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  Several months had passed since that dramatic day at the river. Spring had finally vanquished winter, swathing the village in lush greenery, warm sunlight, and the heavy perfume of blossoming apple trees. The air rang with birdsong, and the surrounding fields were carpeted in emerald—young wheat swaying under a gentle breeze. The river, once cold and violent, now flowed placidly, reflecting a cerulean sky and fleecy clouds. Life had seemingly returned to its measured rhythm, but for Violetta, everything had shifted.

  She was no longer branded a "freak." The children stopped hurling stones or scattering at her approach. Now, they kept their distance, watching her with eyes where childhood curiosity mingled with trepidation and a reluctant respect. To them, she had become a living legend—the enigmatic girl with the fox ears and tail who could work miracles. Passing small groups of toddlers, she would hear whispers: "That’s the one who breathed life back into Bohdan!" or "She has magic, like in Grandma’s stories!" She wouldn't reply, only a ghost of a smile touching her lips as her tail twitched under the weight of their gaze.

  Bohdan, the fair-haired boy who once led the pack of bullies, had changed most of all. He avoided her, averting his eyes whenever she passed. His fists would clench—not in anger now, but in shame. Often, Violetta would find modest offerings on the porch: a few ripe forest apples wrapped in a rag, or a bunch of wildflowers left carelessly by the door. She knew it was him; once, she had spotted him hiding behind a fence, watching to see if she would take the gift.

  “Perhaps people truly can change,” she thought, biting into a succulent apple. The juice was sweet, a stark contrast to the bitterness of her early days here. Her actions had carried weight. She was becoming a part of the world’s weave.

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  Yaryna remained her steadfast companion. Together they roamed the forest, though they never ventured deep, wary of the corpse-eaters that increasingly circled the canopy at dusk. Yaryna, with her sun-spun hair and slightly pointed ears, looked every bit the elven sprite from her grandmother’s legends.

  “Look, Vio!” Yaryna whispered one morning, pointing to a snapped branch. “A stag passed here. See how high the break is? He was massive.”

  Violetta nodded. Her sharpened senses had already caught the animal's scent—musky, with notes of damp earth. She never spoke to Yaryna about her Visor—the internal system that occasionally flared with red schematics in her vision, analyzing the environment with a machine’s cold precision. It was her secret, a ghost of a world where people could speak across continents but chose to drown in "perfect" generated simulations instead.

  “Don't fear, Yaryna. I’m with you,” Violetta said, squeezing her friend’s hand.

  “Why didn't you use healing magic back then?” Yaryna asked suddenly. “When you pulled Bohdan from the water? You used your hands, like a regular person.”

  Violetta watched the sunlight filter through the leaves. “Magic is a tool, but sometimes you must act with your hands. In my dream... in my memories, I’ve seen people save lives without spells. Magic can fail. Your own actions cannot. You do what you know, and you don't wait for a miracle.”

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  But Violetta’s true passion was the forge. Every morning she returned to the heat, the smell of white-hot iron, coal, and sweat. Karbun had turned out to be a demanding and pedantic mentor. He didn't teach her sorcery; he passed on the metallurgy of centuries.

  “Look here, little one,” he’d grunt, holding a piece of raw ore. “Bloomery iron is soft as dough, but steel... steel is hard as your stubbornness!”

  He taught her the quench—how to plunge a blade into oil or water to dictate its temper. The hiss of steam and the spray of sparks became a symphony to her. Karbun spoke of the "grain" of the metal, and why over-hammering made it "tired," as if the iron were a living thing that needed rest.

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  “Metal isn't just a hunk of rock,” he’d say, wiping soot from his brow. “It breathes. It reacts. If you don't feel its soul, your work is a hollow shell.”

  Violetta combined his lessons with her internal systems. Sometimes, when Karbun wasn't looking, she would touch the metal, subconsciously realigning its molecular structure, making it harder or more flexible. But she used this sparingly; she wanted to master the craft, not just the cheat.

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  On her tenth birthday, Violetta arrived at the forge at dawn. Karbun met her not with his usual grumble, but with a wide smile hidden in his silver beard.

  “Stand straight, little fox,” he said, pulling a small velvet box from his apron. “This is for you.”

  Inside lay a hair-pin, wrought of silver and gold, engraved with interlocking dwarven runes. A delicate golden butterfly perched on a silver flower. It pulsed with a faint, warm radiance—a fragment of the smith’s own spirit hammered into the metal.

  “It bears protective symbols,” Karbun explained, embarrassed by her wide-eyed stare. “We used to make these for our daughters. They ward off ill-will and keep the mind clear. Let it protect you from those who look askance.”

  Violetta carefully pinned it into her hair. The butterfly seemed to shiver in the light.

  “It’s beautiful... Thank you, Uncle Karbun. I will never forget this.”

  In that moment, a new desire took root: to create beauty, not just tools of survival. “You know,” she said softly, watching the forge-fire, “when I grow up, I want to make things like this. Not swords. Not knives. Things that make people smile. I want the metal to serve peace, not war.”

  Karbun merely huffed, but the warmth in his eyes mirrored the hearth. “If we must forge, let it be for life. A fine thought, lass.”

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  The peace did not last.

  One sweltering summer day, the village was invaded by uninvited guests. Four Imperial knights in polished plate, their shields bearing the golden double-headed eagle on black, rode down the main street alongside a priest in ink-black robes. Their arrival choked the village’s life; children hid, and adults clutched their wooden wards in silence.

  The priest, a gaunt man with sunken eyes and sallow skin, mounted the well’s platform. His voice was like a whip-crack.

  “Children of the Empire!” he bellowed. “The eastern borders are under siege! Hordes of the Unclean descend upon our lands, bearing death!”

  He leaned forward, his eyes burning with a feverish intensity. “But the true threat is among us! The beast-kin, the half-bloods, those who desecrate the divine purity of the Human race! They are the curse that draws calamity as a magnet draws iron! God commands us to purge the land of this filth!”

  Standing beside Lukia, Violetta felt dozens of eyes turn toward her. Her ears twitched; her tail instinctively coiled beneath her cloak. Lukia gripped her hand, her fingers ice-cold with dread.

  “Don't fear, little one,” Lukia whispered. “They wouldn't dare.”

  But Violetta felt no fear. Only a molten rage simmering in her chest. How dare they? I have healed, I have built, I have saved—and they call me filth? This isn't God speaking. This is their hate.

  “The Emperor calls his faithful sons to arms!” the priest continued. “Every village must yield its best! To refuse is treason, and the penalty is severe!”

  The "conscription" began. Knights went house to house, dragging young men into the street. The wails of mothers mingled with gruff commands. Five were taken, including Bohdan’s older brother, Stepan. Violetta saw Bohdan standing by the fence, watching the column depart. His face held no arrogance now—only the hollow agony of helplessness.

  Three soldiers remained behind to "maintain order." They took over a vacant hut, demanding tribute of food and ale. At night, their coarse laughter and raucous songs polluted the air. The village felt strangled, a shadow of the Empire hanging over every roof.

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  That evening, Violetta sat under her oak. She thought of the priest’s words, the mothers’ cries, and Bohdan’s hollow gaze. For the first time, she felt a focused enmity toward the Empire—a machine that broke lives like dry kindling.

  She clutched the iron needle in her palm—a sliver of cold metal pulsing with her intent. Beyond the village, the corpse-eaters hummed, their tattered silhouettes dancing in the twilight like omens. Violetta looked up at the stars and whispered:

  “I will protect them. Todyr, Lukia, Zlata, Demko, Marunya, Yaryna... Karbun. Everyone who became my family. I will not let this world take them. I must become stronger.”

  The wind howled in agreement, and in her heart, resolve grew like a sapling in spring earth—unyielding and deep.