William Thatcher learned early that life was not shaped by grand moments or heroic deeds, but by small, ordinary things that repeated themselves day after day until they became part of who you were. It was shaped by the warm, comforting smell of fresh bread rising in the oven before dawn, by the soft creak of floorboards beneath his father's boots as Thomas crossed the cottage each morning, and by the gentle sound of his mother's voice drifting through the rooms as she sang while she worked. These quiet details formed the borders of his world, giving it shape and meaning, and within them, William had always felt safe, sheltered from whatever troubles might exist beyond the rolling hills.
Willowbrook itself seemed built for that kind of quiet life. It rested in a shallow valley between low, green ridges that softened the wind and caught the morning mist, while wide fields stretched outward in every direction, their colours shifting with the seasons from the bright gold of summer to the dull, tired grey of winter. A narrow dirt road wound through the village like a forgotten thread, used mostly by merchants and travellers who rarely stayed long enough to learn the names of the people who lived there. Most passed through without a second glance, and Willowbrook returned to its silence as though they had never come at all. William preferred it that way. He liked knowing every face he passed, every fence post and hedgerow, every rise and dip in the land that had shaped his childhood.
He had never wished for more than this.
Most mornings, he rose before the sun, when the sky was still pale and uncertain and the air carried the sharp chill of night. He would pull on his boots with stiff fingers and follow his father out into the fields, their breath forming faint clouds as they walked. Dew clung to the grass, soaking the hems of their trousers, and the soil was cold beneath their feet, dark and rich with the promise of another harvest. Thomas Thatcher walked ahead with steady purpose, his shoulders broad and his posture unbending, as though the weight of years and responsibility had only made him stronger. To William, his father seemed as much a part of the land as the trees and fences.
Thomas believed, with unshakable certainty, that honest work created honest men, and he treated the fields as both classroom and church. "Straight lines," he would say patiently, standing close behind William and guiding his hands on the wooden handles of the plough. "You respect the land, and it'll respect you back. Crooked work gives crooked crops." His voice was calm but firm, shaped by years of repetition and quiet conviction.
William tried with all his strength to follow his instructions, even when his arms trembled from the strain and his shoulders burned with fatigue. The plough cut stubbornly through the earth, and more than once he stumbled as the blade caught on hidden stones, but he forced himself to straighten and continue. He did not want to disappoint his father. He wanted to be worthy of the trust placed in him.
"You're getting better," Thomas would say after a while, resting a hand on William's shoulder and giving it a brief, approving squeeze. "Didn't think you had it in you at first, but you're proving me wrong."
Those words mattered more to William than he ever admitted. They lingered with him long after the work was done, echoing quietly in his thoughts as he went about his day, reminding him that he was growing, that he was becoming something more than just a boy in worn boots and dirt-stained hands.
When the morning's labour was finished, he would return home to find his mother already awake, moving about the cottage with practiced grace, her dark hair tied back and her sleeves rolled to the elbow. Eliza Thatcher had a way of making even the simplest tasks seem purposeful, as though every loaf she baked and every floor she swept was part of some greater design. She greeted him each day with a tired but genuine smile and placed warm bread and thin broth before him as though it were a feast.
"How are my two farmers this morning?" she would ask lightly, setting a hand on his head and ruffling his hair.
"Starving," William would reply with exaggerated seriousness, and she would laugh softly, the sound filling the small room with warmth.
It was in moments like these, surrounded by familiar voices and familiar walls, that William felt most certain that nothing could ever truly harm them. The world beyond Willowbrook seemed distant and unreal, filled with stories and rumours that never quite reached his door. Wars were fought elsewhere. Kings and queens argued somewhere far away. Faith and politics and power belonged to people whose lives were larger and louder than his own.
Here, there were only fields, family, and the slow passing of seasons.
And for a long time, that was enough
By late morning, the sun had climbed high enough to burn away the last traces of mist, leaving the fields open beneath a wide, pale sky. The soil clung stubbornly to William's boots as he walked beside his father, and the steady rhythm of their work had settled into his muscles, each movement familiar from years of repetition. The plough cut through the earth in slow, even lines, turning dark soil to the surface, while birds circled lazily overhead, searching for insects disturbed by their passing.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. Thomas focused on guiding the horse with quiet clicks of his tongue, and William concentrated on keeping his hands steady, though his thoughts kept drifting back to the rumours he had overheard near the road the evening before. At last, unable to hold his curiosity any longer, he cleared his throat and asked, "Father… is it true what people are saying about the travellers at the inn?"
Thomas did not answer immediately. He adjusted his grip on the reins and watched the plough for several steps before replying, his voice measured and cautious. "What have you heard?"
"They said some people came through last night," William continued, his brow furrowing as he struggled to put the fragments together. "From villages a few towns away. They said the Church is… is burning people. Burning them alive. Because of the Queen." He hesitated, then added quietly, "Is that really happening?"
At that, Thomas finally slowed the horse, bringing it to a halt at the edge of the field. He leaned on the plough handles for a moment, staring out across the rows of turned earth as though searching for the right words among them. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, stripped of its usual ease. "There were refugees at the inn last night," he admitted. "Three families. They'd walked for days. Lost everything they had." He exhaled slowly. "They said the Church has declared the Queen a heretic. Said anyone who supports her is an enemy of God."
William swallowed. "So they're… attacking villages?"
"They're 'purifying' them," Thomas replied bitterly. "That's what they call it. March in with priests and soldiers, gather people in the square, make examples of them. Anyone who questions them. Anyone who doesn't fit their idea of faithful."
"But why?" William asked, his voice small. "Why would they hurt people who haven't done anything wrong?"
Thomas's jaw tightened, and for a moment it seemed as though he might not answer at all. When he finally did, his words were careful, chosen with deliberate restraint. "Sometimes, when powerful men are afraid of losing control, they look for someone to blame. And sometimes… they decide fear is easier than understanding."
William frowned, sensing there was more his father was not saying. "Is that why they don't like us?" he asked hesitantly. "Why they look at Mother so strangely sometimes?"
Thomas turned sharply at that, surprise flashing across his face before he masked it. He studied his son for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then placed a firm hand on William's shoulder. "You listen to me," he said quietly. "Your mother is a good woman. She's kinder than most people I've ever known. Whatever anyone says, there's nothing wrong with her. Or with you."
"But—"
"That's enough," Thomas interrupted gently but firmly. He straightened and took up the reins again. "Some things aren't meant for a boy your age to worry about. Not yet."
He clicked his tongue, and the horse began to move once more, the plough biting back into the soil. "Come on," he added, his voice returning to its usual steadiness. "We've still got half this field to finish before sunset. No sense letting rumours slow us down."
William nodded and returned his attention to the work, though his thoughts continued to churn beneath the surface. As they walked on in silence, the neat lines of freshly turned earth stretching behind them, he could not shake the feeling that something unseen was closing in around their quiet valley, something far larger and more dangerous than any of them were prepared to face.
By the time evening settled over Willowbrook, the sky had faded into soft shades of purple and grey, and the fields beyond the cottage lay quiet beneath the gathering dusk. Inside, the small kitchen glowed with lamplight and the gentle warmth of the hearth, filling the air with the comforting scent of simmering stew and baked bread. Eliza moved steadily between table and stove, her skirts brushing the floor as she stirred, tasted, and adjusted the pot with practiced ease, humming faintly under her breath as though trying to hold back her worries through music alone.
William sat at the small wooden table, turning a spoon slowly between his fingers, his thoughts still tangled in everything his father had told him that morning. He watched his mother for a while before finally speaking. "Father said some people came through the inn last night," he began cautiously. "They said the Church is burning villages. Because of the Queen."
Eliza's hand paused for just a moment over the pot before she resumed stirring, though William noticed the slight stiffness in her shoulders. "Did he?" she replied lightly, as though the subject were of little importance. "Your father listens too much to frightened travelers."
"But he said they lost everything," William continued, his voice earnest. "Their homes, their families. Is that really happening?"
Eliza turned then, leaning against the counter as she regarded him with a mixture of tenderness and concern. "There are dangerous times in the world, William," she said quietly. "There always have been. When people are afraid, they do terrible things and tell themselves they're right for doing them."
William hesitated, then asked the question that had been circling his thoughts all day. "Why do they look at us differently sometimes? At you, I mean." He glanced down at the table. "At church, and in the village. It's like they think we're… strange."
Eliza crossed the room and sat beside him, taking his hands in her own, her fingers warm and reassuring. "My mother taught me things," she said softly after a moment. "About herbs, about healing, about how the world works in ways most people never stop to notice. Her mother taught her the same. We learned to listen to the land, to understand plants and seasons, to help people when they were sick." She smiled faintly. "Not everyone trusts what they don't understand."
"Is that… magic?" William asked hesitantly, his eyes lifting to meet hers.
Eliza laughed gently, though there was a trace of sadness beneath the sound. "Magic is a dangerous word," she replied. "Some people believe it means wickedness. Others believe it means miracles. Most of the time, it's just another way of saying that the world is bigger than we expect."
"Can people really do magical things?" William pressed. "Like in the stories?"
She tilted her head thoughtfully. "Some people are born with unusual gifts," she admitted. "Some see things others miss. Some can feel the world more deeply. But those gifts can be a burden as much as a blessing."
William considered this, then asked quietly, "Do I have anything like that?"
Eliza studied his face for a long moment, her expression softening. Then she smiled and reached up to brush his hair from his eyes. "William," she said warmly, "you can do anything you set your mind to. You work harder than anyone I know. You're kind. You pay attention. That's a kind of magic all on its own."
He smiled at that, comforted, though not entirely satisfied.
At that moment, the cottage door creaked open, and Thomas stepped inside, carrying with him the cool night air and the faint smell of smoke from the inn's hearth. "Smells wonderful in here," he said tiredly, setting aside his coat.
Eliza rose at once. "You're back early," she replied, though there was relief in her voice.
William looked between them, sensing that whatever his parents had learned that evening had followed his father home, settling invisibly in the corners of their small, warm kitchen.
By the time William climbed into bed, the cottage had settled into its familiar nighttime quiet, the kind that came only after every chore had been finished and every lamp but one had been dimmed, leaving the hearth to glow faintly beneath its blanket of ash. Outside, the valley lay wrapped in darkness, broken only by the distant call of an owl and the whisper of wind in the hedgerows, and inside, the house creaked softly as though breathing in its sleep. William lay beneath his quilt staring up at the low wooden beams, his body heavy with exhaustion yet his thoughts restless, returning again and again to the stories his father had told him that morning, to the frightened travelers who had passed through the inn, and to villages he could not picture except as smudges of fire and smoke in his imagination.
He had nearly drifted into an uneasy half-sleep when he became aware of his parents' voices drifting quietly from the other room, low and careful, shaped by the belief that he was already dreaming. "It's worse than I thought," Thomas was saying in a voice stripped of its usual steadiness, and William turned slightly toward the wall, listening as Eliza answered in a tense whisper, "How bad?" His father sighed, and William could hear the scrape of a chair as he shifted his weight. "Three villages already, maybe more. They're moving north every week. They're not just questioning people anymore. They're taking names, dragging them into the square at dawn." Eliza's breath caught, and she asked softly, "What do you mean, dragging them out?" to which Thomas replied, "They burned a whole family in Greywick. Parents. Two children. Said it was purification."
The words made William's stomach twist beneath his blankets, and he pressed his hands against his chest as though to steady himself. In the other room, Eliza whispered, "Oh God," and Thomas went on more quietly, "They're hunting anyone who stands out, anyone who doesn't fit their idea of righteous. Anyone like you." There was a long pause before Eliza answered, her voice trembling. "Because of my family," she said. "Because of what my mother and grandmother taught me." Thomas replied at once, "Yes. The priest has never trusted you, not since we were young. He's always hated your remedies, your tinctures and tonics and salves. He says no woman should know that much about healing without the Church." Eliza's voice wavered as she answered, "He's said it since I was a girl. He always looks at me like I'm hiding something," and Thomas murmured, "He's been waiting for an excuse, Eliza. Now he's got one."
William squeezed his eyes shut, remembering the priest's narrow gaze and the way his sermons grew sharper whenever his mother had helped someone recently. "They're whispering about witches," Thomas continued, lowering his voice even further. "They're saying healers are servants of evil." Eliza inhaled sharply. "I've never hurt anyone," she whispered. "I've only tried to help." "I know," Thomas replied, his voice thick with frustration. "But truth doesn't matter to them anymore."
For a while, neither of them spoke, and William could hear the faint crackle of the dying fire between their words. Then Eliza asked, "What are we going to do?" and Thomas hesitated before answering, "I think we should leave. Go to my cousin near London. He said he'd help us if things ever got bad." Eliza replied at once, her voice filled with grief, "This is our home. My family has lived here for generations. We're farmers, Thomas. We don't belong in cities." He answered gently but firmly, "We'll learn. We always have. And staying means losing everything anyway." "And if we fail?" she asked. "If we lose what little we have?" "We lose it if we stay too," he said quietly.
Their voices softened then, heavy with fear and exhaustion. "I'm scared," Eliza admitted. "Every time someone rides past the house, I think it's them." "So do I," Thomas confessed. "I won't let them take you or William," he added fiercely, though his words trembled with the knowledge that he might not be able to keep that promise. "You can't fight the Church," Eliza whispered. "I'll try," he replied, and she answered sadly, "They won't spare us, Thomas. Not me. Not you. Not him." "No," he agreed. "They won't."
When they began to speak of magic, the word barely audible, their voices dropped into murmurs that William struggled to follow, catching only fragments—"dangerous," "he mustn't know," "protect him," "promise me"—before exhaustion finally began to pull him under. The sounds of their whispered planning blurred into the creaking of the house and the sigh of the wind, and his thoughts grew slow and heavy. Somewhere in the distance, he heard Thomas murmur, "We'll run if we have to," and Eliza answer, "As long as he's safe," and then even those words faded as sleep claimed him, carrying him into restless dreams of smoke, shadow, and hands reaching for him in the dark.
William awoke to screaming.
At first, it threaded itself into his dreams, blending with half-formed images and distant echoes, but within moments it grew sharper and more insistent, tearing through his sleep until he sat upright with a gasp. Outside the cottage, voices rose in panic and terror, tangled with the clash of metal and the thunder of running feet, and somewhere in the village, the great bell began to ring in wild, uneven bursts, its frantic tolling unlike anything William had ever heard before. It was not calling people to prayer or gathering them for market. It was crying out in warning.
Before he could make sense of it, his door burst open.
"William," Thomas whispered urgently, striding across the room and gripping his son's arm. "Up. Now. We have to go."
His father's face was pale and drawn, his eyes wide with fear and determination, his hair uncombed and his shirt hastily fastened, as though he had been pulled from bed by the same panic that now filled the house. William blinked, his heart already racing.
"Father, what's happening?" he asked, his voice trembling as another scream pierced the air. "Why is everyone shouting?"
"No time," Thomas replied sharply, hauling him to his feet. "Get dressed. Help your mother. We're leaving."
He hurried William down the narrow corridor, where Eliza was already moving in frantic circles, pulling bread from cupboards, shoving clothes into a sack, and scattering more than she managed to gather as her shaking hands betrayed her. Her face was pale, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
"They're here," she whispered hoarsely. "They've come early."
"They weren't meant to," Thomas muttered as he stuffed supplies into a bag. "We were supposed to have weeks."
"They're in the square," Eliza said. "Calling names."
William stood frozen, watching his parents move with desperate speed. "Who's here?" he asked quietly. "What are they doing?"
Thomas knelt in front of him, gripping his shoulders. "They're taking people," he said lowly. "And they won't stop unless we're gone."
Outside, smoke drifted through the open window, carrying the bitter smell of burning timber.
"We'll go south," Eliza whispered.
"They'll block the road," Thomas replied. "Forest. It's our only chance."
They fled through the back door and into the grey light of dawn.
Willowbrook had become unrecognisable.
Houses smouldered. Villagers ran through the streets in torn clothes and bare feet. Soldiers marched in lines, dragging crying families toward the square while priests shouted prayers that sounded more like curses. The bell rang on, cracked and desperate, as though mourning its own village.
They had barely reached the edge of the fields when a voice rang out.
"There!" the priest shouted, pointing at Eliza. "That woman! Witch!"
Several soldiers turned.
"Run!" Thomas cried.
They ran.
They plunged into the forest, branches tearing at their clothes, roots threatening to trip them at every step, breath burning in their lungs as armoured men thundered after them. William could hear the pursuit growing closer, hear the shouted orders and the scrape of steel.
"Don't stop," Eliza gasped. "No matter what."
Then Thomas slowed.
He seized a fallen branch and tore it free. "I'll hold them," he said.
"No," Eliza cried. "Thomas, please."
He cupped her face, his voice breaking. "You take him. Get him safe."
William clutched at him. "Father, don't leave us."
Thomas pressed his forehead to William's. "I love you," he whispered fiercely. "Protect your mother. Always."
Then he turned and ran back toward the soldiers.
"Thomas!" Eliza screamed.
William barely saw his father raise the branch before steel and bodies swallowed him.
Eliza dragged William onward, sobbing openly now, their feet slipping on damp leaves as they fled deeper into the forest. Behind them came shouts and the sound of struggle. Then, suddenly, Eliza cried out sharply and collapsed.
"Mother!" William screamed.
An arrow jutted from her back.
He dragged her behind a fallen log, his hands slick with blood as he tried uselessly to press against the wound. "Stay with me," he begged. "Please."
She smiled weakly, her breath shallow. "My brave boy," she whispered, lifting a trembling hand to his face.
"I'm scared," he sobbed.
"I know," she murmured. "I always knew you would be."
He stared at her. "What do you mean?"
Her eyes softened, filled with memories and love. "From the day you were born," she whispered, "the stars shone brighter than they ever had. The wind whispered your name. Even the trees seemed to listen. My mother said it was a sign." She coughed softly. "She said you were different. That you were meant for something more."
"I just want you," he cried.
She shook her head gently. "You have a destiny, William. A great one. Bigger than this valley. Bigger than all of us. And I have always been so proud to be your mother."
Tears streamed down his face. "I love you."
"I love you more than life," she whispered. "Now run. Live. Be strong. Remember who you are."
Her hand slipped from his cheek.
Her eyes closed.
William held her for a long moment, shaking, pressing his forehead to hers, until distant shouts reminded him that danger was still near. With a broken sob, he stood, took one last look at her peaceful face, and fled into the forest, carrying nothing with him but grief, fear, and the first spark of the destiny she had seen in him since the day he was born
William ran.
He ran without direction, without thought, driven only by terror and the instinct to survive, his lungs burning and his legs screaming in protest as he fled through the tangled forest. Branches clawed at his face and arms, tearing at his clothes and skin alike, while roots rose suddenly from the earth like hidden snares, catching his boots and sending him stumbling forward again and again. More than once he fell hard against the ground, his palms scraping against stone and dirt, but each time he forced himself back to his feet, sobbing and gasping, refusing to stop no matter how desperately his body begged him to.
Behind him, the sounds of pursuit grew louder.
Horses crashed through undergrowth, armour clattered, and harsh voices cut through the trees, filled with cruelty and triumph. "Run, witch's brat!" one of the soldiers shouted. "Let's see how far you get!" Another laughed loudly and called, "Your Father screamed just like a pig, you know that?" The words sliced into William's heart more painfully than any wound, but he did not turn back. He could not. If he did, he knew he would never move again.
He burst through a curtain of hanging vines and nearly plunged headlong into empty space.
He skidded to a halt at the edge of a vast canyon, his boots slipping on loose gravel as he threw his arms out to steady himself. Before him yawned a deep, jagged chasm, its walls plunging sharply into shadow, so wide and so steep that he could not see the bottom. A thin mist drifted up from somewhere far below, and the distant sound of water echoed faintly through the void. The only path across was a fallen tree trunk, stripped of bark and bleached pale by time, lying precariously from one side to the other like a fragile bridge.
His heart hammered wildly in his chest.
There was no time to think.
He scrambled onto the trunk and began inching forward, his arms stretched wide for balance, his fingers clutching desperately at rough, splintered wood. Beneath him, the canyon seemed to breathe, pulling at him with invisible hands, promising darkness and death if he faltered. Every step felt uncertain, every movement a gamble.
Halfway across, he heard the soldiers arrive.
They reined in their horses at the edge of the ravine and dismounted with exaggerated leisure, their laughter echoing cruelly through the open space. "Look at him," one of them sneered. "Like a frightened little mouse." Another leaned on his spear and called out, "Go on, boy. Dance for us." They shoved one another playfully, daring each other to follow. "You try," one said. "I'm not risking my neck for that runt."
One soldier stepped onto the trunk, wobbling instantly as his foot slipped. He swore loudly and jumped back, to roaring laughter from the others. "Not worth it," he said, brushing dirt from his trousers. "Let him fall on his own."
William clung to the tree, trembling, his knuckles white, tears blurring his vision. For one desperate moment, he thought he might be safe.
Then someone nocked an arrow.
"Let's have some fun," a voice said cheerfully.
The first arrow whistled past his head and vanished into the mist below.
William cried out and froze.
Another followed, striking the trunk inches from his hand. "Oops," a soldier laughed. "Missed." More arrows came, deliberately wide, deliberately cruel, embedding themselves in wood and stone around him as the men howled with amusement. One grazed his sleeve. Another cut through a lock of his hair. Each near miss made his grip weaker, his balance more uncertain.
Then one flew too close.
It clipped the trunk directly beneath his foot.
The wood splintered.
William slipped.
For a single, terrible heartbeat, he hung in the air, fingers clawing uselessly at nothing, his scream tearing from his throat as the world tipped violently away from him. Then he was falling.
Wind roared past his ears. The canyon walls blurred into streaks of stone and shadow. His stomach lurched violently, twisting in on itself as though he were being crushed and stretched at once, dragged through some invisible tunnel that grew tighter and tighter with every passing second.
I'm sorry, he thought desperately.
I'm sorry, Father. I'm sorry I couldn't protect her.
I'm sorry, Mother. I tried. I really tried.
He remembered Thomas's last words. Be brave. Protect your mother. He had failed. He had failed them both. Tears streamed from his eyes and vanished into the rushing air.
As fear overwhelmed him completely, something deep inside him began to stir.
It was not a thought or a sound, but a sudden pressure in his chest, like a tightly coiled spring snapping loose, like heat and light struggling to break free all at once. His heart thundered. His body felt wrong, stretched thin, caught between places, between moments. The world seemed to twist around him, folding inward, crushing and reshaping itself in impossible ways.
The roaring wind vanished.
The falling stopped.
There was only silence.
Only darkness.
And then nothing at all.