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  Time flowed like a river whispering incantations beneath a starry sky. Violetta turned three. Her ears had shifted shape, twitching at every rustle in the village. The house smelled of fresh bread, dried herbs, and woodsmoke, while the creak of the door mingled with the lowing of livestock outside. Zlata and Demko played with Violetta, their small hands giggling as they tugged at her tail.

  “Hey, Vio, play with us!” Zlata squealed, her braids swaying like golden ribbons. Demko, with a persistent lock of brown hair falling over his face, pelted her with acorns, joking: “Gotcha!”

  Marunya, now ten, tried to reign them in. “Stop it! You’ll catch it from Mama if you don't behave!” When no one was looking, she would secretly slip Violetta a piece of rye bread with cumin, whispering: “Eat it quick, don't let Zlata see, or she’ll get jealous.”

  Lukia taught Violetta how to prepare herbs for decoctions. Her work-roughened fingers trembled as threads of mana flowed through nettle and mint. “Careful, little one. The earth spirits dislike haste,” she would mutter, her eyes glowing with warmth.

  One evening, as Todyr repaired a plow, Violetta called the plowshare a “dirt-iron.” His laughter drowned out the groan of the mill. “Look at you, practically a blacksmith! Only instead of a hammer, you’ve a tongue sharp as a razor!” The girl flushed at his words, and his warm, heavy hand ruffled her hair.

  “Grip the knife tighter,” he said on another day, showing her how to cut branches for the fence. Violetta struggled, the blade slipping. Todyr grinned. “You aren't a smoketail cat stealing cream! Grip it!”

  Meanwhile, the smoketails—fluffy creatures with eyes like glowing coals—were indeed creeping toward the larder, leaving soot-dusted prints in the dust.

  At night, lightwings hummed over the fields. Their blue radiance painted ghost-shadows on the ceiling. When evening fell, Violetta loved to watch this ethereal dance. But the neighbors interfered, often clutching their wards and whispering: “A beast-kin with a tail... what if ill fortune followed her here?”

  Lukia had a ward of her own, hidden beneath her pillow. It was special, carved from the horn of a rare light-bull. Often, Lukia would simply watch Violetta, searching for something intangible, wanting to sense the unique essence present in the little foundling.

  Once, Marunya wove a wreath of meadow flowers for Vio that glowed a faint blue in the twilight. “You’re like a fairy! ...only stubborn,” the girl said. Her voice wavered as an old crone passed by, clutching an amulet and muttering about spirits. Lukia caught her daughter’s gaze and whispered: “Don't listen, little one. The spirits see your heart, your kind nature.”

  To draw less attention, Violetta learned to tuck her fluffy tail beneath her dress. Meanwhile, a hunger grew in her chest—a desire to see the world beyond the fence, where the forest whispered with the voices of ancestors.

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  One day, Lukia took Violetta to the dwarf blacksmith to buy a new knife for harvesting medicinal herbs. The sun beat down, dust clinging to bare feet, and the air smelled of curing hay, resin, and distant smoke. Village life hummed: wagons creaked, buckets clattered, dogs barked. Children chased chickens, their cries mixing with laughter, while an old woman at the well hauled water, her back bent like a vine. An old fisherman, seeing Violetta, hissed “beast-kin” and touched a ward carved from bone. Most villagers averted their eyes, their hands tightening around baskets or hoes. Only a grandmother with faded eyes, sitting by her hut, offered a piece of honey cake that smelled of summer.

  “Your eyes are like the sky before a storm, child,” she smiled, her voice raspy as dry leaves. Violetta felt a warmth in her chest, but the whispers behind her back pricked like stubble: A little fox... what if she’s with the spirits? Seeking support, she squeezed Lukia’s hand and pressed closer to her mother.

  The forge reeked of white-hot iron, coal, and sweat. A bearded dwarf, with arms like oak boughs, hammered at an anvil. Sparks flew like falling stars. Sweat glistened on his brow, and his eyes—sharp as flint—ran over Violetta’s ears and tail.

  Hm, reminds me of the old tales of Gods falling from the sky... he thought, but shook his head. No... just a fox-girl. A shadow flickered in his gaze, like a memory of ancient times when smiths forged blades for heroes.

  “Blacksmith, is the knife ready?” Lukia asked.

  “Aye,” the dwarf grunted, handing over a blade wrapped in a rag. “Sharp as old Priska’s tongue when she’s gossiping about the neighbors.”

  Violetta watched him adjust his hammer and felt her visor flicker, catching a pulse of mana—faint but deep, like the heartbeat of the metal itself. The cold, sharp edge in the rag glinted like a dragon’s claw. Lukia gently nudged her toward the exit. “Come, little one, don't dawdle. Before Priska herself comes running to eye us from head to toe.”

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  Returning home, Violetta saw a creature perched on the fence. It looked like a wyvern but smaller, with wings as transparent as lace and eyes glowing with a dim light. A corpse-eater... Its claws scraped the wood, and the smell—a mixture of decay, swamp, and rotting grass—hit her nose. Zlata, playing in the roadside dust with Demko, suddenly shrieked and scrambled away.

  “Papa, a beast!”

  Todyr hurled a stone. The corpse-eater hissed, a sound like fire devouring dry leaves. It took flight, leaving a haunting chill in its wake.

  “Harbingers of calamity...” Todyr muttered, his brow furrowed. “Don't go past the fence, children! Play in the yard. It’s safer by the house.”

  Zlata clung to his leg. “Will it come back?” she asked in a thin voice.

  “No, little one,” Todyr replied, staring at the sky. “Just stay close to the house!”

  Violetta felt her tail twitch. “What kind of beast is that?” she asked. Her voice was quiet but insistent.

  “Corpse-eaters... they crawl out when trouble is near. Enough talk! Inside, quickly!” Todyr barked.

  But her feet, bare and swift, carried her past the fence a few hours later—straight toward where the beast had flown. Thickets of wild plum swayed in the wind, their sweet aroma mingling with a metallic bitterness. There, the rusted skeletons of old wagons lay hidden, their charred beams smelling of ash. Corroded iron protruded like the bones of a forgotten war. Violetta touched the metal—cold and coarse—and felt a dim shimmer of mana pulsing within it, like the echo of distant magic. Shadows in the thicket whispered as if something were watching her.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  In a crack in a wagon, a purple crystal glinted, sharp as a star-shard. Her visor flared with red symbols, pulsing like a heart. Violetta recoiled, her breath quickening.

  Is this... magic? Or something... worse?

  Her tail reacted again, trembling, and a chill settled in her chest, as if the crystal harbored something sentient. She fled the eerie place and returned home, her heart pounding, one question pulsing in her mind: What was that?

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  Laughter echoed near the house. Children were playing with a kazzanyak (a heavy rolling hoop). Their bare feet kicked up dust that turned to gold in the sunlight. A freckled boy pushed the hoop with a stick, arguing with a friend: “My strike was better!” A girl with pigtails laughed, her eyes bright as dew. Violetta froze in uncertainty. Her heart ached with the desire to join them. She stepped closer, her tail twitching nervously beneath her dress.

  “Hey, who are you?” the girl shouted. A blonde boy, tanned and arrogant, snorted.

  “Aha! It’s that half-human freak with the tail!” His words cut like a blade.

  The children’s laughter died. The freckled boy clutched the hoop and looked away, his cheeks reddening. The girl with pigtails, whose ears were slightly pointed, looked at Violetta with sadness. Squeezing the hem of her dress, she averted her gaze and whispered: “Don't listen to them...” but went silent, knowing she would be mocked.

  The older ones in the pack laughed. This wasn't play or mischief. It was baring teeth. Sharp as thorns.

  “What did you say?” Violetta stepped forward. Her voice trembled, her eyes blazing. “I’m the same as you!”

  “Ho-ho, the same?” one of the boys spat. “Have you seen your ears? You fox-wraith!”

  “Don't get close to her, or she’ll bite!” another shouted, and a wave of snickering rolled over them like thunder.

  Violetta’s face burned as if slapped. Her tail went rigid. Her fists clenched until her nails bit into her palms. Sweat rolled down her neck. Rage boiled like molten iron.

  What do they think they are?!

  Her eyes stung, not from tears, but from fury. One more word and I’ll break your face, she thought, but she caught herself, remembering Lukia and Todyr. They would be the ones to answer for her actions. They’ll be the ones judged...

  “Morons!” she screamed and sprinted straight for home.

  For my father and mother, I will endure this, she told herself, but the blood still hammered in her temples.

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  Lukia was working outside, Todyr was fixing the millstones. The house was silent until the door creaked. Violetta slipped inside like a ghost. Marunya was grumbling: “Everything is on me again...”

  Violetta, clutching her tail, crawled under the blanket. Her chest was tight with anger; her thoughts hummed like hornets.

  A half-human freak? Why does everyone look at me like that? Just because I’m different?! I hate them!

  She remembered her old world, where the city breathed neon and steel. Fanatics hunted cyborgs, calling them “soulless,” staging pogroms. Their sermons thundered in the squares: “Only flesh is of God!” The Church claimed beast-kin were spawns of darkness.

  Do humans always need an enemy? she wondered.

  Her fingers gripped the coarse, warm blanket that smelled of home. But then her memory turned to the girl with the pointed ears. She was afraid... but she didn't laugh. Maybe she understood? Maybe one day she’ll speak to me? That thought offered a flicker of warmth.

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  That evening, when the moon silvered the walls, Violetta climbed the shelves. Her fingers, careful as a smoketail’s paws, found the treasure—Lukia’s old book. The cracked leather cover, stained with berry ink, smelled of soot and time. The stitching was worn, but the pages were still heavy with magic. The book had been passed down for centuries. Its contents were gentle, like the whisper of the earth.

  She dragged the book behind the stove to her hiding place. She knew only a few letters, but symbols came to life when she touched them, as if someone in her head were unlocking their data.

  Healing magic begins with observation, with feeling. Every body is like a river. A break is like a dam. Healing is the removal of that dam.

  She whispered the words, her fingers stroking the rough pages. Images flared in her mind—white currents flowing through skin like rivers in the night. Closing her eyes, she felt a warmth ignite in her chest like an ember. Mana flowed, small streams merging into her palm. Her hand began to glow with a soft, golden light, laced with white currents that danced like lightwings.

  “Whoa... what is this? Is it real?” Vio whispered, her heart racing. It was incredible—like Lukia’s magic, but different. Living. Part of her soul.

  “What are you doing, child?” Lukia’s voice was very soft.

  Violetta jumped, the book falling, the light dying instantly. She hid her hand behind her back, her heart in her throat. Lukia stood leaning against the doorframe. Her eyes, deep as a river at dusk, held no anger—only a shadow of memory or wonder.

  “I’m sorry...” Violetta whispered, bracing for a scolding.

  Lukia walked over slowly and picked up the book, her fingers trembling. “This is a special book,” she said, her voice tender but stunned. “My mother taught me from this when I was not much older than you. But... you understand what is written here, don't you?”

  Violetta nodded, her eyes wide. Lukia stroked her head. “Very well. We shall learn together.”

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  Violetta sat cross-legged behind the stove, clutching the old book. She was in the shadows where the crystal’s light didn't reach. Her fingers slid over the pages, seeking familiar symbols. A whisper echoed in her mind as if the text were breathing.

  “Here, look,” Lukia whispered, sitting beside her and holding a palm over dried wormwood. “You must feel the mana flow through you. Healing is like watering a plant, only the water is your strength.”

  Her palm glowed with golden light. It was soft, gentle as the morning sun, with faint, almost transparent yellow threads dissolving into the air.

  Violetta held her breath and concentrated. She placed her hand next to her mother’s on the same herb. A pale yellow spark flickered in her palm. But a moment later, the light flared—blinding white at first, then pierced by threads: one golden, followed by two colder, silvery-white ones.

  “Oh...” Lukia gasped. She leaned in closer, her eyes rounding in shock. “How... how are you doing that?”

  Violetta looked up, her ears twitching. “I just felt the warmth... and it just came out.”

  The light didn't fade; instead, thin threads like cobwebs raced across her palm, flashing white-gold and leaving a lingering, snowy shimmer that made Lukia’s heart tighten.

  “Your mana... it’s so powerful,” Lukia whispered. “In my lineage, we never had such colors. Only gold, sometimes a little white...”

  She fell silent, her fingers resting on the herb. The mother looked at the child—the small, strange foundling with such exceptional power. Lukia smiled, though a shadow of doubt still flickered in the depths of her eyes.

  “Perhaps God gives every mother exactly the child she is capable of accepting,” Lukia said softly. “You aren't like the others... but I will teach you everything I know. And then—perhaps one day, you will teach me.”

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  Lying in bed, Violetta listened to the hum of lightwings outside. Their blue glow drew phantoms on the ceiling. She thought of the children, their laughter, and the purple crystal that hid something terrible. She thought of Lukia, who finally saw in her something more than just a girl with fox ears. Zlata and Demko slept nearby. Marunya snored, hugging her pillow. They are my home, Violetta thought, clutching her tail.

  Beyond the fence was a world of pain, magic, and possibility.

  This world doesn't always accept you. But if even one person sees something more in you—that might be enough to keep going.