Morning arrived the same way it always did—slow, cold, and entirely unwelcome. It crept in through the cracks between the wooden planks like a ghost with poor manners and no concept of personal space. The threadbare blanket clung to me like a wet leaf, providing just enough warmth to be insulting. Beneath me, the straw mattress felt more like a bundle of regrets than anything resembling comfort. Most of the stuffing had flattened into a sort of passive-aggressive apology, like it was sorry it couldn't do better, but not sorry enough to try.
I groaned, stretching until my spine made a series of concerning noises, each joint crackling like it was trying to file a complaint. My room—though calling it that was generous—was barely large enough to stand up in. A single chair with a rebellious wobble leaned near the door, and the little table beside it looked like it had lost a bar fight with a woodcutter's axe. A chipped plate and dented tin cup sat untouched, and the battered trunk in the corner housed all the treasures life had seen fit to give me.
Which, to be clear, amounted to a few worn clothes, a cracked wooden comb, and the quiet certainty that dreams were for people who didn't shovel filth for a living.
I sat up and ran a hand through my hair, immediately regretting it when my fingers snagged on a knot the size of a sparrow's nest. I yanked it free with a wince. No time to fix it. No one to impress. Just another day as the village's unofficial errand rat.
Water was scarce. So was soap. And patience. Especially when half the village treated you like a stray dog they hadn't gotten around to kicking yet.
I dressed in my usual patchwork uniform: a tunic that had seen more winters than I had, trousers more stitch than fabric, and a pair of boots that flapped when I walked too fast—like they were protesting every step. One had a hole so large I'd named it. I didn't know what the name was, but I knew it deserved one.
When I stepped outside, the morning air smacked me in the face like a bucket of cold dishwater. The village was already waking. Thin curls of smoke drifted from crooked chimneys, the scent of baking bread valiantly trying—and failing—to mask the less pleasant aromas of livestock, mud, and something dead that had yet to be discovered.
I made it about two steps before the ritual humiliation began.
"Oi, rat girl!"
Right on schedule.
A cluster of village brats lounged near the well like a pack of bored wolves. They weren't much younger than me, but their clothes weren't frayed, and their faces didn't wear dirt like a second skin. That made them feel superior. And when people feel superior, they start trying to prove it.
"What, no clever insult today?" one called out, all teeth and smugness.
"Bet she's off to dig through garbage again," another added, nudging his friend like he'd just delivered the line of the year.
I clenched my fists and kept walking. Just walk. Just breathe. I'd learned the hard way that snapping back only made it worse. Mockery escalated fast in a village this small, and bruises took longer to fade than words.
Then, thankfully, salvation.
"Oi! Get to your chores before I tell your mothers you're loitering again!"
The butcher's wife stood in the doorway of her shop, arms folded and broom in hand like a weapon. Hair pinned up, sleeves rolled, jaw set with the righteous fury of someone who didn't have time for nonsense. The brats scattered like rats caught under a torch.
I gave her a nod of gratitude. She returned it with a grunt that might've meant "you're welcome" or "don't dawdle." Hard to say.
Of course, standing still for more than five seconds in this place was just asking for it.
"You, girl! Take this to the compost pit!"
"You've got hands, don't you? Haul this wood to the baker's!"
"Midden's full again. Shovel it."
One after another, the orders came. No names, just "girl." No choices either. Just the kind of work no one else wanted, handed down with the expectation that I'd do it without question. Because I always did.
Because what else was I going to do?
Back to work, then. That was how the day went—always another order barked, another chore no one else wanted. The kind of work that clung to you, buried itself in your skin, and made sure you carried the stink long after the task was done.
The smell of the compost pit hit me before I even got close. A pungent mix of spoiled vegetables, sour milk, old straw, and a few things I didn't want to identify. It was the kind of stench that made your eyes water and your stomach question its life choices. I gagged but didn't stop. You didn't stop. That was the rule—especially not when the work had been dumped on you because nobody else wanted to get their boots dirty. My arms strained as I shoved the waste into place, every splinter a parting gift from the shovel's worn handle. Sweat soaked through my tunic until it clung to my back, the fabric chafing against skin that was already raw from the morning's "opportunities."
By the time I finished, I felt half-fermented myself—stinking, sore, and probably developing a few new layers of grime evolution hadn't planned for. Flies buzzed in lazy loops around me. My fingers throbbed, my back felt like it was aging in reverse, and my knees had started seriously considering rebellion.
My fingers throbbed, my back felt like it was aging in reverse, and my knees had started seriously considering rebellion.
That's when Old Man Harrod flagged me down with a whistle sharp enough to stun birds out of trees. He was hunched on his usual stool by the baker's awning, knees wrapped in wool, pipe clenched between teeth yellow as old parchment.
"Girl," he rasped without looking up, flicking ash off his robe. "Herbalist's out of lungroot. Go fetch some from her hut. Tell her it's for me lungs or I'll come hackin' up my soul on her doorstep."
I blinked, halfway through wiping grime off my hands. "Why me?"
He squinted one eye open like it was a huge effort. "'Cause I asked, and because you've got legs that work. That's two reasons more than I need."
No one argued with Old Man Harrod—not because he was important, but because the man had survived three wives and outlived five of his own teeth. He was too stubborn to die and too mean to ignore.
That was enough of an excuse to leave, anyway.
I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, smearing sweat and dirt together into a new kind of camouflage, and set off toward the forest trail.
The path out of the village was mostly dirt and disappointment, winding through dry scrub and the occasional twisted tree that looked like it resented being alive. The deeper I went, the quieter things became. The air changed—cooler, cleaner, tinged with the scent of damp earth, pine needles, and something wild. Birds called overhead, flitting between branches, and somewhere in the underbrush, something small and furred rustled out of sight.
I didn't like going out here alone. No one really did. The silence was the wrong kind. Not empty—watchful. Like the forest knew you were trespassing and was waiting to see if you'd trip.
Eventually, tucked half-hidden behind a slope and a knot of thorns, I saw the hut.
People called the woman who lived there the village "Witch," half-joking, half-afraid. Not because she ever did anything especially spooky—but because she was good at things she wasn't supposed to be good at. Alchemy, mostly. Strange brews that made fevers vanish, poultices that healed wounds faster than they should. No one else knew how to make them, and no one really tried to learn.
And after that time—when half the village had burned but her hut hadn't taken a scratch—people started whispering. Not accusations, exactly. Just unease with a dash of envy.
I'd only ever been here once before. Her hut still looked the same: slanted roof draped in moss, a crooked chimney puffing out some strange-smelling smoke, wind chimes made of bone and glass clinking just faintly in the breeze. The path was lined with herbs in pots I didn't recognize, and the faintest scent of crushed mint and vinegar hung in the air.
I paused at the edge of her gate, not quite ready to knock. Even from here, the place felt... other. Like the forest had grown around it, not the other way around. It wasn't evil, exactly. Just old. And maybe a little too alive.
But something felt… wrong.
It was subtle at first. A tightness in the air. A twinge in the back of my throat. Then the scent hit me—acrid, sharp, and completely out of place. Smoke, not the gentle kind from a hearth, but the heavy, oily stink of something burning too fast and too wrong. I froze. My ears strained. And then I heard it.
Shouting. Distant, but rising.
Panic prickled along my spine. I turned on instinct, feet already moving before my thoughts could catch up. The closer I got to the village, the thicker the smoke became, turning the air heavy and bitter, coating my tongue like ash. My heart pounded. The trees parted—and I stopped dead.
Black smoke curled into the sky, thick and roiling. The village was burning.
A cold knot twisted inside me. I'd fled once before when everything I loved had gone up in flames. Back then, I had nowhere else to go but another village that barely wanted me. I swore then I wouldn't let it happen again.
Even if they never really accepted me, even if I wasn't sure I belonged—this was still home. The cracked walls and broken fences, the grudges and whispers, the careless smiles and sharp tongues—they were mine. The people, even the ones who spat when they thought I wasn't looking, were my village.
I ran, feet pounding the dirt path, lungs aching. Screams echoed through the air. Chaos unfolded like a nightmare I hadn't been invited to. Villagers ran in all directions, dragging children, clutching belongings, or simply fleeing with empty hands. Somewhere, metal clashed against metal, sharp and violent.
And then I saw them.
Ogres. And humans. Fighting together.
That wasn't right. Ogres didn't work with humans. They barely tolerated each other, usually only long enough to trade punches. But there they were—charging through the village shoulder to shoulder.
The humans wore dark cloaks with hoods pulled low, their lower faces hidden behind masks, giving them a sinister, unnatural edge—not like any bandits the village had seen before. The ogres towered over everything, almost as tall as a small house, their green skin stretched over massive muscles, and ragged brown cloths hanging loosely around their waists. Together, they swung weapons and tore through buildings and people like they were nothing but kindling.
I couldn't move. My breath came in ragged gasps as I tried to process the impossible.
Then I saw him.
A villager—half-buried beneath the broken beams of his collapsed home. I knew him. He wasn't a good man. He'd once thrown a rock at me for spilling water near his door. He spat when I passed, cursed when I didn't move fast enough.
But he was alive. And pinned. And screaming.
I should've walked away.
Instead, I grabbed a stick. It was barely more than a branch, dry and splintered, useless as a weapon. But it was something, and at that moment, something felt like more than nothing.
I ran at the ogre towering over him—not to fight, but to distract.
Brave? Maybe. Stupid? Absolutely. But standing there and watching wasn't an option—not when someone was about to die and I was the only one stupid enough to try buying time.
The ogre turned with the lazy annoyance of someone being asked to do chores. And then, with one massive swing, it sent me flying. I crashed into the side of a house, pain blooming through my ribs like fire. My vision blurred, but I pushed myself up, gasping. The villager? He was already crawling away, eyes wide with panic, leaving me behind without so much as a backward glance.
Coward.
The ogre lumbered toward me, its club dragging behind like a piece of bad news. I rolled aside as it brought the weapon down, the ground quaking with the impact. Every part of me screamed, but I staggered to my feet, heart racing.
Then, before I could react, a massive fist swung out—fast and cruel—and the last thing I saw was the rough, shadowed knuckles coming straight for my face.
Then the world went black.