A haunting, daunted man with a deep scowl loomed over the eight-year-old Ren, whose small wrists were tied tightly to her legs. His robes were ragged and dark, his eyes sunken yet glinting with fanatic conviction. He looked like a holy man, a godman perhaps, but something about him screamed otherwise, not holiness, not compassion, but a cold zeal that belonged more to monsters than saints.
"Begone, filthy being," he hissed, his voice trembling with fervor rather than pity. Before Ren could make sense of his words, he pressed his heavy fist against her right cheek. Pain seared through her skin. She screamed, high and raw, her cry echoing against the damp stone walls. The ring on his finger, carved with the shape of a cross, burned itself into her flesh, leaving behind a red, angry mark that throbbed with heat.
Before she could even register the sting, another wave of pain struck, a sharp backhand across the same cheek, the cross engraving itself deeper. Her vision blurred with tears as she gasped for air that wouldn't come. She tried to stay still, to breathe through the fire spreading across her face, to hold herself together. Somewhere inside her small, trembling body, she kept whispering to herself that she'd get out of this. Somehow. Magically.
Yes, she would. She'd use magic. If only she could.
The thought felt strange, foreign, like something from a faraway dream. Magic was a word she wasn't supposed to think. Her father had forbidden it, warned her that it brought danger, that "their kind" were cruel and unnatural. But what else could possibly save her now? The idea shimmered faintly in her mind like a long-forgotten lullaby.
She opened her mouth to scream again, but the sound refused to come out. Only soft, broken whimpers escaped, the helpless cries of a child too small to understand why the world had turned against her.
Then, all at once, something shifted. The air changed.
A strange wind whirled around her, filling the filthy room with a deep, low hum. The candle flames sputtered and died. The man in front of her froze, his mouth hanging open mid-curse. For a moment, everything seemed to spin, the floor, the walls, her vision as if the whole room had become a storm. The ropes binding her wrists trembled, and the air grew dense with the taste of metal and dust.
The priest, or whatever he was, staggered back. His body began to shimmer, then disintegrate, as though the world had decided to erase him. Bits of stone and splinters of wood tore free from the walls, swirling around her in a violent dance. Ren didn't know if it was coming from her or around her, but the destruction was real, alive, terrifying.
"Help," she managed to whisper. Her voice was almost gone, choked by smoke and debris. The air burned her throat.
Through the chaos, through the haze and the falling ruin, she saw a pair of piercing blue eyes. They glowed faintly through the dust, calm, steady, almost impossibly collected amidst the madness. The eyes moved closer until a figure took form. A tall, older man, his silver hair catching the faintest trace of light from the destruction.
"Please," she croaked, blinking rapidly as tears and grit blurred her vision, "please help me."
When the storm finally began to settle, she could see him clearly. He was old but not frail, but aged with the kind of dignity that comes from surviving many winters. His long coat swayed slightly as he moved, and in his hand was a polished wooden stick.
A wand.
Ren's breath caught in her throat. Instinctively, she flinched, scrambling backward until her back hit the cracked wall. She remembered her father's warnings, to stay away from the magic lot, from the ones who played god with the world.
"Do not be afraid," the man said softly, his voice calm and patient, as though he could sense the fear crawling under her skin. "You have magic in you too."
His words made her freeze. Magic in her? That couldn't be true. Magic was dangerous. Magic was forbidden.
He looked carefully around what was left of the room and the godman then fixated on the ropes restrained her. With a smooth wave of his wand, the ropes that tied her wrists and legs fell away, dissolving into thin air. The sudden freedom made her jerk slightly, unsure if it was real. She looked up at him with wide, unsure eyes.
"I do not," she said shakily, shaking her head so hard that her messy hair stuck to her damp cheeks. "You lot are unkind to my papa."
The man sighed, a long, heavy sigh that carried the weight of disappointment and understanding at once. "Those are the rotten ones from our world," he said gently.
"I'm not part of that world," she muttered, barely loud enough to be heard. The words came out like a plea. She didn't want to be one of them.
He knelt down in front of her, his shadow falling over her small form, and reached out to pat her head. "Some things you cannot deny, Ren."
Her eyes widened instantly. "How do you— how do you know my name?"
He smiled faintly. "I knew your mother. Yuki Kazuki. She was a witty witch....clever, brave, full of fire. I'm sure your mother would love to see you become a witch of your own."
His voice was warm, almost kind, and it carried the same soft cadence that her father's used to have when he read her bedtime stories. For a moment, Ren couldn't move. Her heart tightened at the mention of her mother.
She bowed her head, unsure what to feel. The wound on her cheek burned again, throbbing with renewed pain, a cruel reminder of everything she'd just endured.
"That's going to scar, sadly," he said matter-of-factly, though his tone was laced with something like regret. With a gentle flick of his wand, a cool sensation washed over her skin. The burning eased immediately. When she lifted her trembling fingers to her cheek, the pain was gone replaced by a faint roughness, as if the wound had healed years ago.
Her breathing steadied. She looked up at him again, this time not with fear but with a kind of cautious curiosity.
"I'm sure you'd want to get out of this place, at least," he said quietly, his blue eyes glinting like winter ice.
Ren nodded. She didn't trust her voice anymore. Her small hand reached for his, hesitant at first, then firmer when she realized it was warm. He helped her to her feet, steadying her gently.
"Magic is a part of you," he said softly. "And so are your fangs. One day, you'll learn to embrace them both."
The words hung in the air long after they were spoken, echoing inside her head, through the silence that followed, through the wreckage of the room.