Maria PoV
The wedding was small.
No grand ceremony. No noble witnesses. No elaborate gowns or formal declarations.
Just us, the village elder, and two neighbors who served as witnesses.
We stood in the small chapel at Greyhollow's center—a building barely larger than our cottage, with rough-hewn benches and a simple altar.
Snow fell outside the frosted windows, painting the world white.
The elder spoke the traditional words. Asked if we would honor each other.
Protect each other.
Choose each other through whatever hardships came.
"I will," Garrett said. His voice was steady. Certain.
"I will," I echoed.
The elder tied a cord around our joined hands—red wool, symbolizing the blood we'd already shed for each other.
"Then you're wed. May the gods grant you peace."
That was it. No kiss. No celebration. Just a simple acknowledgment that what we'd already built together now had a name.
But when Garrett looked at me—really looked at me, with something soft in those usually hard eyes—it felt more sacred than any grand ceremony could have been.
We walked back to our cottage through falling snow, hands still bound together by red cord.
Home.
Finally, truly, home.
***
Life settled into routine.
Garrett hunted. He'd leave before dawn with his axe and bow, disappearing into the forest for hours.
He always returned with something—deer, rabbits, birds, sometimes fish from the frozen streams.
I cooked.
Preserved meat for winter.
Dried herbs.
Kept the cottage warm and the fire burning.
He spoke little and I did all the chat.
At night, we'd sit by the fire. He'd sharpen his tools while I mended clothes or prepared tomorrow's meal.
Sometimes I'd read from the few books we'd managed to acquire. Sometimes we'd just exist together, content in each other's presence.
It was simple. Quiet. Nothing like the life I'd imagined as a girl.
It was perfect.
***
Garrett helped the villagers when they needed it.
Heavy lifting. Repairs. Dangerous work that required strength or skill most didn't have.
He never asked for payment. Just did the work and moved on.
Slowly, grudgingly, they began to trust him.
The breakthrough came six months after we'd arrived.
I was gathering water from the well when I heard the screaming.
A massive shape thundered down the main road—an earthen bull, easily twice the size of a normal ox. Its eyes rolled white with madness. Foam flecked its mouth.
Berserk. Probably poisoned by contaminated grazing, driven mad by toxins.
It charged toward a group of children playing near the smithy.
People scattered. Mothers screamed for their children. Men grabbed weapons but hesitated—getting close to a berserk bull meant death.
Garrett appeared from nowhere.
No weapon. Just his hands and that terrible, focused calm he wore like armor.
The bull charged him. He sidestepped at the last possible second—grabbed one horn as it passed—used its momentum to twist its massive head sideways.
The sound of the neck breaking echoed across the village.
The bull collapsed mid-charge, sliding to a stop in the mud. Dead before it finished falling.
Garrett stood over the corpse, breathing hard but uninjured.
The village went silent.
Then the children's mother ran to him. Grabbed his hands. Thanked him through tears while her children clung to her skirts.
Others approached. Clapped his shoulder. Offered drinks, food, gratitude.
After that, we weren't outsiders anymore.
We were part of Greyhollow.
***
The knock came on a sunny afternoon—rare for this region, where grey skies were the norm.
I opened the door expecting a neighbor.
Instead, I found Calla.
She stood on our doorstep in traveling clothes, face slightly flushed from cold, smiling that warm smile I remembered so well.
"Surprise," she said.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Just stared like she was a ghost.
Then I was hugging her, crying into her shoulder, overwhelmed by seeing someone from before. Someone who'd saved us.
"Come in, please!"
I pulled her inside, already talking too fast, asking too many questions at once.
Garrett appeared from the back room. Stopped when he saw Calla.
"Ma'am," he said. Polite but distant.
"Call me, Calla... Garrett." Calla inclined her head. "It's good to see you again."
He nodded once. Didn't smile. Just moved to the corner and began sharpening his axe—clearly staying but not participating.
Something flickered across Calla's expression. Too quick to identify.
***
We sat at the small table. I poured tea—real tea, saved for special occasions—with hands that trembled slightly from excitement.
"Tell me everything," Calla said. "How have you been? What's life like here?"
The words tumbled out. About building the cottage. About learning to survive harsh winters. About Garrett and our wedding and the simple, quiet happiness we'd found.
"I can live happily," I said, gripping Calla's hands across the table. "All because of you. If you hadn't helped us escape—"
"You would have found another way." Calla squeezed back. "You're stronger than you know, Maria."
She told me about her own life. About her marriage to the eastern count—arranged but not unkind. About her position as lady-in-waiting to the Empress herself.
"The capital is beautiful," she said. "But exhausting. Everyone plotting. Everyone watching. Sometimes I miss simpler days."
"You could stay," I offered. "Just for a few days. We have room—"
"I can't. Duty calls." Her smile was apologetic. "But I brought you something."
She produced a small box from her bag. Inside—sweets from the capital. Delicate confections wrapped in colored paper, each one probably worth more than our cottage.
"Oh, Calla, you shouldn't have—"
"Of course I should. You're my sister." She pushed the box toward me. "Try one."
I took a small pastry, bit into it. Honey and almond and something floral. It melted on my tongue—so rich, so different from our simple meals.
"It's wonderful," I said. "Try one with me?"
"I'm already full." Calla patted her stomach. "I ate before coming. Please, enjoy them."
In the corner, Garrett's sharpening stone paused. Just for a second.
Then resumed its rhythmic scraping.
Calla stayed for another hour. We talked about everything and nothing. About memories from the manor—carefully avoiding the darker ones. About hopes for the future.
When she finally stood to leave, I hugged her again.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For everything."
"Be happy, Maria." She pulled back, smiling. "That's all I ever wanted for you."
Then she was gone, disappearing into the afternoon sun.
I closed the door and leaned against it, warmth flooding my chest.
Garrett was watching me. His expression was unreadable.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing." He returned to his axe. "I'm glad she visited."
But something in his voice was off. Tight.
"Garrett?"
"I said it's nothing." He stood, setting the axe aside. "I'm grateful. For everything she did for you. For us."
He moved toward me. Pulled me into an embrace.
But I felt the tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw was clenched.
Something was gnawing at him. Something he couldn't—or wouldn't—name.
I didn't press. If he wanted to tell me, he would.
***
Life continued.
We tried for a child.
Not frantically. Not desperately. Just... naturally. Hoping that maybe, someday, our family would grow beyond just the two of us.
Months passed. Nothing.
A year. Still nothing.
I tried not to worry. Tried to tell myself these things took time.
But as the second year approached with no results, dread began settling in my stomach like a stone.
Finally, Garrett suggested we see a physician.
The nearest one was two villages over—an older woman with sharp eyes and gentle hands.
She examined me thoroughly. Asked questions about my cycles, my health, my history.
Then she sat back with an expression I'd learned to dread.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Those two words. That's all it took for my world to crack.
"Your womb..." She chose her words carefully. "There's scarring. Extensive damage. Likely from trauma—physical or magical, I can't say. But the environment is... hostile. Conception would be nearly impossible. Carrying to term, impossible."
The room tilted. My ears rang.
"Are you certain?" My voice came from very far away.
"As certain as I can be without opening you up." Her expression was sympathetic. "I'm truly sorry. If there was something I could do—"
"Thank you." Garrett's voice. Steady. Strong. "We appreciate your honesty."
He paid her. Led me outside. Helped me onto the cart we'd borrowed for the journey.
The ride home was silent.
I stared at nothing. Saw nothing. Felt nothing but the growing void where hope had lived.
A mother. I'd never be a mother.
Never hold my own child. Never see Garrett's eyes looking back at me from a small face. Never pass on the love I'd finally learned to accept.
The curse had taken my magic.
Now fate had taken this too.
What was left?
We reached home as the sun set. Garrett helped me down, but I barely registered his touch.
I walked into our cottage—our home, the place we'd built together—and it felt empty. Hollow.
Like a tomb.
I sat at the table. Stared at my hands.
These hands that had once been promised greatness. That had learned to enchant, to create, to transform.
These hands that would never hold my own baby.
Useless. All of it, useless.
Behind me, I heard Garrett moving. Lighting the fire. Preparing the evening meal even though neither of us would eat.
Taking care of me. Like he always did.
My vision blurred. Tears fell, hot and endless, staining the wood beneath my palms.
My heart shattered.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just... broke.
Quietly. Completely.
Beyond repair.