The first time something truly broke was when they set her hair on fire.
It happened just outside the chapel. Lucia had come to deliver herbs to the healer—mandrake root and foxglove wrapped in linen. The healer, old Jora, never looked her in the eye. He barely acknowledged her at all.
The boys, three of them this time, cornered her behind the stone wall. One had a flint spark lighter. Another carried lamp oil.
"She's not human," one whispered.
"Burn the witch," another muttered, giggling.
They soaked her hair.
Lucia did not flinch.
They struck the flint.
The flame caught. It crackled, danced.
And then—everything stopped.
---
The flame didn't spread.
It froze mid-air, hovering like a golden serpent above her head, flickering but still.
The boys gasped, stepping back in horror.
Lucia raised her hand—not in defense, but in command.
The fire twisted, curved in the air like it was waiting.
And then it turned.
Toward them.
---
The first boy screamed as the flame lunged. It did not touch his flesh, yet his skin blistered as if it had. He fell, sobbing, smoke curling from his mouth. The others ran, one tripping and scraping his face in the snow.
Lucia stood in the center of it all, unmoving.
When the flame faded, her hair was untouched. Not even singed.
She blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream.
From the rooftop, the crow cawed once—sharp and triumphant.
---
Mira knew something had changed the moment Lucia stepped inside that night.
She saw it in her daughter's eyes: they glowed, faintly, like embers beneath ash.
"You're… changing," she whispered, voice trembling. "Lucia, what are you becoming?"
Lucia tilted her head, watching her mother with a strange softness.
She reached out and touched Mira's hand.
It was warm.
Too warm.
Like something ancient had been stirred beneath her skin.
---
That night, Lucia sat awake as Mira slept, the crow perched beside her on the sill. She looked at the moon—no longer white, but tinged faintly red.
In the reflection of the windowpane, she saw not just herself, but another face behind her:
A woman cloaked in mist.
Mouth covered in stitches.
Eyes the same pale silver as Lucia's.
The reflection smiled.
Lucia did not smile back.
But for the first time, she was not afraid.