The children would not sit beside her.
In the dining hall, every bench was filled with jostling elbows and swinging legs—except the space where she sat. A whole stretch of wood left empty, as though her presence were a sickness that might spread if touched.
The girl didn't ask why. She had learned, long ago, that questions were wasted breath. She slurped her broth quietly, listening to the others whisper.
"Witch child"
"Her hair's the color of bones"
"Don't touch her, you'll catch it"
She did not know what "it" was, only that she carried it in her skin, in her eyes and in the space she left empty behind her.
At night, when others clutched their dolls and quilts, she curled into her corner with nothing but a thin blanket that smelled of mildew.
The sisters claimed there weren't enough dolls for everyone, and that she, being a quiet child, could go without. So she held her knees tight to her chest and pretended her bones were porcelain, her breath the whisper of a lullaby.
Sometimes, in the dark, she wondered if she was really a witch. The children seemed so certain. The sisters never said otherwise. But if she truly was, then why had no magic ever come when she whispered please, just once?
She had never made a fire spark from her fingertips—nor had she made the cruel whispers stop.
The girl liked to sit by the window when chores were done. It was the only place the sun touched her, a warm square of gold across the dusty floorboards. She pressed her palms flat to the light, imagining it sinking into her skin, filling her with something brighter than soup and shadows.
Today, she wasn't alone for long.
Three children crept up behind her, all older and bigger. They didn't speak at first, only stood in a row with their arms folded, blocking the light.
"Move," said their leader.
She didn't. This was her square.
The second child reached down and snatched the ribbon from her wrist—a scrap of cloth she'd found in the laundry and the only pretty thing she owned. The girl gasped and scrambled to her feet.
"Give it back!"
"Or what?" The leader dangled the ribbon high, smirking. "You'll hex me? Turn me into a frog?"
The others giggled.
"I'm not a witch," she whispered. She hated how small her voice sounded.
"Then prove it," the oldest said. He shoved her backward, hard. She stumbled, hit the wall, and her head throbbed where it struck the wall.
The laughter of the children echoed sharp and cruel, bouncing around inside her skull until it felt like it might split open.
She pressed her fists against the floor, trembling. She wanted them to stop. She wanted them to leave her alone. She wanted the world to shut up and listen, just once.
Something deep inside her snapped.
The air around her shivered, sharp and cold. The windowpanes rattled as if caught in a sudden storm. Dust leapt from the rafters and hung suspended in the sunlight like a thousand frozen stars.
The ribbon the children had stolen tore free from their hands, whipping through the air before landing gently at her feet.
Silence.
The bullies stared, wide-eyed and their grins gone. One screamed first, and then they all scattered, their footsteps thundering down the corridor.
The girl didn't notice the tall figure who had stopped just beyond the doorway. A man cloaked in dark velvet and a silver crest pinned to his chest—the mark of a duke.
He had only come to speak with the headmistress about donations. But what he saw made him pause.
The child sat alone in the golden square of light, hair wild, chest heaving, tiny fists clenched around a strip of ribbon that seemed to glow faintly with power.
That night, the orphanage was quieter than usual. Whispers darted through the halls, sharper than the wind that leaked through the shutters.
The girl sat in her cot, knees to chest, clutching the ribbon. The other children wouldn't even look at her. They slept huddled together on the far end of the room as though she carried some invisible plague.
When the heavy knock came at the headmistress's office door, she flinched. The girl heard muffled voices through the walls. A man's voice, smooth but commanding, pressed against the air like weight.
The next morning, the headmistress called her in. Her hands were wringing the hem of her dress raw.
"You…you'll be leaving us," she said.
The girl blinked. "Leaving?"
Before she could ask more, the office door opened and he entered—the man from yesterday.
The duke's gaze fixed on her the way a hawk fixed on a mouse. "This is the one," he said simply, not to her, but over her head, as though she were a parcel being inspected.
A servant followed behind him, carrying parchment and quills.
She didn't understand much of what they were saying—something about her being "fortunate" and "papers to finalize." All she knew was that her name wasn't on the page. Just a line: child, female, approximate age five.
"Do I have to go?" she whispered.
The headmistress gave a brittle smile, one that didn't reach her eyes. "It's a duke's household, child. You should be grateful. Every child would kill to be adopted by a duke"
Her small hands shook as the servant pressed ink against her thumb and guided it to the parchment. The mark smeared crookedly across the page, sealing it.
Just like that, her life at the orphanage was over.
The duke didn't offer his hand. He simply turned, expecting her to follow. His cloak swept behind him like a shadow that swallowed the room.
She clutched her ribbon tighter and stepped after him, barefoot on cold stone, into a world she didn't yet know would be far crueler than the one she left.