The Girl Who Cried Too Much

Rain fell again.

Not in the city this time.

Here, in the wilds beyond Harrow’s Hollow, it fell like punishment.

Rose walked.

Her hair trailed behind her like a funeral train, brushing the wet earth. It no longer felt like hers. It pulsed. Breathed. Whispered.

She hadn’t slept.

Not because she couldn’t.

But because every time she closed her eyes, she saw them — the faces of the broken, the forgotten, the ones whose pain now lived inside her.

She was a vessel.

A tomb for sorrow.

And the world called her Demon Lord.

She didn’t correct them.

Let them fear her.

It was the first time anyone had felt her at all.

The scent hit her before the sound.

Smoke.

Not from a hearth.

Not from cooking.

This was sharper.
Acrid.
Human.

Rose stopped.

Ahead, through the trees, a flicker of orange light.

A pyre.

And voices chanting.

"Purge the corruption.
Burn the weeping.
Let no tear fall unpunished."

Her stomach twisted.

She moved forward.

Silent.

The clearing opened into a stone circle. At its center, a wooden stake.
Bound to it — a girl.

No older than twelve.

Dressed in rags.
Face streaked with tears.
Eyes wide with terror.

A priest raised a torch.

“Niam Vale,” he declared, “you are charged with Emotional Contagion. You wept for three days after your mother’s death. You spoke to shadows. You felt too much.”

The girl sobbed. “I just… I missed her…”

“Grief is a disease,” the priest said. “And you are infected.”

The torch lowered.

Rose didn’t shout.

Didn’t scream.

She simply stepped into the firelight.

And the world went still.

There she stood — hair like liquid night, eyes like voids, a crown of braided shadow resting on her brow.

Rose didn’t look at the priests.

She looked at Niam.

And for the first time since she’d woken in the cathedral, someone looked back.

Not with fear.

Not with hatred.

With recognition.

As if she’d been waiting.

“Let. Her. Go.”

Rose’s voice was quiet.

But the ground cracked beneath her feet.

The fire dimmed.

The wind died.

The priest found his voice. “You—! The Silent One! You have no authority here! This child is corrupted! She must be—”

Rose raised her hand.

A single strand of hair lashed out — thin as a needle, fast as thought.

It struck the priest’s staff.

The holy sigil shattered.

The light within it screamed — a sound like glass breaking in reverse — and went dark.

The man fell back, clutching his chest.

Rose stepped forward.

The other priests scrambled.

One cast a spell — a beam of golden light meant to purify, to burn.

Rose didn’t dodge.

The light struck her.

And was absorbed.

Her hair writhed, drinking it in, then spat it back — twisted, blackened, screaming with the echoes of a thousand broken prayers.

It struck the ground.

The earth rotted. Grass withered. Stone cracked.

The priests fled.

Only the pyre remained.

Rose walked to Niam.

She didn’t speak.

She reached for the ropes.

Her fingers brushed the girl’s wrist.

Niam flinched — then stilled.

“I… I’m not afraid,” she whispered.

Rose paused.

Then, softly: “You should be.”

“I’m not,” Niam said. “You came for me.”

“I didn’t come for you,” Rose said. “I came because I smelled fire.”

Niam smiled — small, trembling. “Still counts.”

Rose didn’t reply.

But her hair, on its own, wrapped gently around the girl’s shoulders — not to bind, but to warm.

The ropes fell away.

Niam stood.

She was small.
Thin.
Her eyes were red from crying.

But she stood.

Rose turned to leave.

“Wait,” Niam said.

Rose stopped.

“…Can I come with you?”

Rose didn’t turn. “I’m not safe.”

“I don’t care.”
“I don’t want to stay here.”
“They said I was broken because I cried.”
“But you… you are sadness. And you’re strong.”

Rose closed her eyes.

For a moment, she saw her old room.
Her notebook.
Her headphones.
The silence.

She had no one.

Now, this child — this girl who cried too much — wanted to follow her.

Not because she was powerful.

But because she understood.

Rose opened her eyes.

She didn’t say yes.

But she didn’t say no.

She simply kept walking.

And after a breath, Niam followed.

—
They didn’t speak as they left the clearing.

But the forest changed around them.

Vines curled toward Rose like pets.
Shadows deepened where she stepped.
Animals with glowing eyes watched from the trees — not in fear, but in recognition.

Niam stayed close.

Eventually, she asked, “What are you?”

Rose kept walking. “A mistake.”

“No,” Niam said. “You’re something new.”

Rose didn’t answer.

But that night, when they camped beneath a hollowed oak, Niam curled up on the damp ground and whispered, “Do you think… I could be strong like you?”

Rose stared into the fire — the only one that would burn for her.

“You already are,” she said. “They don’t burn the weak. They burn the ones they fear.”

Niam fell silent.

Then, softly: “Can I… call you Rose?”

Rose stiffened.

No one had said her name since she died.

She didn’t answer.

But when Niam drifted to sleep, Rose reached into her coat.

Pulled out her notebook.

Flipped to a new page.

And beneath "They see me now," she wrote:

"One of them does."

—
Far away, in the obsidian towers of the Church of the Eternal Dawn, a high priest knelt before the Oracle.

“The Silent One has awakened,” he said. “She spared a corrupted child. She walks with her.”

The Oracle, blind, wrapped in silver cloth, tilted her head.

“A child who cried too much,” she murmured. “Interesting.”

“Should we send the Inquisitors?”

The Oracle smiled — faint, knowing.

“No. Let her keep the girl.
Sorrow loves company.
And the more she gathers, the heavier she becomes.
Let her carry them.
Let her break under the weight.

Because when the Demon Lord finally collapses…

We will be there to seal the crack — and bury the truth with her.”

—
In the forest, Rose woke to a sound.

Not wind.

Not animal.

Breathing.

She sat up.

Niam slept beside her.

But beyond the fire, in the dark, a figure knelt.

Armor shattered.
Cloak torn.
Sword broken in half.

A knight.

His face was pale, bloodied.
His eyes — one blue, one clouded — stared at her.

Not in fear.

In recognition.

He spoke, voice raw:

“…I was sent to kill you.”

Rose stood.

Her hair rose with her.

The knight didn’t move.

“But I can’t remember why.”

He collapsed.

Rose didn’t go to him.

But as the wind howled through the trees, her hair slithered forward — not to attack.

To cover him.

To keep him warm.

And in the silence, the last line of the chapter whispered into the dark:

"Maybe you were sent to save me instead."