The cabin trembled, each thunderclap sending tremors through the worn wooden walls. Eight-year-old Faline pressed deeper under the heavy table, her fingers digging into the earthen floor. Lightning flashed, transforming the familiar room into a landscape of sharp shadows and blinding white. She hated storms—hated how they sounded like hungry creatures scratching to get inside, desperate and wild.

Mama’s hand found Papa’s, her fingers twisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I wish we’d never left Finoral,” she whispered, her voice brittle as dried leaves.

Papa’s response was a low growl. “No more of that.”

A sudden knock pierced the storm’s rhythm. Not a gentle request, but a sharp demand that stiffened Faline’s spine.

Papa stood, crossing the room in three quick strides. Mama’s protest died in her throat as he lifted the crossbar and pulled open the door.

Sheets of rain blurred the figure standing outside—short, dark, wrapped in a sodden cloak. A gnarled hand gripped a twisted wooden staff. “Let me in,” came a voice like dry branches scraping stone.

Faline watched, half-hidden, as the stranger entered. No one in their small settlement had older relatives. Life on the fringes was brutal, burning away softness like morning mist.

The figure pushed back her hood. Wild gray hair framed a face etched with lines of hardship and defiance. Her eyes—sharp as broken glass—swept the cabin before landing on Papa.

“Do you not recognize your own mother?”

Papa’s face shifted through several emotions. Shock. Fear. Something that might have been disgust, but then quickly masked.

Mama’s reaction was immediate. “Strega,” she hissed.

Faline recoiled at the term, a word dripping with centuries of persecution. Stregas lurked in dark places, preying on children who strayed too far from home. At night, they traveled on the backs of demons, snatching children away for flesh and blood rites.

But this old woman—her grandma—was a strega? Her memories of the woman were fragmentary and vague at best. They’d met once before, years ago, when she’d been a toddler, but the image was nothing like what stood in the doorway. Then, she’d been youthful and vibrant, full of restless energy. Now the wild hair and craggy face looked more feral than ferocious. The woman’s eyes swept the room, settling on hers. Something ancient and unbroken lived in that gaze, a fire that long life had not extinguished.

The old woman looked away, face and gaze softening. “I’m not here to cause trouble,” Grandma said, her voice rough. “The Red Robes took everything. My magic. My home. My dignity.” She slumped down on a seat at the table, suddenly looking smaller. “They captured me in Finoral—kept me chained in their healing houses for twenty years. They forced me to pour my gift into their dying nobles, their wounded soldiers, their sick children. Used me like a tool until I was wrung dry, then discarded me when I was no longer useful.”

Papa pushed the door shut and barred it. He paused as if debating with himself, then turned and asked in a tone that walked the line between annoyance and curiosity, “Why are you here?”

“To live,” she said. “I have nowhere else to go.”

“Go be with your own kind,” Mama cried out.

“Enough Corrine,” Papa barked out, his voice raised and face distorted with anger. “She is my mother.”

Papa’s raised tone caught Faline by surprise. He seldom lost his temper, but when he did, everyone understood the need to back away. She glanced at Grandma but saw only defeat in her shoulders, and her hands trembled slightly.

“I’m no threat,” Grandma murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “My magic is nearly gone. I’m as harmless as a guttered candle.”

Her eyes found Faline again. Not with anger. Not with the predatory hunger Mama’s stories suggested Stregas possessed. But with a recognition that made the girl’s skin prickle—as if, in that moment, someone truly saw her for the first time. A smile ghosted across the old woman’s craggy face, there and gone like a flicker of lightning.

* * *

The next morning, Faline woke to hushed voices outside. Through the gaps in the cabin walls, she could see Mistress Svenson and old Torben standing in the muddy lane, their heads bent together.

“—heard it was her,” Mistress Svenson was saying. “The one from Finoral. The sorceress.”

“Thought the Red Robes dealt with her kind,” Torben muttered, glancing toward their cabin. “What’s she doing here?”

“Nothing good, you can be sure of that.”

Faline’s stomach twisted. She’d heard the stories—everyone had. Finoral had been purged five years ago, the Red Robes sweeping through to round up anyone with magical ability. Some said they killed them. Others whispered darker things about camps and forced labor.

When she stepped outside to fetch water, three children playing near the well scattered like startled birds. Young Cade stopped at the edge of the tree line, staring back at her with wide eyes.

“Is it true?” he called. “Is there really a witch in your house?”

Before Faline could answer, his mother’s voice cracked through the air. “Cade! Get away from there!” The woman appeared, seized her son’s arm, and dragged him toward their cabin. Over her shoulder, she shot Faline a look of pure fear mixed with disgust.

At midday, Papa returned from the fields, his face dark as a thundercloud. He slammed the door behind him and stood there, breathing hard.

“They’re saying we brought a curse on the settlement,” he said quietly. “Old Henrik won’t sell us grain. The Blacksmith turned me away when I tried to get the plow blade sharpened.”

Mama’s face went white. “What did you expect? You brought her here.”

“She’s my mother!”

“She’s a user of dark arts! Do you know what they’re saying? That she made pacts with demons, that she fed on the sick instead of healing them—”

“Those are lies spread by the Red Robes to justify what they did,” Papa said, but his voice lacked conviction.

From her corner, Grandma spoke, her voice cutting through their argument like a blade. “Let them talk. Fear is all the weak have.” Her eyes found Faline’s. “Fear and ignorance.”

That night, Faline lay awake, listening to her parents’ urgent whispers. Through the thin wall, she heard Grandma’s ragged breathing, punctuated occasionally by a wet cough that sounded like it was tearing her apart from the inside.

“She won’t last long,” Mama was saying. “Look at her. Whatever they did, it used her up.”

“Good,” Papa said, and the coldness in his voice made Faline shiver. “Maybe then we can have our lives back.” But through the darkness, Faline felt those sharp eyes watching her, and she wondered if Grandma had heard too. Wondered what the old woman was thinking as she lay there, dying by inches, with nowhere to go and no one to care.