The village of Oakhaven was a place where time seemed to settle like dust on an old shelf. To Mary, it was the only world that mattered. She was a girl of sixteen years, raised in the golden light of her parents' adoration. Because her father, Thomas, was the Village Chief, Mary had grown up with a sense of security that few others knew. She walked the dirt paths with her chin held high, not out of arrogance, but because she felt truly loved. In her mind, she was a princess, and the small, thatched-roof hut they called home was her palace.
But Oakhaven was a beautiful fruit with a rotten core. Underneath the neighborly smiles and the shared harvests lay an ancient, jagged law—a tradition of blood that had persisted for centuries. It was a "backwater" belief, whispered by the elders over fermented grain: A man who dies in his prime does not die by nature. He is harvested. The village believed that if a man's light went out too soon, his wife was the one who had blown the candle. They called these women "Soul-Eaters" or "Witches." A widow was not a woman to be comforted; she was a monster to be purged.
That night began with a deceptive peace. The air outside was crisp with the scent of coming rain, and inside, the hearth crackled with a rhythmic, comforting snap. Mary sat on a woven rug, stitching a tear in her favorite shawl. Her mother, Elena, was humming a low, wordless tune while she stirred a pot of root stew. Thomas sat in his heavy wooden chair, the torchlight dancing in his graying beard as he looked over the village accounts.
"You work too hard, Thomas," Elena said, her voice like honey. She stepped away from the fire to rest a hand on his shoulder. "The village won't blow away if you stop to eat."
Thomas laughed, a deep sound that usually made Mary feel like nothing in the world could ever go wrong. "A Chief's work is never—"
The sentence ended in a wet, jagged gasp.
Mary looked up. Her father's face, usually tan and healthy, had turned a sickly shade of grey. His eyes were wide, fixed on a point in the air that Mary couldn't see. Then came the cough. It wasn't a normal cough; it sounded like stones grinding together in a bag of water.
"Thomas?" Elena's voice lost its sweetness, replaced by a sharp, jagged edge of fear.
He coughed again, more violent this time. Mary watched in paralyzed horror as a spray of dark, crimson blood erupted from his mouth, staining the white accounts on his desk. He lunged forward, clutching his chest, his fingers clawing at the wood until he tumbled from the chair. He hit the floor with a heavy thud that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house.
"Father!" Mary shrieked, her sewing falling into the embers of the fire, forgotten.
Elena was on the floor in an instant, pulling his head into her lap. "Thomas! Breathe! Look at me!" But his eyes were already rolling back, turning into twin moons of white. One last, rattling breath escaped his lips, and then—silence. The only sound was the crackle of the stew boiling over the hearth.
Mary couldn't move. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. This isn't happening, she thought. The King cannot die. The palace cannot fall.
But the silence didn't last. Outside, the quiet night was replaced by the low, rhythmic thrum of footsteps—hundreds of them. It sounded like a heartbeat coming from the earth itself.
CRASH.
The front door, heavy oak that Thomas had carved himself, splintered and flew inward. A gust of cold wind followed, bringing with it the smell of wet earth and burning pitch.
Mary gasped as a sea of faces flooded their home. It was nearly one in the morning; the village should have been a tomb of sleep. Yet here they were—the baker, the blacksmith, the women who sold herbs in the square. They carried torches and heavy staves of wood. Their eyes weren't filled with grief for their fallen Chief; they were burning with a terrifying, righteous hunger.
"There!" shouted Mr. Jata, the man who had given Mary free bread only two days ago. He pointed a shaking finger at Elena, who was still cradling Thomas's cold body. "Look at the blood! The sacrifice is complete!"
"No!" Mary stood up, her legs trembling. "He's sick! Someone help him! Please, he's not breathing!"
"Step away, child!" a woman hissed. It was Sarah, a neighbor whom Elena had nursed through a fever just last month. Sarah's face was twisted into a mask of demonic hatred. "Your mother has been drinking his life for years. We saw the way he grew tired. We saw the way she looked at him! She is a leach! A witch!"
"She is my mother!" Mary screamed, throwing herself in front of Elena. "She loved him! How can you say this? Sarah, she gave you the last of our medicine! Mr. Jata, she helped your wife when the babe wouldn't come!"
The crowd didn't care. The tradition was older than gratitude. It was a fever that had lived in their blood for generations, waiting for a spark.
"The Chief is dead because of her!" a man roared from the back. "The crops are failing because of her! Burn the witch!"
The mob surged forward. Mary tried to push them back, her small hands useless against the tide of angry men. A woman reached out—the same woman Elena had shared tea with only yesterday—and struck Mary across the face.
Slap!
The world tilted. Mary hit the floor, the taste of copper filling her mouth. Her head throbbed, and for a second, the room went black. When her vision cleared, she saw the men raising their heavy wooden sticks. They weren't just going to arrest her mother; they were going to erase her. And they were smiling—a sick, twisted joy written on their faces as they prepared to commit murder in the name of "tradition."
"Please!" Mary sobbed, reaching out. "Please, stop!"
The first stick swung down, but it didn't hit Mary. Her mother had moved with the speed of a cornered animal, throwing herself over Mary's body. Elena tucked her head down, making herself a shield.
Thwack. Thud. Thwack.
The sound of wood hitting flesh was sickening. Each blow made Mary's mother grunt, her grip tightening around Mary as she took the punishment meant for her daughter. The villagers cheered, their torches waving wildly, casting long, monstrous shadows against the walls of the home.
"Kill them both!" someone yelled. "The seed of a witch is a witch!"
A man raised a heavy stone, his muscles tensing as he aimed for Elena's head. Mary closed her eyes, screaming into her mother's chest, waiting for the end.
"STOP!!"
The word wasn't just a shout; it was a command that seemed to vibrate the air.
The mob froze. The stone stayed in the air. The sticks lowered. A silence so thick it felt like physical weight descended on the room. Every eye turned toward the shattered doorway, where a figure stood framed against the moonlight.