into the small inn room, making Seraphina's serpents coil tighter against her neck. Their hiss carried her unease. She had heard the words — "witch," "cursed one," "hunters" — and her heart pounded with the old familiar rhythm of fear.
But when dawn broke and light spilled through the window, something unexpected happened.
Instead of torches or pitchforks, the innkeeper's wife knocked gently at their door.
"Travelers?" Her voice was soft, motherly. "I brought you both breakfast."
Seraphina froze. Dorian rose first, opening the door with a polite nod. The woman stepped inside with a tray — fresh bread, warm milk, and a small bowl of berries.
"You must've been starved," she said kindly. Then, noticing Seraphina's hood, she added, "No need to be shy, dear. We don't judge strange looks here. Ashgrove's seen all kinds of folk."
Seraphina's breath caught. Not judge? Could that be true?
Still, she kept her hood low. The serpents shifted beneath it, restless. She muttered, "Thank you."
The woman smiled. "Eat well. And if you need supplies, speak to the baker. He'll set you right."
Then she left, closing the door quietly.
---
Later that morning, Seraphina and Dorian walked through the village. Children ran past, laughing, chasing each other through the fields. An old man dozed in the sun with a pipe in his hand. The baker waved cheerfully, calling, "Fresh loaves! Come, travelers, taste Ashgrove's pride!"
Dorian turned to her, smiling. "See? Not everyone fears the shadows."
She tightened her cloak. "Give them time. When they see my face, it will change."
"Then let's test it," Dorian said calmly.
Her stomach dropped. "Test—?!"
But he was already guiding her toward the baker's stall.
The man beamed. "Ah, a young couple! Here, try this." He broke a loaf, pressing the soft, steaming bread into their hands. "On the house. You look like you've walked a long way."
Seraphina hesitated, but Dorian bit into his share and laughed. "It's good. Try it."
Slowly, Seraphina took a bite. The taste was warm, real — nothing like the cold scraps she had stolen in her old life. Something inside her chest ached at the simple kindness.
The baker leaned forward. "And you, miss? Why hide your face? Pretty girl like you shouldn't be hiding."
Seraphina froze. She could feel her serpents stir. For a moment, panic clawed at her throat. If she revealed even a glimpse—
But Dorian whispered, "It's all right."
Shaking, she lowered her hood just slightly. The snakes hissed softly, their scales glinting. The baker blinked… then shrugged.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "you've got a rare look, but who am I to complain? A head's a head, snakes or no snakes. So long as you're kind, you're welcome here."
Her heart stopped.
She stared, stunned. No screaming. No stones. Just a smile.
"Kind?" she whispered.
"Aye," the baker said, dusting flour from his hands. "The gods make folk in all shapes. We've no time to hate what we don't understand. Ashgrove stands together. Always."
---
For the rest of the day, the village showed her nothing but warmth. Children offered her flowers. The blacksmith fixed Dorian's cane without charge. The innkeeper's wife slipped Seraphina a scarf "to keep the chill from those pretty shoulders."
Every act of kindness struck her harder than cruelty ever had. Each smile was a blade, cutting through years of fear and shame until tears burned her eyes.
That night, sitting by the hearth, Dorian spoke softly:
"Well?"
Seraphina pressed her snakes close, her hands trembling. "I… I didn't know people could be this way. All my life, I thought I was cursed to be hated. But here…"
Her voice broke. "Here, I feel… human."
Dorian's hand found hers. "That's because you are."
For the first time in her memory, Seraphina wept not from fear — but from hope.