Doubt

The juniper smoke curled into playful spirals as Fleda waved her bread crust like a tiny sword, sugary crumbs catching in her chestnut braids. At seventeen, her giggles still held the same hiccuping pitch I knew would deepen with her next growth spurt. Dad's chuckle rumbled beside me—a sound as warm and constant as our cottage's hearthstone.

"—and then," Fleda announced, kicking her legs so vigorously her leather shoes flew off, "Miss Gisela's rooster tried to steal my flower crown! So, I told it—"

"Speak slowly, dear," Mom interjected without looking up from darning my torn tunic. Her needles flashed, mending the elbow I'd ripped during yesterday's ill-advised tree leap. At twenty-one, I was supposedly the "mature" one. Tell that to the sap still crusting my hair.

The supermond dominated the sky, swollen to thrice its normal size—a glowing marble some celestial child might flick across the stars. Dad's astronomy lessons floated back. For elves, a supermoon wasn't just a spectacle; it was a milestone. A first lost tooth, a braid ceremony, or in my case tonight—marking twenty-one years since Dad found me wailing beneath a lightning-struck oak.

"Your turn, grump-a-lump!" Fleda's sticky fingers poked my cheek. "Make the dumb wish already!"

"Ermenfleda Ercangaud," Mom warned, though her lips twitched. "Respect the—"

"But she's taking forever!" My sister flopped onto her back, arms splayed like a starfish. "I already wished for ten thousand cows and a castle made of cheese!"

Dad's calloused hand ruffled my silver-white hair. "No rush, moonbeam. Some wishes..." His thumb brushed the locket at my throat, its strange runes hidden beneath my collar. "...need time to simmer."

The fire popped. I was twelve again, first understanding this necklace wasn't like Fleda's carved acorn charms. "You came with it," Dad had said, his voice tight with a fear I wouldn't recognize until years later.

"Adele's doing the creepy eye thing again!" Fleda stage-whispered.

"Am not!" I stuck out my tongue. Childish? Sure. But when your sister's idea of subtlety involves tadpoles in your boots, maturity crumbles fast.

An owl cried out, low and mournful beyond the firelight. Fleda stilled, her mischief melting away. I grabbed her ankle, shaking it gently. "Race you to the well?"

Her responding grin outshone the moon. "Loser licks the honey pot clean!"

We exploded into motion, bare feet slapping dirt still warm from the sun. Behind us, Mom's sigh carried fond exasperation. "Mind the nettle patch!"

***

Haaahm...

The familiar creak of floorboards greeted me as I stretched, joints popping like roasted hazelnuts. Morning light filtered through moth-nibbled windows, painting dust motes gold. My eyes felt glued shut—curse those late-night Law functions—and I stumbled toward the wash basin out back.

Cold well water shocked me fully awake. My reflection in the dented tin mirror was a mess: silver braids fraying like old rope, sleep creases marring my cheeks. Twenty-one, and I still looked like a kid who'd lost a fight with a thornbush.

"Mom?" My voice echoed through the too-quiet kitchen. No clang of pots, no scent of rye porridge. Just yesterday's bread hardening on the cutting board, a single raven feather beside it like a cryptic note.

I checked the root cellar, then the chicken coop. "Dad? Fleda?" My calls grew shriller as I circled the empty sheep pen. No sister dangling from the apple tree. No Dad humming off-key. Just dew-soaked grass and the distant caw of crows.

It’s a surprise, I told myself, fingers worrying the cold silver locket. A weird grown-up game.

Back inside, I traced the grooves Dad's boots had worn into the threshold. The hearth was cold. Fleda's favorite doll sat abandoned by the firepit. My stomach growled, betrayal mingling with hunger.

"Fine then," I announced to the empty rafters. "More porridge for me."

The lie tasted bitter. I settled at Dad's workbench with a withered carrot, his leather-bound grimoire still open to yesterday's lesson: Intermediate Mana Allocation: Avoiding Combustive Feedback.

By noon, I'd redrawn the Law circle eight times. Eight failures. The charcoal smudged my fingertips black while the crows' laughter outside grew louder, mocking me.

The last Law circle dissolved from my palm as I slumped against the well, chest heaving. Evening sunlight painted the yard in sickly orange hues. My throat burned. I stumbled toward the water bucket, legs wobbling like a newborn fawn's.

Crash!

The front door slammed with such force that chickens scattered into the beanstalks. I froze, dipper halfway to my lips. Another crash shook the house—the sound of Dad's iron-booted stomps rattling Mom's herb jars.

"D-dad...?" The word came out as a squeak.

He stormed past without a glance. Even through the steam rising from my tunic, I saw it. His face wasn't right. It was the mottled purple-red of overripe plums, veins bulging at his temples. His eyes...

Oh, stars, his eyes.

They locked onto mine—pupils shrunk to pinpricks, whites webbed with red. It was the look he gave the foxes that stalked our sheep, but sharper. Hungrier.

"MOVE!"

The roar sent me scrambling backward, feet slipping on wet stone. My hip hit the trough as he vanished into his bedroom. The door slammed again.

Creeeak.

The back gate's whine snapped me to attention. Mom's straw hat lay abandoned by the fields. Her favorite apron—the one Fleda embroidered with sunflowers—was trampled in the mud.

"M-Mom...?"

A scream tore through the twilight. High. Piercing. Wrong-wrong-WRONG.

Not a play-shriek. Not a laugh. This was animal. Raw. The sound of our old ewe when the wolves got into the pen.

I ran.

Thorns ripped at my ankles as I crashed through the blackberry thicket. The locket bounced against my collarbone, colder than winter.

"FILTH!"

Dad's roar. Then the thwack—wood on flesh. A sound I knew from threshing day, but wetter. Closer.

Mom knelt in the barley stubble, arms curled around her middle. Her braids were mud-clumped ropes, the yellow ribbons now scarlet. Dad's staff rose again.

Crack.

Her whimper was a blade in my gut. Fleda huddled against the scarecrow, her small frame trembling, face buried in her hands. Her choked hiccups were the only sound in the terrifying quiet.

"Stop..." The word was a feather on the air.

Dad didn't hear. The staff fell again.

"STOP!"

I launched myself at him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He reeked of sour ale and sweat. The staff grazed my ear as he twisted.

"Let GO, brat!"

"Please!" I choked on snot and tears. "Daddy, please—"

The world flipped. Sky. Dirt. Sky again. Pain exploded in my gut—white-hot and squelching. I curled around the ache, retching rye porridge onto the broken stalks. Something warm trickled from my nose. My fingers came away red.

"A-Adele...!" Mom's hand brushed my ankle. Her little finger was bent sideways, the nail torn clean off.

Behind her, Dad loomed, a shadow monster from Fleda's nightmares. "Worthless whelp," he snarled. His boot connected with my ribs. "Just like your whore moth—"

Crack.

The last thing I saw before darkness swallowed me whole was Dad's face—his rage melting into raw terror as something inside my chest gave a final, sickening snap.

***