Chapter 3 — Accusations and Echoes
Third Person
The air in Aria’s cottage was thick with the scent of damp wood and the faint metallic tang of the stone beneath her bed, a presence she could not forget. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her back pressed against the wall, the edges of her cloak clutched tightly in her hands. The hum of the stone hadn’t subsided—it pulsed faintly, an insistent rhythm like the beating of a distant drum, matching the headache pounding behind her eyes. It was as if the stone was alive, its influence burrowing into her thoughts.
The events of the morning replayed relentlessly in her mind. The ash spreading across the fields, devouring everything it touched. The terror etched in the villagers’ faces, their whispered fears louder than any scream. The way they had looked at her—as if she were something monstrous, something cursed. And her magic—wild, unrelenting, tearing free despite her desperate attempts to suppress it.
Her scarred palm burned faintly, a dull ache that felt like an accusation. She pressed it into her lap, trying to will the pain away. But no amount of wishing could undo what had already been unleashed.
A sharp knock at the door jolted her from her spiraling thoughts. Aria froze, her breath catching in her throat. For a fleeting moment, she considered ignoring it, sinking further into the shadows of her solitude. But the knock came again, firmer this time, followed by the low creak of the door opening.
“Aria,” came the familiar voice of the Village Elder, lined with concern and weariness.
She relaxed slightly, though she didn’t rise from her place on the floor. The Elder stepped inside, his staff tapping softly against the wooden planks. He closed the door behind him, his expression heavy as his gaze swept over her cramped, cluttered home.
“You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked,” he said gently, a faint rebuke in his tone.
Aria managed a faint shrug, her voice flat. “What does it matter? No one comes here willingly.” There was no bitterness in her words—only quiet resignation.
The Elder’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t argue. He lowered himself onto the lone chair by the table, his movements slow and deliberate, the weight of his years evident. For a long moment, he simply observed her, as though searching for the right words.
“The villagers are scared,” he said finally, breaking the silence.
“I know,” Aria replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “They think it’s my fault.”
The Elder didn’t deny it. His silence carried more weight than words could. Aria turned her face away, her fingers twisting the edge of her cloak.
“They’re not wrong to be afraid,” she added bitterly. “I can’t control it. The magic. Every time it surfaces, something terrible happens.”
“Aria—”
“No,” she interrupted, her voice sharper this time, though it wavered with emotion. She forced herself to meet his gaze, her gray-green eyes glinting in the dim light. “You saw it. The ash, the smoke... the cracks in the ground. I tried to stop it, but all I did was make it worse.”
The Elder sighed deeply, leaning forward to rest his hands atop his staff. The lines on his weathered face deepened, but his eyes held a steadiness that gave her pause.
“I don’t believe this is your doing,” he said firmly. “But I know the villagers won’t see it that way. Fear blinds people, Aria. It drives them to act before they understand.”
Aria scoffed softly, though there was no malice in it. “They’ve always been blind where I’m concerned.”
The Elder frowned but didn’t argue. Instead, he shifted the conversation. “There’s something you need to see,” he said, rising from his chair.
Aria hesitated, her heart sinking. The last thing she wanted was to face the villagers again, to endure their stares and whispered accusations. But the look in the Elder’s eyes told her this wasn’t a request. Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet, her legs trembling slightly from exhaustion.
“What is it?” she asked warily.
“Come with me,” the Elder replied, gesturing toward the door.
Reluctantly, Aria followed him outside. The village square was eerily still, the chaos of the morning replaced by a tense, uneasy silence. The acrid smell of burnt iron lingered in the air, mingling with the faintest hint of ash. The ground beneath her feet felt brittle, as though the earth itself was holding its breath.
The Elder led her toward the central well. A small group of villagers had gathered there, their faces pale and drawn, their shoulders tight with unease. Their eyes darted toward Aria as she approached, and she felt their fear like a dagger in her chest.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice low, almost cautious.
The Elder stepped closer to the well and gestured toward its shadowy depths. “Look,” he said simply.
Aria hesitated, then leaned forward to peer into the dark interior. At first, she saw nothing but the faint outline of stones. But then, as her eyes adjusted, she noticed the faint glow—a pattern of shifting, flowing symbols etched into the stones lining the well. The light was unsteady, rippling as if alive, and it seemed to hum faintly, resonating with the scar on her palm.
“What... what is that?” she whispered, her voice tinged with both awe and unease.
“We don’t know,” the Elder admitted. “It wasn’t there before. It appeared after the curse began to spread.”
Aria’s heart quickened. The symbols pulled at her, impossibly familiar and yet unknowable. She reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing the edge of the well. The moment her skin touched the stone, a sharp jolt of energy surged through her. She stumbled back with a gasp, cradling her burned palm.
“Aria!” the Elder exclaimed, steadying her with a firm grip.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, though her voice wavered. The symbols lingered in her mind, their hum echoing faintly. “I’ve seen something like this before. On the stone I found in the forest.”
The villagers murmured softly at her words, their fear palpable. One of them—a wiry man with graying hair—stepped forward, his expression twisted with anger and suspicion.
“You brought this on us,” he said, his voice trembling, but his words sharp as a blade. “You and your cursed magic.”
“That’s enough,” the Elder snapped, his tone carrying authority that silenced the murmurs.
But the man wasn’t deterred. “She’s a danger to all of us,” he continued, pointing a gnarled finger at Aria. “You saw what happened this morning. The ash, the cracks—her magic caused it! If we don’t stop her, she’ll destroy us all!”
Aria flinched, his words cutting into her like shards of ice. Her throat tightened, and though she wanted to defend herself, no words came.
“Enough!” the Elder repeated, striking his staff against the ground with a crack. The villagers fell silent, though their suspicion lingered in their eyes.
The Elder turned to Aria, his expression softening. “If the symbols on the well and the stone are connected, we need answers,” he said. “And there’s only one who might have them.”
Aria frowned. “Who?”
The Elder’s gaze flickered toward the far edge of the village. “The fae prisoner,” he said quietly.
Aria’s stomach turned. She had heard whispers of the prisoner—an enigmatic figure captured years ago and kept under constant watch.
“You can’t be serious,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“He’s our best chance,” the Elder replied. “If anyone knows about the symbols—or the curse—it’s him.”
Aria shook her head, fear tightening her chest. “He’s fae. He won’t help us.”
“We won’t know unless we try,” the Elder said gently.
Aria hesitated, her gaze drifting toward the distant cellar where the prisoner was kept. The thought of facing him filled her with dread, but the Elder’s words lingered.
The Elder placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip steady. “You’re the only one who can do this, Aria,” he said. “I believe in you.”
Aria swallowed hard and nodded. “I’ll do it,” she said quietly.
As the Elder walked away, Aria remained by the well, staring into the glowing symbols. The hum of the stone beneath her bed grew louder in her mind, a reminder of the path she could no longer avoid.
