Chapter 1 — Chains of Tradition

Mirra

The mist clung thick and low over the Village of Alura, winding between the wooden homes like ghostly fingers. A damp chill hung in the air, seeping through the layers of my earth-toned skirts and boots. From the threshold of my aunt's house, I watched the preparations unfold in the square. The villagers moved like shadows, their faces masks of solemnity as they carried bundles of herbs, offerings of freshly cut wood for the pyres, and ceremonial robes woven with silver threads meant to catch the moonlight.

The looming stone altar dominated the square, its cold surface etched with lunar symbols that seemed to pulse faintly with an inner light. Nearby lanterns threw flickering shadows across the huddled shapes of the villagers, their murmured prayers blending with the crackle of fires being lit in readiness. Even from here, the acrid tang of smoke mingled with the earthy scent of damp wood. The full moon would soon rise.

I hated that altar. Its presence pressed down on me, as if the weight of centuries of tradition emanated from the very stone. I hated the way the villagers seemed to shrink beneath its shadow, their reverence tinged with fear. This was their ritual, their sacred act of submission.

Home. If I could call it that. The house behind me groaned softly as the wind tugged at its patched walls. It wasn’t the creaking wood or the persistent draft that made it unbearable—it was what it represented. My aunt’s constant sermons about duty and obedience. The unspoken but unwavering expectation that I would submit, just as everyone else did.

Somewhere deep within, a flicker of defiance stirred. It wasn’t loud, but it was steady, growing stronger each time the ritual approached. One day, it would consume me, I knew. One day, I would act on it.

"Mirra!"

The sharp call yanked me from my thoughts. My aunt’s voice, cutting and precise, carried the same weight as a wolf’s growl—a warning not to be ignored. I stiffened but didn’t turn immediately. Instead, I let the silence stretch, staring at the altar and the villagers bustling around it.

When I finally turned, her silhouette filled the doorway. Her graying hair was coiled tightly at the nape of her neck, her expression carved from stone. She held an armful of folded robes, the ceremonial silver thread glinting faintly even in the dim light.

“You’ve been standing there long enough,” she snapped, stepping aside to let me in. Her tone wasn’t just stern—it was expectant, as though daring me to challenge her. “The others are preparing, and you’re meant to be helping. Or do you think yourself above this?”

Instead of replying, I stepped into the house, letting the door creak shut behind me. The silence I offered was deliberate, a small rebellion. It earned a narrowing of her eyes, though she said nothing further.

The house smelled of smoke and drying herbs, a mix of familiarity and frustration. My younger sister’s small figure emerged from the main room, her wide eyes lighting up at the sight of me. “Mirra,” Elara said, her voice soft but eager, “I was wondering if you’d be home in time to help. Aunt said you might not…”

She trailed off, glancing nervously at our aunt, whose disapproving gaze lingered on both of us. Elara’s enthusiasm dimmed, but she didn’t let go of the edge of her smile. “I saved a place for you to sit during the ritual, near the front.”

My chest tightened at her words. Elara’s devotion to the ritual was unwavering, sincere. She idolized me, but she also didn’t understand me—not really. How could she, when she’d already accepted everything I refused to?

“That’s kind of you, Elara,” I said softly, brushing a hand over her shoulder. Her small kindness yet again deepened the ache of my divided heart. I didn’t want to shatter her trust in me. Not yet.

Our aunt’s sharp voice broke the moment. “Elara, go see if the herbs are ready for binding.”

Elara hesitated, glancing between us, before giving me a small nod and disappearing into the back room. The air felt heavier as she left, replaced by the weight of my aunt’s scrutiny.

“You’ll ruin her if you keep this up,” my aunt said coldly, her voice low to avoid carrying to Elara. “She looks up to you, and all she sees is your defiance. Is that what you want for her? To follow you down some doomed path of rebellion?”

I met her gaze and clenched my fists. My nails dug into my palms, grounding me. “What I want is for her to have a choice,” I replied evenly, though my voice trembled at the edges. “Something this village has never given to anyone.”

She stepped closer, her face hardening. “Choice,” she scoffed. “A single choice from you could destroy us all. The ritual is the only thing keeping this village alive. You’d do well to remember that.”

The bitterness in my throat threatened to spill over, but I swallowed it down. She wasn’t entirely wrong. That’s what made it worse. “Maybe it’s not the only way,” I muttered under my breath, more to myself than to her.

But she heard me. Her lips pressed into a tight line, and she turned abruptly, leaving the room. The tension she left behind lingered, clawing at my thoughts.

I moved to the window, my boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. Outside, the lanterns swayed in the mist-laden breeze, their light swallowed at the edges of the square. The altar loomed, its faintly glowing symbols seeming to watch me as I stood there.

My aunt’s words echoed in my mind, but I pushed them away. They were the same words I’d heard all my life, the same justifications, the same fears. The same chains.

The bells began to toll. Deep and resonant, they cut through the mist, summoning the villagers to gather. I watched as they drifted toward the square, their figures shrouded and ethereal.

Elara’s small form emerged from the house, her hands clutching a bundle of herbs as she hurried to join the others. She paused at the door and glanced back at me, her amber eyes questioning, hopeful. I gave her a faint smile—one I didn’t feel—and gestured for her to go.

As the last echoes of the bells faded, I turned my gaze to the sky, where the moon hovered, veiled but radiant behind the clouds. Its light pierced the mist, and for a moment, the forest seemed to shift in the distance, as though alive.

I didn’t move to join the others. Not yet. Instead, I stood in the doorway, watching the villagers as they disappeared into the square. My heart beat in time with the tolling bells, each note a reminder, a warning, a promise.

The altar’s faint glow seemed almost brighter now, its symbols pulsing like a heartbeat. The ritual would begin soon.

And one day, I vowed silently, I would uncover its truths. No matter the cost.