Chapter 1: I Hate Chickens

Chickens hated me, and the feeling was mutual. But compared to everything else in this damn village, they were the least of my problems.

That’s how most of my mornings started: with pecking and passive aggression. The pecking came from the chickens. The passive aggression, well... that was mine.

“You kick that bird again, Rissa, and I’ll tell your mum,” Margo called from the other side of the coop.

I didn’t kick it. Not really. It just got in my way, and I nudged it. Hard.

“They started it,” I said, brushing straw from my skirt. “Have you seen the way they look at me? Beady little monsters.”

Margo rolled her eyes. “You’re so weird.”

She wasn’t wrong. I was weird.

And not in the fun, quirky way. I was the kind of weird that made old women cross themselves and mutter about the ‘marks of the gods.’ The kind of weird that meant I could guess what someone was going to say before they opened their mouth, or sense when someone was lying — not by magic, just by instinct. At least... that’s what I used to think.

At seven years old, I already knew how to hustle a man twice my size out of his coin at dice, and how to talk myself out of a whipping by crying just hard enough to get sympathy but not hard enough to make snot run. It wasn’t normal. I knew that. But I played dumb. People liked dumb. Dumb didn’t scare them.

Smart did.

It was market day, which meant our village — a cozy collection of shacks pretending to be houses — actually had some life in it. Traders came through every third week, their wagons creaking with cloth, spices, and sometimes even magical trinkets from the capital.

“I’ll go to the well,” I said, taking the bucket from the wall. “Don’t wait up.”

“I’ll come too,” said Margo.

We made our way down the worn path that cut through the village center — and straight into the crowd that had gathered around the traders’ wagons.

They’d set up colorful tents and makeshift tables, filled with strange fabrics, sweet-smelling soaps, carved wooden animals, and glinting bits of jewelry and trinkets.

It was more life than our village usually saw in a month.

Margo gasped and darted toward a small tray of hairpins — polished silver, shaped like leaves and flowers. I followed behind her, already knowing the look in her eyes.

“I love that one,” she whispered, pointing to a pin shaped like a lily with a green gem in the center.

“Too expensive,” I said without looking at the price. “Especially for us.”

Margo sighed, staring wistfully. “It’s so pretty.”

I watched her for a moment, then looked around.

The merchant — a sweaty man with no neck and a hawk-like nose — was haggling with a woman over some bolts of dyed cloth. His attention was fully locked on the sale.

I looked back at the tray.

Three pins. One lily.

One good opportunity.

“Keep looking,” I murmured.

“What?”

“Act natural. I’ve got this.”

“Rissa—”

But I was already moving.

I bent down by the table like I was tying my boot, then 'accidentally' knocked a small wooden cup off the edge with my elbow. It hit the dirt, rolling right under the merchant’s foot. As he bent to pick it up, I swiped the lily hairpin and slipped it up my sleeve.

Smooth. Quick. Precise.

He never saw a thing.

I motioned to Margo and we darted off down the alley behind the stalls. When we were alone, I pulled out the hairpin with a grin.

“For you.”

Her eyes widened. “Rissa... you didn’t—”

“Consider it an early birthday present.”

She looked torn. “What if he finds out? What if we get punished? My father said some kids get lashes for stealing.”

“No one saw,” I said, but just as I said it—

A hand clamped down on my shoulder.

I turned, heart hammering.

The man behind me was tall and thin, cloaked in forest green with a hood drawn low. I couldn’t see his eyes — just the lower half of his face. Pale skin. A strong jaw. And a smile that made my stomach twist.

“That’s a lovely hairpin,” he said softly. “But perhaps it would be better returned. Good girls don’t steal.”

I blinked, then smiled sweetly. “Oh! This? No, no, you’ve misunderstood. It’s mine — a gift from my aunt. We just stopped to look at the others.”

The man tilted his head slightly. “Ah. Of course. I must be confused, then. Strange that your ‘aunt’ gives you gifts still on display.”

I tried another approach.

“Well, technically I borrowed it,” I said with a pout. “And I was going to return it after showing my friend. You know how girls are.”

The man’s grin widened slightly. “Yes, I’ve heard you’re known for your honesty.”

I didn’t like this.

He was too calm. Too still.

I narrowed my eyes. “What do you want? To drag me back to the merchant? Have me whipped in the square like some common thief?”

“No,” he said gently. “I don’t believe in making a spectacle of clever children.”

I blinked. “So you do think I’m clever?”

He chuckled. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

I scowled. “And you’re not as scary as you think.”

He leaned closer. “And yet you’re scared.”

My stomach twisted. I hated being read.

“Are you a guard? A bounty hunter?”

“Neither.”

“Then who—”

“Let’s not make this harder,” he said, extending his hand. “Give me the pin. I’ll return it. You’ll leave with your dignity intact.”

“I don’t trade for nothing,” I said.

“Of course not,” he said. “That would be unlike you.”

I hesitated, fingers closing around the hairpin. “What’s to stop me from running?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” he said. “I’m very fast. And your friend might trip.”

Bastard.

“You don’t scare me,” I said, even though he did, a little.

“I know,” he said. “That’s what makes you interesting.”

I finally gave him the hairpin.

He slipped it into his cloak.

Then — to my shock — he reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a small object: a silver ring, thin and delicate, with tiny runes etched into its surface like waves or flames. I couldn’t tell which.

“For your trouble,” he said.

My eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

“A gift. Or a curse. Depends on what you do with it.”

“Why give it to me?”

He shrugged. “You’re the kind of girl who might survive it.”

Before I could respond, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd — cloak vanishing like smoke.

Just like that.

I stared at the ring.

It was warm in my palm.

Margo peeked at it, then at me. “What just happened?”

“Beats me,” I muttered.

I offered it to her. “Here. For real this time.”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “Can’t wear that working in the fields. I’d lose it or break it. You keep it.”

I did.

It fit perfectly.

I actually didn’t think too much about what happened — I was just lucky, I guess.

“Rissa, get your lazy bones to the well. We need water for stew!” my mother shouted from the end of the street.

“Yes, Mother Dearest,” I called back, already lifting the bucket with exaggerated effort. “Off to risk my life for soup!”

Margo giggled, following me.

We walked through the narrow path toward the village well, bucket swinging between us. The midday sun filtered through the patchy clouds, and the scent of earth and damp wood filled the air. I liked the smell. It was honest. Everything here was. That was the problem.

“This place is so boring,” I muttered.

“You’re seven. What do you expect? Sword fights and dragons?” Margo grinned.

I shrugged. “Would be nice.”

She squinted at me. “You talk funny sometimes, you know that?”

Funny. Strange. Off.

People around here always noticed. They just didn’t know why.

Sometimes I didn’t either.

After hauling water and dropping it (twice — on purpose, for dramatic flair), I decided I needed air.

“I’m going to the woods,” I told Margo.

“You’re not supposed to go alone,” she said, suddenly serious. “Remember the blackroot snake? What if it bites you?”

“Then I bite back,” I said with a wink.

She didn’t laugh this time. I hated that.

“I won’t go far,” I added. “Just to the edge. I need to clear my head.”

That part was true. There’d been a tightness behind my eyes all day — like pressure building before a storm. A whispering in the back of my mind that never fully formed into words. Dreams I couldn’t remember, yet woke from shaking.

“Just don’t get eaten,” Margo muttered.

“Would save us both some trouble.”

And then I slipped off.

The woods were quieter than usual.

I knew the paths well. There weren’t many. One led to the old stream where kids sometimes caught frogs. Another twisted toward the outcropping with mossy stones the villagers said were cursed. I liked that one. It had character.

But today I didn’t follow any path. I just walked.

A breeze stirred the leaves, and the air was cooler here. The smell of damp earth rose with every step. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in scattered shards. It felt... different.

Then I saw it.

A cat. Black. Lean. Sitting on a fallen log, staring straight at me.

One eye green, the other blue.

It didn’t move when I approached. Just watched.

“I’m not food,” I told it.

It blinked slowly. Like it understood.

And then it turned, leapt from the log, and padded deeper into the trees.

I followed.

Not because I was stupid. Because I was curious.

Something about that cat — about the way it looked at me — made my skin prickle.

Maybe it was the way it moved, silent and sure. Or maybe it was that part of me — the part I didn’t understand — that whispered follow it.

So I did.

Deeper. Farther.

Until the trees grew dense and unfamiliar.

Until the light disappeared.

Until I realized I was lost.

The first noise was so low I felt it in my chest.

Not a growl. Oh no. That would’ve made sense.

What I heard was a sound I knew too well:

Cluck.

I froze. My stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no. It couldn’t be.

But then I heard it again — louder, deeper. Like a cluck filtered through a thunderstorm.

I turned. Slowly. Against every survival instinct.

Two massive yellow eyes blinked back at me. One lazy blink at a time.

A feather twitched.

And then —

The Beast clucked. And charged.

I screamed.

I ran.

A chicken. A giant, nightmarish, demon-possessed forest fucking chicken.

Out of all the things that could kill me — wolves, bears, magical curses — why a chicken?!

Branches slashed at my arms. Thorns clawed my legs. I didn’t dare look back.

I could hear it. The thunder of talons. The gust of flapping wings. The ground-shaking bok-bok-bok of death.

“I hate chickens,” I snarled between breaths. “I hate chickens. I’ve always hated chickens!”

And then —

A root grabbed my foot.

I fell.

Pain bloomed behind my eyes as my head struck the ground.

The world tilted. Shadows danced. My heart pounded in my ears.

And then —

Not slowly.

Not gently.

They ripped through me.

My vision blurred. The pressure in my skull built to a scream. I tasted iron. My breath caught — and something inside me broke.

Pain. Sharp. Hot. Cold.

I was on a street. No — a hotel hallway. My heels clicked on the marble.

A man behind me. I turned. Smile fading.

Then hands.

Around my throat.

Panic. Kicking. Scratching. Gasping.

The taste of blood in my mouth.

The carpet was beige. I remembered that. It had a red stain. That was mine.

He didn’t stop.

He smiled as I died.

And then — silence.

Then light.

Then crying — mine again, but younger.

A new body.

A baby.

Me.

I came to with a gasp, choking on air and dirt. My head spun.

I was still here. In the forest. Still seven.

But I remembered everything.

Not everything. Not everything. But enough.

I remembered who I was before: a woman. Twenty-nine. Sharp-tongued. Cynical. Tired.

I remembered my name.

Clarisse Leighton.

I remembered the man who killed me. My ex. Or maybe just a monster in a man's skin.

I remembered the betrayal. The helplessness. The pain.

And I remembered waking up in this world — born again, in blood and screams, to a poor farming family who named me Rissa, not knowing they were giving life to a ghost.

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I didn’t let them fall.

I couldn’t.

There was no time.

Now I was in the woods.

Now I was bleeding.

Now I was staring death in the beady, soul-sucking eyes of a clucking hellbeast.

It spread its wings. Towered above me.

Raised a claw.

And roared — or, more accurately, clucked with the fury of a thousand nightmares.

I didn’t scream.

I didn’t beg.

I just stared up at it and whispered:

“Go ahead. Fry me. I dare you, poultry Satan.”

I raised my right hand.

The one with the ring.

It pulsed — once. Then again, brighter.

A surge of heat exploded outward, as if the air itself snapped.

And then — a jet of fire burst from nothingness, hitting the overgrown bird square in its feathery chest.

It clucked. It shrieked. It exploded into a fireball of feathers and vengeance.

Then it collapsed. Smoking. Smoldering. Silent.

I blinked.

My ears rang.

I was covered in singed feathers.

And after a long pause, I muttered to no one in particular:

“I told you I hate chickens.”

I dropped to my knees, gasping.

Then came the memories.

The pain. The hands. The death.

Clarisse Leighton.

My name.

My real name.

I was someone else.

And now... I was someone again.

But what the hell was I now?