Martin brought me a simple woolen dress in an earthy color and a dark green scarf. "Put this on. It covers your hair somewhat, and if you keep your head down, it draws eyes away from yours." His voice was gentle, but a warning glinted in his eyes. "The people of Saint-Michel are good, but they are timid. Anything unusual… is suspicious. Especially these days, when Lord Karin's agents are visiting the villages more often."
I thanked him and put on the dress. The fabric was coarse and smelled of earth and smoke, but it hid me in this new identity. I tied the scarf to cover my forehead and the sides of my face. Martin gave a nod of approval. "Now you look like the village girls. Just… try not to talk too much. Your accent is a bit strange."
My accent? I hadn't thought of that before. When I spoke, the words came out instinctively with a rhythm foreign to this village, as if I was recalling a language I hadn't used in a long time.
The village market was set up in the small, dusty square in front of the stone church. The noise of the crowd, the cries of vendors, the smell of fresh fish, spices, warm bread, and animals all mingled together. Women with wicker baskets, men with wooden carts, and children running between legs created a lively but ordinary scene. This didn't seem like a place where dark forces were awakening. But when I looked closer, I saw the fear woven into this normalcy. Men with grim faces whispered in small groups, casting anxious glances toward the road leading to the Lord's castle. Women shopped hurriedly and laughed less.
I, too, kept my head down and followed Martin, a small wicker basket in my hand. My gaze was fixed on the ground, but I observed everything from the corner of my eye. I couldn't remember seeing such a market before, but my body's movements, the way I avoided the crowd, even the way I examined the quality of the apples, all spoke of a muscle memory inherited from a past life. A life named Lorina, hidden behind a thick veil of forgetfulness.
Martin was haggling over the price of some fabric when a familiar, yet unplaceable, voice reached me from behind. A happy, crystalline laugh, like the sound of clinking crystal.
"...and then old Jean's cow got so scared it jumped off the wooden bridge into the river! Can you believe it?"
Instinctively, I raised my head. In the shade of one of the stalls, a girl about my age, with hair the color of wheat gold escaping from under a simple cloth cap, was telling a story to a few children. Her eyes were bright green and full of mischief, and a flush of laughter bloomed on her freckled cheeks. When her gaze fell on me, she paused for a moment. Not with fear or curiosity, but with a kind of pure astonishment. As if she was seeing a blurred veil that had suddenly been pulled aside.
The blonde girl said goodbye to the children and walked straight toward me. Martin watched us anxiously.
"Hello! You're new here, aren't you?" Her voice was warm and direct. "I'm Farya. My father is the village blacksmith."
Farya. This name was like a key rattling a rusty lock in my mind. A sweet, sharp pain throbbed in my temples. My vision darkened for a moment, and I saw a brief scene: those same green eyes, full of tears yet determined, her small hands gripping my bloodied ones, and a whisper lost amidst the sound of flames: "Promise you'll come back, Lor..." And then, a cut.
I shook my head to free myself from the flashback. I must not give myself away. No one must know.
"Asteria,"I said cautiously, roughening my voice a little. "Yes, I just arrived."
Farya tilted her head, still with that curious look. "Strange... I feel like I've seen you somewhere before. But I'm sure I haven't. I wouldn't forget someone with those unusual eyes of yours." Then she suddenly laughed. "Sorry, I'm being rude. People say I'm too blunt. Want to help me buy a basket of apples from old man Andre? His hands shake, he always messes up his calculations."
Martin reluctantly agreed. Farya took me from him and led me toward the stall of a frail old man sitting behind a pile of red and yellow apples. While Farya haggled with the old man with jokes and laughter, getting a basket of the best apples at a low price, I stood silently. Her presence was both calming and unsettling. I knew deeply that she was my friend—or had been—but any reference to the past would put us in danger.
On the way back to Martin, Farya suddenly grew quieter. Without looking at me, she murmured, "You know, some people are looking for 'special' folks around here. Lord Karin's agents. They say they want them for 'service to the realm.' But my father says those who go with them never come back." Then she gave me a deep look. "Your scarf is pretty. It's wise to wear it."
At that moment, a commotion rose from the market entrance. The hubbub suddenly ceased, replaced by a heavy silence. Three riders, in black leather armor bearing the emblem of a snarling wolf with bared teeth—the sigil of Lord Karin—entered the square with an air of indifference. Their leader was a middle-aged man with a gaunt face and a gaze as sharp as a hawk's. His eyes swept over the people, dismissive yet assessing everything.
My heart pounded violently. A thread of memory, of ruthless gazes the color of dark gold, stirred in my mind. This man wasn't Lord Karin, but he carried the stench of his danger and cruelty.
He broke the market's silence: "By the order of our Lord, any citizen possessing unusual abilities—healing sickness, foreseeing the future, mastery over the elements—must present themselves at the castle. These individuals will be under the Lord's special protection." He paused, then added: "Hiding such individuals is considered treason against the realm and will be severely punished."
His eyes swept—perhaps not so randomly—toward us. To Martin, who had gone pale, to Farya, whose lips were pressed tightly together, and then to me. His gaze lingered for a moment on my green scarf. A shadow of doubt seemed to cross his face.
Farya suddenly stepped in front of me, placing her shorter frame between me and the agent's gaze. In a loud, childish voice, she said, "Miss Martin! Your mother said to come home quickly, our bread is burning!"
Martin reacted swiftly. "Yes, yes, excuse us, sir! We must go!" And he firmly took my arm.
The wolf-sigiled agent gave an indifferent nod and continued on his way. The three of us hurried out of the market, while behind us, worried whispers began anew.
On the way back to the cottage, in the privacy of the narrow alleys, Farya turned to me. Her green eyes held a serious, determined expression that contrasted with her cheerful appearance. "I don't know who you are, Asteria. And I don't want to know. But I'll tell you something: my father says the darkness is really coming. Not the kind from legends, but the kind from people who've sold their hearts to it. Lord Karin is summoning something he can't control." She placed her small, rough hand—a hand marked by fire and metal—on mine. "If you... if you are special, you need to learn to control it. Before they find you, or before it finds you."
Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned and disappeared down the path toward the smithy.
Martin brought me back to the cottage. His face was full of worry. "Farya is a good girl, but she takes too many risks. That agent saw you. He might ask questions."
In the silence of the cottage, broken only by the buzz of mosquitoes, I thought about Farya's words. The healing power—or whatever it was—was just a sign. Part of something greater. Lord Karin was looking for us, for people like me. But why? To use us? Or to destroy us before we became a threat to his plans?
And that "darkness" Farya spoke of... Mikan. Another name stirred in my memory. An entity or power the Lord wanted to summon. Was I somehow connected to that darkness? Was my healing power the other side of a coin he wanted to toss?
That night, on the cottage's hard bed, I had a restless dream. I dreamed of a tide of shadows creeping at the foot of stone castle walls, and a whispering voice calling my name: not Asteria, but Lorina. And in the distance, a golden light—the color of Farya's hair—shone like a lone, defiant star against the growing dark.
I was still weak. I still knew nothing. But I had understood two things: I must keep the power within me hidden, yet understand its secret. And I must watch over Farya, even if she reminded me of something that made my heart ache. Perhaps she was a key—not to my past, but to preventing a disaster waiting in the future. And all this had to be done in shadow and with caution, while my real name, Lorina, lay buried in silence and oblivion.