The days passed gently in Ashgrove, like the slow drift of autumn leaves. For the first time in years, Seraphina knew what it felt like to wake without fear. No footsteps hunting her in the dark. No whispers of curses behind her back. Only the sounds of village life — roosters crowing, children laughing, the steady ring of the blacksmith's hammer.
Dorian seemed lighter too. Each morning, he walked the fields with the villagers, listening to their stories, trading small charms for baskets of fruit or tools. And though he could not see, he always returned with a smile, saying, "This place smells of kindness."
Seraphina, cloaked less and less each day, began to walk openly. Her serpents, though wary, curled softly around her shoulders instead of hissing. To her shock, the villagers greeted them with curiosity, not fear.
"Look, mama!" a child cried one afternoon, pointing. "Her hair moves!"
The mother only laughed and said, "Don't stare, darling. She's a guest." Then she added with a wink at Seraphina, "A special one."
Seraphina blushed. She was not used to such acceptance.
---
One evening, a festival lit the square. Lanterns swayed from wooden poles, music from fiddles and drums filled the night air, and the smell of roasting meat and spiced cider carried across the crowd.
Dorian insisted they join.
"You'll like it," he said, guiding her hand toward the sound of music. "Festivals are freedom in disguise."
At first, Seraphina hung back, nervous, but the villagers pulled her in gently. Children tugged at her cloak, asking her to dance. Women complimented the serpents, marveling at their colors. For the first time, she let her hood fall fully away, her snakes glittering under lantern light.
Instead of screams, there was applause.
Dorian leaned close, whispering, "See? They don't just tolerate you. They celebrate you."
And Seraphina, unable to stop the tears welling in her eyes, smiled.
---
The next day, as dawn painted the sky, the village blacksmith approached her. He was an old man, his beard streaked with gray, his arms strong from decades at the forge.
"Girl," he said gruffly, though his eyes were kind, "come with me."
Seraphina obeyed, curious. He led her into his workshop, where the air was thick with the scent of smoke and iron. On a wooden bench lay a long cloth-wrapped bundle.
The blacksmith unrolled it slowly. Inside gleamed a weapon unlike any she had ever seen — a curved blade of dark steel, etched with faint runes, its hilt bound in leather. It was beautiful, yet humble, crafted with care rather than vanity.
Seraphina's breath caught. "For… me?"
"Aye." The blacksmith nodded. "A girl with snakes for hair shouldn't be barehanded against the world. This blade isn't for war. It's for protection. For reminding you that you have a right to stand tall, no matter what hunts you."
He pressed the hilt into her trembling hands. The serpents lifted their heads, hissing softly, almost reverently, as if recognizing the gift's strength.
"I don't… I don't know what to say," she whispered.
"Say you'll live," the old man replied firmly. "Say you'll carry this not with fear, but with pride. Ashgrove stands with you, girl. Remember that."
Her throat ached, but she managed a nod. "I promise."
The blacksmith smiled faintly. "Good. Then my work is done."
---
That night, Seraphina sat with Dorian by the fire, the blade resting across her lap. He reached out, fingers tracing the steel as she described its shape.
"It feels strong," he murmured. "Like it belongs with you."
Seraphina held the weapon close. For so long she had been nothing but hunted prey, cursed and despised. But now, in Ashgrove, she had been given something else — not just a tool of survival, but a symbol of trust, a sign that she was no longer alone.
For the first time in her life, she dared to whisper aloud, "Maybe… maybe I can be more than a curse."
Dorian's hand tightened on hers. "You already are."
And as the fire crackled and the village sang beyond their window, Seraphina allowed herself to believe him.