The market was alive with noise, yet it felt colder than it had any right to. Chickens flapped in wicker cages, their wings beating against the wood, and the smell of fresh-cut herbs mixed with damp straw and woodsmoke. Vendors called out their wares, but their voices lowered as soon as Eira passed.

Kaelen skipped beside her, his bare feet smacking softly against the packed dirt road. Rayne was swaddled tight against her mother’s chest, her downy white hair gleaming too brightly under the morning sun. Every time she blinked her strange violet eyes, people stopped to look.

Draven walked a pace behind, shoulders hunched, trying to make himself smaller. He didn’t like the way the air seemed to thicken when they passed, or the way heads turned away just a moment too late. He caught it all — the whispers hidden behind cupped hands, the sidelong glances.

“Her hair’s grey now, did you see?”
“Not from any father in this valley, I’ll wager.”
“And the boy, Kaelen… already bewitched. The mother’s poisoned him, too.”

The words slithered around him like smoke, impossible to swat away.

At the miller’s stall, Eira lifted her sack of grain onto the counter. The miller was a heavyset man with arms dusted in flour. He looked down at the sack, then up at her, his eyes flicking quickly to Rayne before settling on her face.

“The usual,” Eira said, voice warm, polite.

“You’ll get half for this,” he replied flatly, pushing the sack aside.

“Half?” Her brow furrowed. “But I’ve brought the same weight as every month. Surely—”

“You’ll get half.” His tone was final, hard as a door slammed shut.

Kaelen’s small fists balled up. “That’s not fair! She—”

Draven caught his brother’s sleeve and tugged, shaking his head sharply. “Don’t.” His voice was a low growl meant only for Kaelen’s ears.

The younger boy scowled but bit his tongue, eyes wet with frustrated heat.

They moved on, baskets heavier than they should’ve felt, and that was when Draven saw them — the women gathered near the dye stall. Their heads leaned together, shawls pulled tight, mouths hidden but not the dart of their eyes.

“Sent away to the city, they said.”
“Lies. She never left at all.”
“Her husband must be blind. Or a fool. Raising what isn’t his own.”
“It’ll be his ruin. You’ll see.”

A few of them laughed, quick and sharp. Not kind laughter.

Eira’s shoulders tightened beneath her shawl, though she never turned to them. Her smile remained fixed, the same patient mask she always wore, but Draven could see the edges strain, as if it was sewn on too tight.

Kaelen, oblivious, leaned toward Rayne, whispering, “When you’re bigger, I’ll carry your basket. I’ll help Mama so much she won’t ever have to carry heavy things again.” He grinned, wide and bright, tugging at his mother’s sleeve for her attention.

Eira chuckled faintly, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “I know you will, my love.”

Draven trailed behind, his teeth clenched, hands shoved into his pockets so no one could see them shake. He hated the way everyone was looking at them, hated the way his mother pretended not to hear.

Most of all, he hated that a part of him agreed with the whispers — that maybe this pale, unnatural child had brought all of this down on their heads.

And he hated even more that he already cared too much to walk away.