PROLOGUE
The crunching sound of boots making contact with wet grass echoed through the air as the gloomy weather unleashed a heavy downpour. She made quick strides for the door in a bid to avoid catching a cold, or even worse, a scolding from her uncle.
Inside, a warm sight beckoned her closer: her uncle sat sipping hot tea, an obvious necessity in this bizarre weather. His brows raised as he looked at her. It wasn't her muddy boots making contact with the fresh carpet, nor was it the water dripping from her clothes. It was the simple fact that she was outside at all. He had just seen her in her room playing with Ginny— his pet porcupine, and he certainly repeatedly stressed that had no plans to give her a training session in a storm like this.
"Uncle, I'm sorry."
"You aren't a child. Don't apologize for something you clearly have no guilt over."
Her head hung low. To an ordinary eye, it might have seemed like shame, but he saw right through his mischievous niece. She hurried over to hug him—a terrible attempt at a bribe, but one that successfully won him over anyway .The cold, wet fabric of her clothes soaked through his shirt, reminding him of the risk of her catching a chill. He chuckled softly, patting her back before gently pushing her toward the stairs.
"Would you like some pancakes and warm tea?" he asked, his tone softening.
"Yes, Uncle! Thank you!"
She marched up the stairs with boundless joy, chanting a little song with every step. Her bedroom was her sanctuary—a beautiful room plastered in blue paint, her exact choice. Rain hammered rhythmically against the glass windowpane, casting soft shadows across her unmade bed, the clutter of training gear scattered on the floor, and the numerous piles of romance books stacked around the room. Peeling off her heavy, mud-caked boots, she set them by the rug and grabbed a long thick dress, eager to change and head back down to a warm meal.
She picked up her latest book—one that had her completely immersed, and decided to skim through just two chapters. Two soon turned into five, and five to ten. The story had her fully enthralled; nothing else seemed to matter in that moment.
Eventually, the loud rumbling of her stomach brought her out of the daze, reminding her of the warm meal waiting downstairs. She paused, wondering why her uncle hadn't called for her yet, or at least sent Ginny up to her door. The porcupine's soft, familiar noises usually signaled it was time to eat.
Before she could dwell on it, a deafening crack of thunder snapped her out of her reverie, the gloomy storm outside growing darker and more menacing by the second.
Muffled voices drifted up from downstairs. Dropping her book, she slipped out of her room and crept over to the stairs to listen.
Below, her uncle was speaking in a steady, hushed tone, trying to placate his visibly furious wife. Panic spiked in her chest—were the muddy stains she had dropped on the carpet the cause of this sudden rage?
Determined to set things right and nip the fight between the loving couple in the bud, she blindly charged down the stairs. In her hurry, her foot caught in the hem of her long, heavy dress. She stumbled, losing her balance completely, and tumbled forward—landing hard with her bare hand slamming right onto Ginny. A sharp, agonizing burst of pain shot up her arm as multiple quills instantly detached, piercing deep into her palm. Back then, she didn't understand why the porcupine's quills were standing straight up like needles, bristling in quiet terror. She only felt the burning sting of the barbed tips locking into her flesh. A scream was lost somewhere in her throat, not coming out instead her body only registered the pain. She pulled her arm back, her eyes watering, her knees trembling on the floorboards as she cradled her injured wrist.
Still gripped by the burning pain, tears streaming down her face, a loud, sharp slap shattered the quiet, a harsh reminder of why she had rushed down in the first place.
Her aunt had just struck her uncle.
She gasped loudly, the sound instantly drawing the couple’s eyes toward the stairs. Her uncle turned to her, his expression urgent as he silently signaled for her to get back upstairs. In his rush to protect her, he did not notice the quills buried deep in her palm.
She tried to speak, to call out to him, but her voice failed her.
While his focus was turned toward her, his wife snatched a heavy knife from the counter and plunged it into his side. Once. Twice. She kept stabbing, over and over in a blind rage, turning the white dress she had on into a bloodied mess.
The world froze. Numbness washed over her, trapping her in complete disbelief. She pushed herself up onto shaking legs—the quills still locked in her bloodied palm—her chest heaving as her breathing turned erratic.
She scrambled toward her uncle's lifeless body, but the spreading pool of blood reached her before she could even touch him. Resting her hands against his chest, she searched for a pulse. There was nothing. His body was already growing cold—he was gone.
A rage she had never felt before took over. Kira glared up at her Uncle's wife and charged blindly, raising her quill-filled hand to use as a weapon. She managed to rake the barbed tips across her aunt's skin, but the force of the strike only drove the quills deeper into her own flesh, causing a fresh wave of agonizing pain and blood loss.
She tried to strike again, but her limbs froze in mid-air. It wasn't the sweat trickling down her back or the crippling pain in her hand that stopped her—it was magic. Her Uncle's Wife was a witch, and with a simple gesture, she bound her movement entirely.
"Why?" She sobbed, tears streaming down her face in full force. "He loved you! He worshipped the ground you walked on—people called him a fool because of how much he cared for you! Please, tell me this is a joke... Tell me this is still the peaceful household I know! Please bring him back! He can't die—NO!"
There was no response. No tears, no guilt, Just pure, unyielding rage.
With a flick of her wrist, the witch used her magic to lift her body into the air and slam her hard against the wall. Even as her vision swam, She tried to push herself back up, refusing to give up. Her Uncle's wife slammed her against the wall once more, the impact; snapping bones and shattering her strength.
"You are an innocent child," her Uncle's wife said coldly. "That is the only reason I am letting you live. Goodbye."
Scooping up Ginny, the witch walked out into the downpour in her bloodied dress. That was the last time she was ever seen, leaving the young girl broken on the floor, consumed by her own hatred and grief.
