Aira nearly tore the book apart in frustration.
She had worked tirelessly for that rchant, pushing herself beyond exhaustion just to get her hands on this one thing—a book that, in her desperation, had seed like a key to sothing greater.
But now, as she stared at the pages, all she saw were symbols and letters that ant nothing to her. The ink had not faded with ti, the pages were still intact, yet the aning of the words was locked away, just beyond her reach.
Her heart pounded with rage.
All that effort... for nothing.
She had thought this book would contain knowledge, sothing that could help her, sothing that could make her strong. But now, it was just another reminder of how powerless she truly was.
Aira threw the book across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud before falling to the floor, pages flipping wildly. The sight of it, discarded like trash, only deepened the frustration twisting inside her.
Her hands trembled. Her chest felt tight.
She had risked so much. For what?
For a book she couldn't even read?
The reality of her situation weighed heavily on her. She could not rely on luck. She could not rely on chance. If she wanted to understand this book—if she wanted to break free from this life—she needed to learn.
But who could teach her?
Certainly not the villagers. None of them could read. Books were rare here, ant only for priests and nobles. If she was caught with it, she might be accused of sothing worse than curiosity.
She could not ask for help.
She could only find her own way.
Taking a deep breath, she walked toward the book and picked it up from the floor. The leather cover was worn, the edges frayed, but it still felt solid in her hands. The unknown script stared back at her, taunting her with its secrecy.
I will learn this, she promised herself. No matter how long it takes.
But she did not have the luxury of ti.
Because winter had arrived.
The Disease That Ca Like Death Itself
Winter ca early that year, and with it, death.
The first to fall ill was a young boy from the neighbouring house. It began with a fever, then chills, then a deep, wet cough that rattled his tiny fra. His mother prayed. His father begged the priest for a blessing. They paid what little they had for holy water, for divine protection.
But nothing stopped the sickness.
By the second week, his skin had turned gray. He vomited blood. His body was covered in sores.
By the third week, he was dead.
And he was only the first.
The disease spread fast, too fast. Within days, the village was filled with the sounds of coughing, the wails of grieving mothers, the silence of those too weak to cry anymore.
Aira watched helplessly as entire families fell.
The priest called it a curse, punishnt for sin. He told the villagers that only faith would save them, that the church's blessings would protect those who were truly devout. And yet, he never entered the hos of the sick. He never touched the dying.
No one did.
Aira's mother held her siblings close, whispering desperate prayers. Her big brother worked harder in the fields, pretending as if nothing had changed. But Aira saw the fear in their eyes.
They knew it was only a matter of ti before the sickness reached them.
People began to avoid each other, afraid that even standing too close would invite death into their hos. Those who were sick were abandoned—left in their houses with no food, no help. If they died, their bodies were dragged out and burned.
But the worst was the silence.
There were no funerals, no mourning. Only empty streets and whispers of dread.
Aira's stomach twisted every ti she stepped outside. The village no longer felt alive. It was a place of ghosts, waiting for the sickness to claim its next victim.
Her hands clenched into fists.
If she couldn't even read a book, how was she supposed to survive this?
She needed to do sothing.
She needed a plan.
But before she could think of anything—her sister started coughing.
A Choice of Survival
The sound was soft at first. A little breathless. A little weak.
Then it grew worse. Deep, rattling, wet.
Aira's blood ran cold.
Her mother clutched her sister tightly, rocking her back and forth as if trying to will the sickness away. But no prayer would help. No blessing would save her.
And Aira knew it.
She also knew what the villagers would do if they found out.
Her mother knew it too.
That night, while the village was asleep, her mother did sothing unthinkable.
She wrapped Aira's sister in blankets and carried her out of the house. Aira followed silently, dread curling inside her stomach.
They walked beyond the village, through the snow-covered fields, past the broken fences and into the woods. Her sister whimpered weakly, her tiny hands gripping their mother's clothes.
Aira knew what was about to happen.
Their mother was abandoning her.
Her own daughter.
There was no other choice. If the villagers found out, they would throw the entire family out—or worse.
Her mother turned to Aira, her face pale, her eyes hollow. "Go back ho," she whispered. "Forget this."
Aira couldn't move. She couldn't speak.
Then, she watched as her mother knelt in the snow, pressing her forehead against her sick daughter's. Whispering one last prayer.
Then, she stood and walked away.
Aira's sister cried weakly, reaching out with trembling fingers.
But their mother never looked back.
Aira wanted to scream. To run to her. To stop her.
But she didn't.
She only stood there, frozen, as the snowfall covered the small, fragile body left behind.
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