The night began in peace.
Seraphina sat near the inn's hearth, polishing the curved blade the blacksmith had gifted her, while Dorian tuned a small wooden flute given by the children. Outside, laughter floated in the cool air — couples danced in the square beneath lanterns, and the smell of roasted chestnuts lingered.
For a fleeting moment, Seraphina thought: Maybe this is home. Maybe the curse has loosened.
But peace, as always, was fragile.
---
It started with a horn's blast at the village edge. Harsh, metallic — a sound that did not belong to Ashgrove. The serpents in Seraphina's hair hissed sharply, writhing. Dorian stiffened.
"What is it?" he asked, though he already knew by her silence.
Her heart sank. "Hunters."
The alarm spread quickly. Villagers dropped baskets, mothers grabbed children, men seized farming tools. From the north road, torches flared — dozens of them. Shadows of armored figures approached in formation, their boots pounding the earth like a war drum.
The Hunters of the Order.
"By decree of the High Circle!" one of them bellowed. "Surrender the cursed serpent girl and her blind companion, and no blood need spill!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Seraphina's chest tightened, waiting for the betrayal — the screams, the pointing fingers, the fear.
But instead, the village elder stepped forward, staff in hand. His voice was steady: "You'll find no prisoners here. Ashgrove does not hand its guests to butchers."
The hunters sneered. "Fools. She is the spawn of Medusa — a blight upon mankind! Stand aside, or fall with her."
The elder raised his staff higher. "Then we fall."
---
The square erupted.
Villagers surged forward with pitchforks, axes, and farming scythes. The hunters, trained and armored, crashed into them with swords and shields. Steel clashed, shouts echoed, sparks lit the night.
"Seraphina! Dorian!" the innkeeper's wife cried, rushing to them. Her apron was streaked with dirt, her hands trembling as she shoved a bundle of food into Seraphina's arms. "Go! Quickly! We'll hold them back!"
"But—"
"No arguments!" she snapped. "Ashgrove protects its own."
At her side, the old blacksmith appeared, swinging a massive hammer. He smashed it into the ground with a roar, scattering hunters like leaves. "Run, girl! Don't waste the gift I gave you!"
Seraphina's throat tightened. Her hands shook as Dorian grabbed her arm. "We can't stay," he whispered urgently.
"I can't leave them!" she cried.
"You must! If they bleed for you, make it mean something!"
---
Two young men — brothers, their faces smeared with ash and fear — rushed to Seraphina's side. "This way!" one shouted. "There's a cart at the south gate. We'll cover you!"
They shoved her and Dorian into the shadows of an alley just as hunters broke through the line of villagers. A sword flashed — the elder's staff splintered, and Seraphina screamed, but the blacksmith swung again, dragging the elder back to safety.
The streets burned with torches. Arrows whistled. A hunter lunged into the alley, blade raised, but Seraphina's serpents hissed, striking with blinding speed. He stumbled, clutching his eyes, shrieking.
The brothers pulled them onward. "Faster!"
Through the chaos, Seraphina caught glimpses of the fight — mothers throwing stones, children banging pots to create confusion, men locking shields to slow the hunters. It wasn't an army, it was a family defending itself.
And they were defending her.
Her heart broke with every step she was dragged away.
---
At last, they reached the south gate. A small cart waited, horses trembling at the noise of battle. One brother leapt onto the reins while the other shoved Seraphina and Dorian onto the back.
"Go!" Seraphina cried. "Come with us!"
The brothers shook their heads. "Ashgrove needs us."
"But you'll die—"
"Then we'll die free," the younger one said fiercely. "Remember us, Serpent Daughter. That's all we ask."
Before she could argue, the whip cracked, and the horses bolted into the night. The village grew smaller behind them, its glow of fire and lanterns mingling with the clash of steel.
Seraphina clutched the blade to her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Why?" she whispered brokenly. "Why would they fight for me?"
Dorian reached blindly for her hand. His voice was low, steady even as sorrow trembled beneath it:
"Because, Seraphina… for once, you were not a curse. You were one of them."
The night swallowed Ashgrove.
And Seraphina wept, not for herself, but for the village that had chosen love over fear.