The Village

The forest finally thinned, giving way to scattered fields and a narrow dirt path that wound toward the faint outline of rooftops. 

Morgana slowed her steps, eyes narrowing. “Alright… time to look less like a damn walking demon billboard.”

She tugged her hood up, letting it shadow her face. The fabric itched faintly against the base of her horns, but at least it covered most of them. She tucked her hair forward to help hide the rest. Her wings shifted under her torn cloak, a useless attempt to conceal their bulk. She clenched her jaw, muttering to herself.

“Stupid flea-bitten mutt… couldn’t just die without shredding the one thing keeping my ass discreet.” 

Tugging her torn cloak tighter around herself. The ripped fabric hung unevenly, and while it still covered her wings if she kept them tucked in tight, it was obvious they’d shredded the back. She hunched her shoulders, forcing the cloak to fall over them. “One claw and you ruin my clothes. Figures.”

From here, the village looked small, just a handful of houses clustered around a taller building with a spire, likely a church. No walls, no gates, no guards in sight. That was good. Fewer eyes meant fewer questions.

Her gaze drifted to the black weight in her hand—the scythe. Even holding it loosely, the weapon drew stares from her imagination alone. There was no way she could walk in like this. She glanced around for somewhere to hide it.

“Damn it… what am I supposed to do with you? Hide you under a haystack and hope no one’s nosy? Yeah, that’s not happening.”

She sighed. “If only you could disappear like that creepy-ass book…”

The moment the words left her mouth, the runes on her right arm pulsed faintly beneath her sleeve. Black smoke began curling from the scythe’s blade. Morgana’s eyes widened as the weapon’s edges softened into mist, the darkness flowing toward her arm like a living thing. In seconds, the scythe was gone - not dropped, not hidden - simply gone.

The magic sigil on her skin glowed faintly, a soft warmth spreading through her forearm before fading.

Morgana blinked down at it. “…Okay. That’s both incredibly amazing and ridiculously convenient.” Her grin was almost reaching to her ears. She flexed her fingers. “Guess you’re full of surprises, huh? You and I will get along just fine.”

With the weapon gone, she adjusted her hood and strode into the village proper. The air smelled faintly of bread and woodsmoke, mingled with the earthy tang of tilled soil. She kept her pace casual but her eyes sharp, scanning for anyone who looked too curious.

Each time she heard a voice or a door creak, she tensed unintentionally. Her pulse thudded in her ears. A pair of children ran past, chasing one another with a stick, their laughter echoing off the buildings. Morgana stepped aside, keeping her cloak pulled close. A woman was hanging laundry on a line. 

Her boots scuffed against the packed dirt road, each step carrying her past the simple houses with thatched roofs and vegetable gardens out front.

Someone in an apron carried a basket of what looked like bread. The scent of it, warm and yeasty, drifted her way. Her stomach growled traitorously.

Not now, stupid stomach!

A few villagers gave her a passing glance, but none lingered, most seemed too busy hauling baskets or tending to chores.

And then she felt it.

A faint pressure, like someone’s gaze brushing against her back. She slowed, letting her eyes flick sideways. Across the open square, by the steps of the church, a man in long white robes stood with his hands folded. His hair was a pale grey, his expression unreadable. But she didn’t need a second guess, he was looking right at her.

Her gut tightened.

He didn’t move toward her, didn’t raise his voice. But she could tell. Something about her had set him on edge. She turned her head away and kept walking, forcing herself not to speed up.

Just keep moving. Don't look at him. Act natural, fucking natural!

The truth was, she’d half expected this. A demon in a human village? Even with her horns hidden and wings covered, there was still… something. That strange hum of magic she carried, the faint wrongness she felt from herself. Maybe it leaked out without her realizing.

The villagers were just… normal. But she was not. And if anyone here had even a drop of knowledge about demons, she was one hood slip away from being run out with pitchforks — or worse.

Still, the man didn’t follow. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him glance toward a passing villager, then back at her. His lips moved slightly, but she couldn’t catch the words.

“Yeah, keep staring, old man,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m just another traveler. No reason to call the cavalries.”

She bit her lip in worry, pushing the thought away. The sooner she finished her business here, the sooner she could leave.

The general store was easy to spot. A squat wooden building with an open doorway, barrels and crates stacked just outside. The faint scent of dried herbs and cloth drifted from within. 

Morgana circled the street to avoid a pair of gossiping women, slipped around a chicken coop, and finally stopped at the shop’s door. She then lingered at the edge for a moment, scanning the interior. 

A counter near the back. Shelves along the walls stacked with jars, tools, and bundles of rope. No more than two people inside, both absorbed in their own shopping.

Perfect. One last check; hood low, cloak covering her back, face angled down.

She muttered under her breath, “Alright, Morgana… just sell the shiny stuff and get the hell out before anyone decides to ask where you came from.”

She stepped in, boots creaking on the wooden floorboards. The air inside was warmer, the smells stronger; dust, leather, and faint spice. She slid her hand to her belt, where the tattered pouch of coins and gems were, feeling the coins and trinkets she’d taken from the ruin.

Behind her, she thought she felt the priest’s gaze again, though she didn’t dare turn to check.