Chapter Text
The dawn was sharp and cold, biting at the edges of Violet’s fingers as she adjusted her hat. It was the beginning of the week, and though she had no great conviction in it, she’d once again decided to attempt to get her life together. That meant finding work where she could, taking on whatever task came her way. This morning, it was gathering firewood.
She rode out towards the tree line, her horse moving swiftly beneath her. She didn’t even hold the reins. She never needed to. The beast knew her movements, knew where she wanted to go. Her leather coat kept the worst of the cold out, though the morning chill still pressed against her skin.
Dismounting, she swung the axe from her back with ease. She set to work quickly, the blade crashing into the wood with every clean, steady stroke. It didn’t take long before her bag was full of chopped logs. When the work was done, she wiped the sweat from her brow, shouldered her load, and whistled. Her horse, having wandered off to chew at a patch of dead grass, lifted its head and trotted back to her side.
The farmer was waiting when she arrived, wrapped in a heavy wool cardigan. Without a word, he handed her a bag of coins and a piece of bread still warm from the oven. She tucked the money into her satchel and leaned against the wall of the cottage, tearing into the bread. The warmth spread through her, filling the emptiness in her stomach. The work had left her tired and sweaty, and now, for a moment, she simply enjoyed the food.
“You still hungry?” The farmer’s voice cut through the quiet.
She lifted her eyes from under the brim of her hat, chewing the last of the bread.
“I can offer grilled pork sausages for one more task.”
“And money?” she asked, unwilling to take on an unfair trade.
“A jug of milk in addition,” the farmer said. “Times are difficult.”
She hesitated, weighing the offer. Her stomach growled, and she sympathized. These were hard times, and a full meal was nothing to turn down.
“What’s the job?” she asked at last.
Reaching into his cardigan, he pulled out four buttons, dark and polished, made of semi-precious opals. They shone dark blue, catching the weak light. He pressed them into her palm, his fingers cold and rough.
“Thread these into the scarecrows’ heads out back,” he said quickly, as if he were giving away an urgent secret.
Violet turned the buttons in her hand, feeling their weight. Something about the way he spoke, the speed of it, made her wary.
“You fear crows in the dead of winter?” she asked.
The farmer inhaled sharply, then spat to the floor. His expression hardened. “It’s to keep these witches out.”
His tone was thick with something ugly—distrust, hatred, the kind that had turned into superstition over years of whispers. These tales were always about women twisted into things that men could fear.
She glanced past him. In the field beyond the cottage, the scarecrows stood tall and silent, their ragged forms shifting in the wind, waiting for their eyes.
**
The sky was burning. Violet’s young feet pounded the dirt as she sprinted up the hill, her breath ragged, her heart hammering in her chest. The wind howled past her ears, pushing against her but she fought through it. Her eyes were fixed on the thick column of smoke rising on the horizon.
The caravan was burning up, flames licking greedily at the wooden frame, swallowing fabric, devouring the home that once carried them from place to place. The scent of burning oil, wood, and flesh, turned her stomach. She stumbled forward, crying out, her voice breaking apart in the hot wind.
“Powder!”
Nothing.
“Powder!”
Her sister wasn’t answering. On the side her parents lay motionless near the wreckage. Face-down and unmoving. Their bodies were just shapes, ruined and unnatural in the dirt. She couldn’t look at them. A scream clawed at her throat, but nothing came out. She felt weightless, detached. As if she had been yanked out of herself, looking at the scene from somewhere else.
She thought of the rabbits she was out hunting, of their limp little bodies, of the ease with which she had taken their lives. It had felt so insignificant then. And now her heart was tearing itself open at the confrontation of death.
A choked sob wrenched from her lips.
“Please,” she begged, to no one, to the sky, to anything that would listen. “Please be alive.”
She heard a humming at a distance. It cut through the crackling fire, the single tune of a lullaby. Her breath caught.
She turned to find the origin of the voice. Standing just beyond the flames, was her sister. Powder’s small figure stood frozen like a puppet, her head slightly tilted. Her short blue hair stirred in the wind, untouched by the embers floating through the air. And her eyes were two cold blue shining opals.
Violet stumbled backward. Her lips parted to speak—but before she could make a sound, Powder’s body jerked. Her arms hung limp, her body swaying slightly, like a scarecrow in the wind.
Violet woke up.
A sharp gasp tore from her throat as she bolted upright, her body still tangled in the hay of her makeshift bed. Her chest heaved, her hands clutched at the air as if she could claw her way out of the dream, back into something solid.
She pressed her palm against her forehead. Her skin was damp with sweat. She felt hollowed out. Through the cracks of the wooden walls, sunlight leaked into the dim space—weak and pale. She had barely napped this morning after the wood cutting. With a slow, shaky breath, she pushed herself up and sat still for a long moment. Her heartbeat was still thudding in her ears, the humming still lingering in her head.
She needed to move, to act, to get out of this hazy state. Her eyes caught the box of now cold grilled pork sausages resting on a table. She had one more thing on her list for the day, and perhaps this was the right moment to take it on.
She grabbed her coat, pulled on her boots, and pushed open the door. The midday sun hit her face and painted the waking town underneath.
**
Jo sat hunched at his table, long, wiry fingers weaving baskets with lazy movements, a toothpick balanced between his teeth. The atelier smelled of damp reeds and varnished wood. His jaw still carried the deep purple bruising from the saloon fight a few nights prior. His long legs sprawled awkwardly beneath the small workbench, one knee jutting at an odd angle as he tried to find space in the cramped room for his slender legs.
A shadow stretched over the basket he was working on. His eyes darted up.
“Oh, fuck no,” he muttered.
Violet grinned subtly. “Hi, Jo. Miss me?”
He let out a long-suffering groan. “I think you got what you wanted. Why are you here?”
She slid a box under his nose. The rich scent of grilled pork and spices filled the room, cutting through the dampness. Jo’s eyes flickered to the food, suspicion giving way to hunger.
“Peace offering?” She asked.
With a sigh, he plucked the toothpick from his mouth and used it to skewer a sausage from the box, shoving it into his mouth with a grunt. Violet grabbed a chair from the corner, dragging it to the table. She sat across from him as he chewed, his expression sour but his hands still reaching for more.
“You’re lucky I dissuaded Viktor from fining you,” Jo muttered, still chewing, giving her a pointed look.
Violet contained her smile. She knew it was the other way around—that Viktor had talked Jo down, had stopped the old drunk. But she let him have his pride and played along.
“Thanks for that,” she said smoothly, picking up a sausage of her own.
They ate in silence for a moment, the tension between them fading, softened by the food. “I wanted to apologize,” she said finally. “I had stuff going on. Shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
Jo muttered something under his breath, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “There’s always stuff with you,” he said, shaking his head. “You were always an angry stray cat.”
He chuckled, more to himself than anything. “Wandering around like a little justice warrior. Picking fights with losers like me. Serving the old ladies.”
His tone was dry, but something in it softened. “Well, I was a prick the other night. Always have been,” he admitted, scratching at his cheek. “Got to say, it just caught me off guard.” His chuckle was rough.
Violet listened, chewing slowly, letting him talk. A quiet settled between them, but Jo was the first to break it.
“You’ve been coming to the saloon a lot,” he said, his tone shifting, the amusement replaced by something more serious. “Don’t think that’s good for you.”
Her jaw tensed. “Well, everyone seems to know what’s good for me.”
Jo snickered. “Ah, don’t get all angsty on me, c’mon. I just don’t think you want to wind up like me.”
She scoffed, but there was no heat behind it. “So inspirational, Jo.”
He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, rubbing his hands together. “You just need food to tame an old wolf like me.”
Violet watched him, her gaze tracing the old scars along his knuckles, the deep lines on his weathered face. The war had left its mark on him, the same way it had left its mark on this place. The Kingdom of the West had been the last to fall, and Pine was its legacy—a poor, dying village, clinging to what little remained.
“So, we’re good?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jo waved her off. “I think I learned my lesson.”
But Violet didn’t move. She lingered, eyes dragging over the faint scars that crossed his cheek, the places where knives and fists had left their history. Jo didn’t seem to mind—half dozing now, his unfinished basket abandoned.
“You never joined the revolution, did you?” she asked.
Jo let out a low grunt, his response immediate. “God, no.” His voice dropped into a whisper, thick with something unspoken. “The war was enough.”
His eyes stayed closed for a moment, but when he opened them, they were dark, shadowed. “Don’t be mistaken, I was angry too,” he admitted. “But during the revolution, everyone could be called a traitor. It was just an excuse to kill your neighbor.” He clicked his tongue, making a sharp pssht sound, as if mimicking a blade through air.
Violet studied him, quiet. Then he glanced at her sideways. “But your parents didn’t join either, did they?”
Her muscles tensed. “What do you know about my parents?”
He lifted his hands lazily, palms open, a gesture of peace. “The trader community is small.” He shrugged, then added, “And I get it. They had no business in the war or the revolution. Nothing to really fight for.”
She let out a slow breath, forcing herself to calm. Her temper had flared, unbidden. “My parents wanted to protect my sister and me,” she said, her voice tight.
Jo smiled, biting the inside of his cheek. “Mmm. Yes, indeed. Though the shimmer drugs were in high demand.” He tilted his head slightly. “I’m sure they profited off it.”
The chair scraped sharply against the floor as Violet stood. “We didn’t deal in drugs,” she said, her voice hard.
Jo raised his hands again, his eyes flickering with something uneasy—fear, maybe, remembering how her fist had felt against his jaw. “I’m not judging.” He held her gaze. “Everyone had to get by somehow.”
Her breath was shallow, fists curled at her sides. Then she stepped back. The chair behind her tipped, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
“Fuck off,” she muttered, then more quietly, “I don’t even know why I came.”
She turned sharply on her heel, boots clicking against the floor as she pushed open the door. It slammed shut behind her, leaving Jo alone with his unfinished basket, his bruises, and whatever thoughts still lingered in his old head.
But as Violet walked, the words still echoed in her mind. She wondered if her voice had betrayed her doubts.
**
After the morning’s work, after the dream, after Jo—she had promised herself that this week would be different. No distractions, no slipping. And yet, here she was, nursing a drink.
Behind her, a group of men were tangled in a rowdy card game, their laughter sharp and slurred. One of them, a younger man, threw his cards down with an exaggerated sigh.
“Ah, piss on this game Eli,” he grumbled, slouching back in his chair.
His opponent, grinning through a mouthful of crooked teeth, scooped up his winnings with glee. “Shoulda known better.”
The young man, still sore, waved a lazy hand in the air. “Yeah, yeah—mother midnight’ll get ya, you keep that up.”
The words were spoken in jest, lost in the noise of the saloon. The men cackled, moving on to the next round, their voices blending into the hum of the room.
Violet took another sip, lazily following the card game from afar, letting the warmth settle in her gut. Some time passed—long enough for her drink to empty.
The bathroom was dimly lit, a small washroom tucked in the back of the saloon. She braced herself against the sink, twisting the rusted faucet until water trickled over her hands. It was freezing against her skin. She let it run for a moment.
When she lifted her head, she saw the mirror. And she wasn’t alone.
A face loomed just over her shoulder—eerily pale, framed in a dark veil of shadows. Eyes deep and so piercing, glinting like something not entirely of this world. The same eyes she had seen in the valley, cutting through the night like twin stars in the dark.
Violet’s breath hitched. She spun around, heart lurching in her chest. The bathroom was empty. Just the flickering candlelight and the sound of dripping water.
Slowly, she turned back to the mirror. The shade was gone.
A sharp curse left her lips. She placed a hand on the edge of the sink to steady herself, the cold porcelain grounding her. Then, hesitantly, she lifted her fingers to the glass, tracing its edges, pressing her palm flat against its surface as if it might reveal a secret. The mirror was solid beneath her touch, smooth and unyielding.