Villagers POV: Fractured Echoes.
The attack left the village scarred—not just in charred timbers and cracked stones, but in the invisible fractures between neighbors. The following day, after the council deliberated Elsbeth's fate, three voices rose in the longhouse's shadow: one of gratitude, one of condemnation, and one of silent conflict. They clashed not in fists but in words, each mind a storm of unspoken thoughts amid the ruins.
Marta, the Baker's Wife (The Thankful)
I stood in the square, cradling little Tomas in my arms, his tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful sleep. Before the light, “her” light, he'd been still as death, his skin blistered raw from the flames that licked our door. The healer had shaken her head and whispered of infection and fever. But Elsbeth... that slip of a girl with her strange pen... she drew something impossible, and the burns vanished like morning mist. Tomas wailed then, furious and alive, and I wept for the first time with joy, not fear.
My life? Transformed. The bakery's ovens still smolder with the same rye and barley, but now every loaf I knead feels like a prayer answered. I bake extra for the widows and leave buns on doorsteps, because if a colorless child can pull life from nothing, what excuse do I have to hoard? The nightmares linger, yes, the roar of that fire-beast echoing in my sleep, but Tomas's giggle chases them away. She's no monster; she's the hand that yanked us back from the abyss.
And then there's Terrel, that bitter old crow, spitting venom across the square. "She brought it here!" he snarled, jabbing a finger at the scorched earth where the beast had stood. "That girl's cursed light called that demon down on us! We should've drowned her at birth!"
I couldn't stay silent. My blood boiled, not with the fury of the attack, but with the injustice of his blindness. “How dare he?” I thought, clutching Tomas tighter. “This child in my arms breathes because of her. Your own roof stands because she fought when you cowered. If she's a monster, what does that make you, you ungrateful fool?”
"You fool!" I shouted back, my voice cracking but steady. "She saved your worthless hide too! That 'cursed light' mended your twisted leg; don't think I didn't see you hobbling before! Without her, we'd all be ash!"
Terrel's face twisted, red as forge embers, but I didn't back down. In my mind, it was simple: Elsbeth gave us a second chance. To call her a monster was to spit on miracles. My life has changed; I'm braver now, quicker to defend the overlooked. Because of her, I see the world not as a place of scarcity, but of unexpected grace.
Terrel, the Old Farmer (The Monster-Caller)
I leaned on my spade in the square, the earth still warm underfoot from the beast's passage. My fields? Half-scorched, the wheat twisted into ash sculptures. I'd spent the morning salvaging what I could, my back aching like it hadn't in years. No, wait, it doesn't ache anymore. That unnatural light sealed the old twist in my spine and left me straight as a young man. But at what price? The beast came for “her,” didn't it? That colorless freak with her glowing scribbles, summoning storms that nearly flattened my barn!
Life's harder now. The soil's tainted, yields will be thin, and every creak in the night has me bolting upright, axe in hand. Neighbors whisper of blessings, but I see the truth: she drew that horror here. Her "magic" wasn't salvation; it was a bargain with something darker. The Fairy King himself said she's a beacon, drawing demons like moths to a flame. We're rid of her soon, but the damage? Irreversible.
And then Marta starts her bleating, clutching that squalling brat like a shield. "She saved your worthless hide too!" she yelled, eyes blazing. “Saved?” I thought, my grip tightening on the spade until my knuckles whitened. “She caused this! That light of hers lit us up like a lantern for every monster in the shadows. Your boy's breath is borrowed time, woman—wait until the next beast comes sniffing. She's no hero; she's a curse wrapped in a child's skin.” "Brought it on us!" I roared back, spit flying. "That demon bowed to her master, not ours! She's their kind, mark my words, we'll pay for harboring her!"
Marta's face flushed, but I held my ground. In my head, it was clear: the girl's a monster, plain and simple. My life? Upended, haunted by what-ifs. I'll sleep with one eye open forever, thanks to her.
Hilda, the Herbseller (The Mixed)
I lingered at the square's edge, my basket of dried thyme forgotten in my hands. The attack replayed in my mind: the roar, the heat, the way Elsbeth's scribbles tore the sky open. My stall survived—barely—but the herbs inside withered overnight, as if the chaos sucked the life from them. Business is slow now; folks hoard what they have, fearing the next shadow. My back aches from rebuilding shelves, but... that light touched me too. An old burn scar on my arm, from a kitchen mishap years ago, smoothed away like it never was. A small mercy amid the ruin.
Life's... complicated. I'm grateful for the healing but terrified of what it means. Elsbeth was always the quiet one, the pitied. Now she's something else—savior or harbinger? I don't know. The village feels cracked, like a pot glued back wrong. Neighbors snap at each other; trust frays. My own heart's a tangle: relief for the saved lives, dread that her power invites more darkness.
When Marta and Terrel clashed, I stayed silent, my throat tight. Marta's passion burned bright. "She saved your worthless hide!” And I thought, “She's right; without Elsbeth, Tomas would be gone, and my scar would still itch.” But Terrel's fury echoed my fears: "Brought it on us! She's their kind!"
“What if he's right?” I wondered, gripping my basket. “That light wasn't natural; it bent the world. If she stays, do we all pay?” Their words flew like arrows, but I couldn't pick a side. Gratitude and fear warred in me, leaving only quiet. My life has changed; I'm warier, quicker to bolt doors at dusk, but also... kinder? I slip extra herbs to the needy now, remembering how fragile we all are.
In the end, I just watched, a neutral shadow, as the argument sputtered out. Elsbeth's leaving soon. Maybe that's best for her, for us. But the fracture? That stays.
The Orphan's Shadow (Layla's Tale)
Mama’s hands were quick and sure, weaving the bright blue ribbon through my hair. “There,” she said, her voice warm with satisfaction. “Like a little piece of sky settled on you. Now you’ll bring some light to the market square.”
I loved the ribbon. It was more than just cloth; it was a feeling. When I walked, I could feel the soft tails brush against my neck, a gentle reminder that I was loved and made pretty.
The market was my favorite place. Not the crowded, noisy middle, but the edges, where the smells were specific and wonderful: the earthy tang of tanned leather, the sharp scent of herbs from Hilda’s stall, and best of all, the warm, yeasty perfume of Marten’s bakery.
Today, the queue was short. I smoothed my apron and stood up straight, the ribbon tickling my cheek. Marten was wrapping a loaf for Old Man Hemlock, his face its usual gruff mask. But when Hemlock moved away and Marten’s eyes landed on me, the mask dissolved. His whole face crinkled into a smile, deep lines spreading from his eyes like sun rays.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” He boomed, his voice full of pretend surprise. “If it isn’t the carpenter’s shadow. Here to inspect my craftsmanship, are you?”
I giggled. Papa and Marten had been friends since they were boys kicking stones down this very lane. I’d grown up perched on Papa’s shoulder in this shop, listening to them argue good-naturedly about the merits of well-seasoned oak versus properly proofed dough.
Marten wasn’t just a baker to me; he was Uncle Marten, who always had a flour-dusted wink for me.
“A brown loaf, please, Uncle Marten,” I said, remembering my manners. “For Mama.”
“For the finest carpenter in the village, only the finest loaf,” he declared, selecting one with a perfectly crisp crust. He wrapped it in paper, and then his eyes twinkled. “But a growing apprentice needs her fuel, too.” He reached under the counter and brought out a small, honey-glazed pastry, twisted into a lovely plait. He placed it on top of the wrapped bread. “For you, my dear. A little extra.”
My heart did a happy little dance. It wasn’t about the pastry, though it smelled of butter and wildflower honey. It was the feeling of belonging, woven as securely as the ribbon in my hair.
“Thank you, Uncle Marten!” I beamed, taking the warm parcels.
“Give your father my regards,” he said, winking again. “And tell him his joint work on my new counter is holding up splendidly!”
I skipped away from the stall, the bread tucked under my arm, the pastry held carefully in my hand. I didn’t feel the other stares in the market, the busy, indifferent glances of adults. I felt only the warmth of the loaf through the paper, the sweet promise of the pastry, and the gentle sway of my blue ribbon.
I passed the girl in the grey dress then, the one who everyone calls colorless, standing in line behind me. I didn’t think much of it. The world was full of smells and sounds and my own little joys. My world was one of bright ribbons, Father’s friends who called me “my dear,” and unexpected pastries. It was a small, sweet, sun-dappled world, and in that moment, it was the only world I knew.
***
Then the roar came. Not a beast’s, at first. A human one. A wave of shouts about curses and monsters and her.
I hid. I squeezed under our cart, hands clamped over my ears, eyes shut tight. I couldn’t block out the sound. The pop-tinkle of glazed pottery exploding. A sound I knew from the kiln. Now it was everywhere, a world breaking.
Silence. Worse than the roar.
I crawled out into grey and orange and black. In the center was Elsbeth. Her face wasn’t a monster’s. It was shattered.
I found our stall. The wheel was kindling. Mama’s forget-me-not bowls were dust. All except one. A single small bowl, perfectly intact, its blue glaze shining. I picked it up. It was cold.
“Mama?” My voice was a scratch. I grabbed a man’s sleeve. “Have you seen the potter? The blue apron…”
He wrenched away without looking.
A woman’s skirt. “Please, my papa…”
She brushed my hand off like a fly. “Don’t touch me!”
They looked through me. I was smoking. Then I saw Bjorn, the carter. He knew Papa.
I ran to him. “Bjorn! It’s Layla; have you seen…?”
He turned. His face was impatience and rage. His hand came up and shoved me. “Move, brat! We’ve all lost people!”
The shove was gentle. The meaning was not. I fell back, gravel biting into my palms and knees. A sob ripped out of me.
His boots crunched as he stepped around me.
Something final poured out with that sob. No one was looking. No one would help. I was alone.
I scrambled up, blood beading on my knees. I ran from the crowd, from the elders, and from the pity that stung. I ran until I found a pocket between two collapsed walls and folded myself inside.
The tears burned away. The search was over. My parents were gone.
The next days were pieces of things. Hay dust. The taste of burnt air. A blackened turnip, hard and bitter. Elder Kael’s voice, saying words like “care” and “shelter,” his eyes on the collapsed roofs.
At night, a hot coal of thought: Her magic called it. She’s different.
In the grey dawn, I’d see the flawless skin on my arm. I’d remember Elsbeth’s shattered face. And a whisper: She stood and fought.
On the third day, Elder Kael found me. “Come.” He took me to the healers for broth. Then: “Widow Grell, at the lane’s end. You can help each other remember the quiet hours.”
Her cottage was still. She looked at me, at my soot-stained ribbon, and at the blue bowl I clutched. Her eyes held no pity, only a recognition.
“There’s wool that needs spinning,” she said, her voice like dry leaves. “The rhythm helps.”
She showed me the wheel and the fleece. My hands, meant for clay, fumbled with the wool. The silence was thick. I pulled. The thread was lumpy. I snapped it.
A sigh, not unkind. Widow Grell’s knotted hands took mine and guided them. “Slower. The pull is in the breath.”
I tried again. Pull, breathe. Twist. The wheel whirred. A thin, uneven thread emerged. The rhythm was not my mother’s wheel, but it was a rhythm. In its monotony, a memory surfaced: Mama humming as she worked. The lump in my throat was too big. A single, hot tear fell onto the wool, darkening the grey.
Widow Grell said nothing. She just placed a hand, feather-light, on my back for one second. Then it was gone.
That night, I put the blue ribbon and the cold bowl under my pillow. I don’t know if Elsbeth was a curse or a savior. The village shouts one thing and whispers another. But she left this: a question and a single, unbroken bowl. A tiny, hard proof.
Beside me, the spinning wheel waited. The thread I’d made was ugly and weak. But it was connected. It was a start.
