The Mill of Shadows

Evo prevoda prvog poglavlja na britanski engleski, stilizovanog i spremnog za tvoj Wattpad profil pod naslovom **"The Mill of Shadows"**.

### Chapter I – The Extinguished Hearth and the Scent of Bluebells

A thick gloom had settled over the slopes of the mountain, where, long ago, heaven and earth used to meet amidst the scent of damp bracken and freshly blossomed hawthorn. In that secluded corner of the world, where the winds spoke languages older than man, stood the house of David and Ruža. For little Milica, the village of Dvorska was not merely a home; it was an entire kingdom framed by wooden fences and a song that never faded.

The first eight years of Milica's life passed in that primal rural idyll which, in old age, is only ever recounted in dreams. Ruža was a gentle woman, her face as translucent as mountain crystal, and her voice as warm as freshly baked bread. Every morning, she would wake Milica with a song, and the scent of basil, which she always kept at her waist or in a vase by the icon, infused every pore of their existence. David, a broad-shouldered and quiet man, but with a heart as soft as cotton, would bring with him the scent of the forest and resin, bringing a sense of security to the house that nothing could shake.

The most beautiful moments were those spent in the clearing beneath the ancient beech tree. There, in early spring, white and fragile bluebells would sprout, their fragrance spreading through the valley like an invisible blessing. Ruža would sit in the grass, take Milica’s tiny hand in hers, and whisper to her of the earth’s destiny—of how every flower has a soul and how the ground remembers the footsteps of those who love it. "Listen to them, daughter," her mother would say as the white blossoms swayed in the breeze, "that is the music heard only by those whose hearts are pure."

Beside them was always the faithful dog, Šarov, who watched every rustle in the bushes with a strange, almost human wisdom in his eyes. The cat would purr against Milica’s legs, and the colourful cockerel from the threshold, that proud guardian of the yard, always heralded the presence of good, chasing away with his cry any doubt or darkness that dared to creep towards the hearth.

And then came that night. A night which even the eldest highlanders did not remember as a good one. The sky collapsed upon the earth that evening. Thunder tore at the mountain peaks, and the rain turned the paths into impassable torrents of mud. Inside the house, by the dim light of a tallow candle, Ruža fought pains that were stronger than her fragile body. She was trying to bring a second child into the world, but life was slipping away. There was no doctor, the roads were cut off, and the only hope remained in David’s trembling hands and prayers that were lost in the roar of the storm.

Milica stood in the corner of the room, pressed against the cold wall, watching the light in her mother’s eyes slowly extinguish. She saw her father’s despair, a helplessness that rent the air more than any sob. When Ruža breathed her last, a silence fell upon the house more terrifying than any thunderclap. Milica did not cry. Her scream remained locked deep within her chest, petrified in a heart that, that night, ceased to be a child's. The sun on their hearth had gone out, leaving only the smell of an extinguished wick and a coldness that no fire could ever warm again.

The year that followed was a year of silence. Father and daughter moved through the house like shadows, avoiding gazes that hurt too much. In the corner of the room stood Ruža’s neglected distaff. Once it had pulled the thread of life; now it only gathered dust and cobwebs, a mute witness to a time that would never return. David aged ten years in those twelve months; his back bowed under the weight of melancholy, and his eyes grew misty, fixed on some distance that Milica could not reach.

And then, darkness entered their home under the name of stepmother Dušanka. She arrived with her daughter, Grozdana, bringing with her the scent of estrangement and calculation. Before David, the stepmother was honey and milk. She stroked Milica’s hair, promising warmth and order, but as soon as her father vanished into the forest or the fields, her face transformed into a mask of stone. Grozdana, following her mother’s example, daily devised new ways to humiliate Milica, stealing her toys, her clothes, and worst of all, her peace.

The pinnacle of their cruelty occurred one evening when the frost chilled the bones. Milica held in her hands her only remaining memento of her mother—a thin, embroidered scarf that still, it seemed, held the scent of basil and bluebells. The stepmother approached her, her eyes flashing with something unholy, and with one swift motion, wrenched the scarf from the girl's hands. "Enough of this rag that reeks of death and the past," she hissed, and threw the silken fabric straight into the glowing hearth.

The flames greedily caught the soft cloth. Milica watched her mother’s patterns vanish into black smoke. The smell of burning filled the room, heavy and stifling. "You will end just like your mother if you do not listen obediently!" the stepmother shouted as Milica, her spirit broken but aware that there was nothing left for her in that house, flew outside into the cold and dark night.

She ran breathlessly, stumbling over roots and stones, until she reached that clearing where the bluebells once bloomed. Snow covered the ground, and the frost froze the breath in her chest. She sat beneath the old beech tree and let the pain finally overwhelm her. Sobs, those that had been locked away for years, finally broke through. Then, she felt something warm. Šarov, who had faithfully followed her, approached quietly and placed his heavy head in her lap, warming her with his breath. And in that moment, amidst the winter and the frost, something miraculous happened. The wind, which until moments ago had been icy, suddenly changed direction and brought with it a clear, intense scent of bluebells.

Milica felt a gentle, almost invisible touch of hands on her shoulders. She felt her mother’s presence, strong and unwavering, like a shield hovering over her. The scent of flowers filled her lungs, giving her a strength she had never felt before. She raised her head, wiped her tears, and looked up at the dark sky. The fire on the hearth may have been extinguished, but the flame in her heart, fuelled by the scent of bluebells and her mother’s blessing, was only just beginning to burn. She would not be submissive. She would not surrender. Milica breathed once more.