The market hummed with morning activity. Ten-year-old Faline adjusted the basket of bread on her arm, feeling the warmth of her early baking radiating through the woven handle. Beside her, Ravael carried a collection of carefully gathered roots and late-summer berries.

“We need wood for the winter,” Faline murmured, more to herself than to Ravael. The woodcutters’ section loomed ahead, stacks of split timber promising warmth against the coming cold.

Alain stood among the wood piles, sunlight catching the muscles of his arms. Faline had seen him before—everyone knew the woodcutters’ children—but today, he seemed different. Older. More confident. Manly. Her heart fluttered briefly before settling down.

She turned to Ravael. “Do you need any wood?” The girl’s face looked pale except for the red in her cheeks. Wide-eyed, she glanced at Faline and shook her head no.

That was odd. Faline turned to Alain. “Bread for wood?” she asked, stepping forward. Her practical nature pushed past any awkwardness she might feel.

Ravael continued to hang back, uncharacteristically quiet. Faline ignored the silence, focusing instead on the transaction.

Alain’s smile was quick and bright. When he reached for the bread, his fingers brushed hers. Faline felt a slight flush—more surprise than attraction. “These look delicious,” he said.

“I made these myself,” she replied, watching him examine the bread.

“Even better,” he said with a wink and a smile. The conversation flowed easily. Alain asked about her family and winter preparations. His jokes were clever, his laugh infectious.

Faline responded, enjoying the easygoing banter. She glanced at Ravael, but something in her friend’s expression seemed off—a tension Faline couldn’t quite place.

After the trade was completed and bread was exchanged for wood, Faline felt satisfied. It was another successful market day, another step toward preparing for winter. But when she turned to Ravael, a sour expression greeted her.

“What’s the matter?” Faline asked.

“He’s too old for you,” Ravael hissed.

Faline was stunned. What did that have to do with anything? “What?”

“Don’t look surprised,” the girl spit back. Turning away with clenched fists, Ravael stomped off toward another group of girls.

Shaking her head, Faline rolled her eyes. The girl was being dramatic for no reason. She sighed and turned for home. Plenty of work waiting for her there. As she turned toward the homestead, her footfalls slowly vanished into the village’s noise, replaced by whispers, soft but pointed. “Watch out for that one; she is an enchantress—a Strega.”