That very night, the witch Elise left the hut with the baby sleeping soundly in her arms.
There was no chaos in her departure. No frantic scrambling or half-packed belongings. Elise moved with the quiet certainty of someone who had already made peace with her choice. The fire was extinguished, the tools neatly returned to their places, the door shut firmly behind her.
She paused only once, at the edge of the clearing.
The moon hung low in the sky, pale and watchful. Elise adjusted the blanket around the infant and looked down at the tiny face nestled against her chest. So small. So unaware. So dangerously precious.
"They would have killed you," Elise murmured softly. "Your own mother would have seen to it."
The baby stirred but did not wake.
Elise turned away from the hut without regret.
By dawn, the forest would erase her footprints.
And by sunrise, the child meant to die would be gone from the world.
---
Back at the palace, bells rang in triumphant celebration.
Golden banners fluttered from ivory towers. The streets overflowed with music and laughter as nobles raised goblets and servants hurried through marble corridors bearing gifts wrapped in silk and gold.
"A princess is born!" the heralds cried.
"Long live the crown!"
Inside the queen's chambers, the air smelled of incense and fresh linen. Courtiers whispered praise as they bowed and withdrew, careful not to linger too long in the presence of their ruler.
The queen lay against velvet pillows, her face pale but composed. A cradle stood beside her bed, draped in royal blue.
Inside it lay a child.
Not her child.
She did not look at the baby.
Her gaze remained fixed on the window, where moonlight filtered through sheer curtains. Applause echoed faintly from beyond the doors, yet her expression did not soften.
"She is gone?" the queen asked quietly.
A shadow stirred near the wall.
"Yes, Your Majesty," came the reply. "The exchange was completed as ordered."
The queen closed her eyes.
Good.
The real child 'that' child had never been meant to live.
From the moment the queen carried her in her womb, something had felt wrong. Not sickness, not weakness, something deeper. Something that whispered at her in the quiet hours of the night and left her breathless with unease. The queen had known then that she should never have visited that place, never have allowed herself to be drawn into its promises.
But the damage had already been done.
Now, with the child gone, relief washed over her like a cleansing tide. The weight that had pressed against her chest for months finally lifted. No one would ever know. No one would ever question.
After all, the child she now claimed was still the king's—taken from a nameless woman who had dared to share his bed. A nobody. Easily erased. Easily forgotten.
And so the queen made the child hers.
Whatever she was destined to become, the queen had decided it would not be allowed.
"She will not return," the queen said, her voice firm. "Ensure it."
"There was… interference," the shadow hesitated. "The witch—Elise."
At that, the queen's lips curved slightly.
"Elise," she repeated. "Always sentimental. Always defiant. Here I was thinking she was gonna make a portion with the child."
A pause.
"She took the child."
The queen opened her eyes at last.
Then she smiled.
"Let her," she said softly. "A witch raising a cursed infant in obscurity is far kinder than the death I intended."
Her hand tightened against the sheets.
"And far less dangerous than allowing the child to grow here."
Outside, the kingdom rejoiced—ignorant, joyful, deceived.
The queen did not join them.
---
Years later, the market awoke with the sun.
Wooden stalls lined the square, bursting with fresh produce and the noise of haggling voices. The scent of earth, fruit, and bread hung thick in the air.
Behind a modest stall sat a girl with a book open in her hands.
Her brows were drawn together in concentration as she squinted at the page, lips moving faintly as if wrestling the words into meaning. Her eyes were dark, unnaturally so, some might say. Long black hair escaped the loose bun tied at the back of her head, framing her face in soft disorder.
Her robes were worn thin, patched at the elbows and hem, but they were clean.
She looked poor.
She did not look weak.
"Excuse me. Young lady."
The girl startled and rose at once, slipping the book aside and lifting her head with a bright, practiced smile.
"Yes?" she said. "How can I help you?"
A woman stood before the stall, draped in silk so fine it caught the morning light. Her posture was refined, her gaze sharp and deliberate.
"How much for the tomatoes?" the woman asked.
"A silver coin each," the girl replied smoothly, lifting a bunch. "Fresh and firm. Imported from West Eldoria, best quality you'll find."
The woman did not take them.
Instead, she studied the girl's face.
'Why would someone like her be here?' the girl wondered.
"I'll take everything," the woman said finally, lowering her voice, "if you do me a favor."
The girl did not respond.
"I hear your aunt," the woman continued, "is a physician. Some say a witch."
"My aunt Elise is many things," the girl said coolly. "None of which include me."
She sat back down and reached for her book.
The woman's composure cracked.
"Please," she whispered. "Two gold coins."
The girl froze.
Gold meant trouble.
Trouble meant excitement.
She pretended to read, her pulse racing.
"Ten," the woman blurted desperately.
The girl stood so abruptly the book slipped from her hands.
"Fine," she said, her polite smile twisting into a grin. "But four coins now."
The woman pressed the coins into her palm without hesitation.
The girl pocketed them.
"Alright," she said cheerfully. "Lead the way. And congratulations, you own this stall for now."
If her aunt ever found out, Samara knew the consequences would be severe.
She smiled anyway.
---
Samara had been only two years old when Aunt Elise took her to the cave.
The memory clung to her like a shadow, fragmented but vivid.
The cave lay hidden deep within the hills, its entrance concealed by jagged stone and tangled roots. The air inside was cold, heavy, and damp. The darkness pressed close, as though listening.
"Aunty," Samara's small voice trembled, "what are we doing here?"
Elise walked ahead, holding a single candle. Its flame flickered against the stone walls.
"To keep you alive," Elise said.
Then, softer, "To change your eyes and hair."
Samara sniffled.
"Are they ugly?"
Elise stopped immediately.
She knelt before Samara and cupped her face gently.
"No," she said firmly. "They are dangerous."
Samara blinked, confused.
"There are people who would kill you for what you were born with," Elise continued. "Not because you did anything wrong—but because of what you *might* become."
Samara's lip trembled.
"Do you want them to find you?" Elise asked.
Samara shook her head.
"Good," Elise said, rising and taking her hand. "Then we go deeper."
The cave swallowed them whole.
She was jolted from her memory when the lady's voice called her name, sharp and insistent. The bustling sounds of the market rushed back,the shouts, the clatter of wooden stalls, the earthy scent of fresh produce,but beneath it all, Samara felt something else.
Her heart skipped a beat. Every nerve in her body prickled as if warning her of an unseen presence, deliberate and near. She didn't yet understand it, but she knew instinctively: something important was close.
A grin slowly curved her lips, wide and knowing. She tilted her head to the side, excitement coiling through her chest.
"I can feel it," she whispered, almost to herself, the thrill of anticipation coursing through her veins.