The Child of Fire and Shadow
In the beginning, she was born under a sky painted with the bleeding hues of dawn. The midwives whispered that she carried both flame and shadow in her heart—a child not of ordinary measure. Her mother, a quiet woman who spoke more to the wind than to people, felt an unspoken awe as she held the small, trembling bundle. Her eyes were closed, but the corners of her mouth quivered with something like recognition, as if she remembered the weight of a thousand lives in a single heartbeat. From the first days, it was clear the child was different. She did not cry as other infants did; instead, she hummed, a low vibration that seemed to echo through the walls of the room, settling into the bones of anyone who listened. In her gaze, there was an ancient sorrow, an awareness far beyond her months. By night, she would stare at the flickering flames of the hearth and seem to converse with the shadows dancing along the walls. The villagers whispered that she was strange. She was the girl who n...