The Witch’s Vow
The night Elira was born, the sky wept with a storm so fierce it drowned the village’s crops and sent the river surging through the streets. The elders whispered that it was an omen—a cursed child had entered the world.
Her mother, Lirien, barely survived the birth. She had screamed through the labor, clutching the straw bedding as if the pain itself was trying to steal her soul. When she finally held her newborn daughter, she gasped—not out of love, but fear.
Elira’s eyes were too sharp, too knowing for a child who had only just entered the world. The midwife, an old woman with trembling hands, hesitated before cutting the umbilical cord. A chill passed through the room, the flickering oil lamp nearly snuffing out. The air felt… wrong.
The village healer arrived soon after, summoned in desperation. She pressed her palm to the newborn’s tiny chest, feeling the thrum of something unnatural beneath her skin. “She is touched by the old magic,” the healer murmured. “A witch, from birth.”
Lirien sobbed, clutching her baby to her chest. “No, please. My daughter is innocent.”
The healer gave her a sorrowful look. “You must keep her hidden. If the village learns the truth, they will fear her.”
And so, Elira grew up in the shadows.
Her childhood was not one of warmth, but of caution. Her mother, though loving in her own way, kept her at arm’s length, afraid of what she might become. Her father, a bitter man worn down by poverty, looked at her as if she were the reason for all his misfortunes.
But magic cannot be contained forever.
At the age of five, Elira made a dead flower bloom in her hands. At seven, she whispered to the wind, and it answered. At ten, she healed a wound on her mother’s arm simply by touching it.
Her family’s fear grew with each passing year. They did not see a daughter, a sister. They saw a curse.
Then, when Elira was thirteen, something happened that changed everything.
A boy from the village—one who had tormented her for years, throwing stones and calling her “witchspawn”—fell from a tree and broke his leg. The bone jutted through his skin, his screams echoing through the hills.
Elira, acting on instinct, ran to him. She laid her hands on his leg, her power surging like a wave. The bone snapped back into place. The wound closed.
He was healed.
But instead of gratitude, there was terror. The boy’s mother shrieked. Villagers came running. They saw what she had done, what she was.
“Witch,” they whispered. “Monster.”
By nightfall, her family had packed their belongings and fled the village, leaving behind the only home they had ever known.
They wandered from town to town, never staying in one place too long. Her parents blamed her for their misfortune, for their suffering. They cursed her magic, wished it had never been born within her.
But when Elira turned eighteen, everything changed again.
A wealthy businessman came to their town, looking for a wife. He was powerful, rich beyond imagination—a man who could lift them from poverty.
And he wanted a woman who was pure, untouched, innocent.
Elira’s parents saw an opportunity.
“She is a blessing,” her mother told him, forcing a smile. “A gift from the heavens.”
Elira said nothing. She had learned long ago that the world would never see her for what she truly was.
And so, she was given away to a man who believed he had married a saint—when in truth, he had married a witch.
