? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  Three more years drifted by... This spring marked Violetta’s sixth in this world.

  She ran faster than Zlata and Demko now. They would chase her through the high grass, brandishing wooden swords Todyr had carved for them. Vi’s body had become lithe and resilient; her limbs were stronger, and her tail had grown long and supple as a willow branch. Lukia continued her lessons in healing. The first hurdle was mastering the white threads of mana—forcing them to flow in a single, synchronized current like a river. Small scratches were easy now, though breaking a fever still required grueling focus.

  “You’re special, little one,” Lukia would say, her eyes bright with a teacher’s pride.

  Marunya, now thirteen and devoted to her basket-weaving, occasionally grumbled as she watched them. “Don’t get in the way, Vio, or you’ll tangle the weave! This is my work. Stick to yours.” Yet, in her own blunt way, Marunya loved her foundling sister and bore her no malice.

  Todyr remained the heart of the home, laughing as he worked on the wagons. “You aren’t a smoketail cat, girl! Stop turning the yard upside down!”

  Village life maintained its steady rhythm, but the anxiety sparked by the corpse-eaters was festering. These foul creatures were seen more frequently over the treeline, their tattered wings fluttering in the dusk like torn funeral shrouds. Conversations turned into hushed dread.

  “Seen the corpse-eaters?... The beasts are restless... The wolves are howling closer every night...”

  Others tried to shrug it off. “It’s happened before... just a bad year!”

  Violetta felt a cold knot in her chest whenever she overheard them. She found solace on the hill behind the village, beneath the ancient oak. Its silver leaves rustled with cryptic whispers, and its bark smelled of deep earth and time. In the shadow of this giant, she felt a rare peace, as if the tree recognized her secrets.

  One evening, eyes closed in meditation, Vi felt a shift. Her fingers brushed the soil, and mana flowed—warm, golden, laced with white. Suddenly, a spark ignited in her chest. A tremor raced down her arms. She visualized a needle—thin, silver, gleaming. She opened her eyes. On her palm lay a needle. Exactly as she had imagined: perfectly straight, iron-cold, and hard as ice.

  “What is this?... How?” she whispered, her furry ears twitching. Her heart hammered with a mix of awe and sudden disorientation. She scrutinized the manifested metal. This wasn't healing. Why did it feel so... natural to create this?

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  Donning her light hooded cloak, Violetta stepped out of the yard, her tail swaying beneath the fabric. Her steps were silent but deliberate. People stopped as she passed. Some stole glances; others whispered.

  “See? It’s her again.” “What has the child ever done to you?” “Haven’t you seen her ears?” “I have... but she’s just a child.”

  Vio heard it all but offered no reaction. These medieval folk were too shackled by superstition to distinguish fear from truth. The Church said: “Beast-kin are creatures of darkness.” Therefore, it was so. Because God willed it.

  She smiled inwardly. I’ve already spoken to "God." He was nothing like they imagine...

  The village air was thick with the creak of the well and the laughter of children rolling hoops. On the main street, Yaryna waited for her. She was the girl with golden hair and emerald eyes whose ears were slightly pointed—a legacy of an elven great-grandmother.

  “Vio! You came!” she waved, beaming.

  “Of course,” Violetta replied, her eyes sparking. “I had to escape Marunya; she’s back to her baskets again.”

  Yaryna laughed. “I was helping my grandmother. She says I have a gift for pottery, like the elves of old.”

  “Do you fear them? The ones who whisper behind your back?” Violetta asked.

  Yaryna sighed. “Sometimes. But Grandma says elves never hid their ears.” She reached out and handed Vio a blue ribbon. “Here. This is so your tail doesn't catch on the brambles.”

  Violetta smiled, expertly tying the ribbon. “Thank you! You’re so thoughtful. Zlata and Demko are always swiping my ribbons right from under my nose.”

  The girls walked past huts where chickens scratched in the dust and boys threw acorns—past a world that did not yet know how much it was about to change.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  Suddenly, a scream tore through the air—sharp and jagged, like a snapping wire.

  “My son!... My son! Where is he?!” A woman stood on the bridge, her face gaunt with terror.

  Stripping her cloak in a single motion, Violetta bolted forward. She lunged onto the railing. Her visor flared red. [WEAK SIGNAL DETECTED: SUBMERGED] flashed in her mind.

  “Vi, what are you doing?!” Yaryna screamed.

  But Violetta had already dived. The water was ice-cold and murky, pulling hard with the current. Her lungs handled the strain with mechanical efficiency; her muscles fired with precision. The visor’s signal pointed down—to the body of a boy. Vi recognized him: the blonde one who had called her a “freak.” She grabbed him, wrapping her arms tight, and kicked off the bottom.

  Splashes. Screams from the crowd. The current fought her, but she dragged him to the bank. His fair hair was plastered to his forehead. His patched shirt was tangled in weeds. Cold. No breath. No pulse.

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  Her brain functioned like a calibrated clock. A rule from her old world—read and filed away long ago—surfaced with clinical clarity: Drowning protocol... check airway. Tilt head back. Check breathing. No breath—check carotid pulse. No pulse—initiate compression.

  “Time to act. Immediately,” the thought flashed.

  She lifted the boy’s chin and pressed her ear to his mouth. Nothing. The crowd pressed in. “Get back, beast-kin!” someone barked.

  “Do. Not. Interfere!” Vi hissed, striking the man’s hand away. Startled, he recoiled.

  Violetta leaned over the boy. Taking a deep breath, she pinched his nose and forced air into his lungs. Then, stacking her palms over his chest, she began to pump.

  “Thirty compressions. Two breaths. One, two, three...”

  The villagers watched in stunned silence at this alien ritual. Violetta remained rhythmic and methodical, as if reading from a technical manual. Push fast. Maintain rhythm. Listen for rib fractures. Do not stop until spontaneous respiration occurs or... medical help arrives.

  Her palms flared with white threads of mana, but internally she repeated: This works even without magic. Do not fear. Do not lose time.

  Seconds stretched into an eternity. The crowd went mute.

  “Kh-khhh...” The boy bucked, then coughed violently, spewing river water. He began to sob. His mother collapsed to her knees, clutching him. Violetta stood up, her eyes flashing. The boy looked up at her, his cheeks flushing red with shame and gratitude.

  “Thank you... Thank you!” he stammered, his pride warring with his fear as he clung to his mother.

  “Child... forgive us. And thank you! You saved him!” the mother whispered, trembling as she bowed her head.

  “He will live. That is what matters,” Vi replied. Her voice was steady, though her heart was still racing.

  Yaryna ran up and took Violetta’s hand, her emerald eyes shimmering. “You were amazing, Vio! Don't be afraid, I’m with you!”

  Violetta offered a tired, sincere smile. Her friend threw the cloak back over her shoulders. Vio walked away in silence, not waiting for applause.

  In the crowd, the whispers had changed: “It might not be human... but it has a heart...”

  At home, Lukia held her close and whispered, “I knew you were strong, little one. But be careful.”

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  The next day, Violetta passed the thickets of wild plum where the old wagons lay. She stopped. The purple crystal in the wagon’s crack was shimmering with a new intensity, as if it were breathing. Her fingers twitched, but she didn't touch it. Her visor flared with red warnings again.

  “What are you hiding?” she mused, backing away. The shadows in the brush felt like eyes.

  That same day, the village was rocked by news. A refugee arrived on a creaking cart—haggard, his skin the color of wet earth. His cough tore through the silence. His eyes burned with fever. On his wrist was a distinct black blotch.

  “The Black Wasting,” the villagers whispered, clutching their amulets. “In the neighboring villages, they’re dying by the dozens...”

  “It’s the beast-kin! They bring the plague!” a man roared, brandishing a bone ward.

  “Quiet, you fool! If not for her, that boy would be in the ground already!” another voice countered.

  Violetta heard it all from behind the fence. She remembered the fanatics of her old world screaming about “purity.” I saved him, she thought. Maybe that changes things.

  But the corpse-eaters were gathering. The foul things had heard the cough of the dying man.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  From that day on, the village seemed to split. Some still looked away, clutching charms, but more and more greeted Vi with a direct, if cautious, gaze. Children no longer scattered. At dawn, the old miller nodded to her—briefly, sternly, but without the usual suspicion.

  Violetta realized: she was no longer a phantom in a stranger’s house. She was becoming one of them.

  Today, she went to see her new friend—the dwarf blacksmith.

  “Hello, child! Have a treat.” An old woman living by the river smiled, offering a honey bun.

  “Thank you, Grandma! Have a wonderful day!”

  Past the muddy road, blue cornflowers bloomed amidst the golden wheat. The sun was at its zenith. The ring of the hammer felt like the village heartbeat. Karbun the Dwarf—bearded and massive—was forging a blade.

  “Greetings, Uncle!” Violetta called.

  “Is that you, little fox?” Karbun smiled, setting aside his hammer.

  “Always at work, I see?” She stepped closer to the old dwarf, who had long ago hung his battle-axe on the wall.

  “Aye! A smith always has work. A blade for Makar—the one who just wed.”

  “So, what brings you today? Plowshare worn out again?”

  “No... I just... I think I feel something when I work with metal.”

  “Feel it, do you?” The dwarf paused, stroking his silver beard, looking at her as if trying to see beyond the fox ears. “Metal is a living thing, child. If a smith doesn't become one with it, the blade is hollow. You say you feel it?”

  “Yes... like it speaks to me. When I touch it, I know where it’s hard, where it’s brittle, where the 'fatigue' hides... and I...” She hesitated. “I can change it. A little. I can make iron lighter, or stronger. And... I manifested a needle out of thin air once. I don’t know how.”

  The dwarf’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that so? Come with me.”

  He led her to the back courtyard. He pointed to a twisted fragment of a horseshoe. “Take that. Try to make a needle. If you have the spark, you’ll do it. If not, we start with the basics.”

  Violetta knelt by the anvil, breathed deep, and felt the familiar tremor. The world went quiet. She placed her fingers on the cold metal and concentrated. No hammer. No fire. Only thought.

  The metal began to warp, thinning and stretching. It became plastic, like clay. Within minutes, a perfect needle lay on her palm. Mirrored and flawless.

  “Beard of the Gods...” the dwarf whispered. “You aren't a smith. This is pure magic.”

  “It’s as natural as breathing to me.”

  The dwarf stood stunned for a few seconds, then erupted into a roar of laughter—not of mockery, but of pure delight. “A sorceress, then? Well, if you’re that unusual, you’ll learn unusually. Come at dawn tomorrow. I’ll show you how to make a nail that even a god of lightning couldn't break. But...” he looked at her sternly, “not a word to anyone about your needles.”

  “I understand, Uncle. Thank you.”

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  That evening, Violetta sat under the oak. She thought of the boy who had looked away, of Yaryna’s ribbon, and of Lukia’s lessons. They are my home.

  But fear rang in her chest like a bell. What if the sickness comes here?

  She remembered the old world’s neon and the pogroms. These peasants were no different, but they were starting to whisper a different tune.

  Maybe I can change them, she thought. The wind stroked her tail. In her palm, the iron needle shimmered—a creation of pure thought. Somewhere in the village, children laughed, while beyond the fence, the corpse-eaters hummed. She gripped the needle tight.

  “I must master this,” she whispered. “I must be ready.”