Chapter 2
MAGDA
The only constant in the history of my village was conflict.
Nestled at the convergence of two rivers, in a deep valley hemmed by jagged mountain peaks, its location was both a blessing and a curse.
It was the sole north-south passage for a hundred miles in either direction—a prize too valuable to be left unclaimed.
Warlords of the Ottoman Empire swept through, seizing control and forging uneasy alliances with the boyar noblemen of the region.
For a time, their power brought a brittle, fragile peace.
But peace never lasted here. Others, hungrier for power, soon rose in violence to wrest control, and the valley ran red with blood once more.
My father was one of the many who died defending our people, our way of life, before I was even born.
In this place, every healthy boy—whether pauper or prince—was taught to fight.
It was not a question of if they would be called upon to defend their families, their village, their lands, their way of life…
but when. The boyar's son Caius was no exception.
From the time he was a young boy, I would see him in the village, always shadowed by squire or fight master barking orders as he learned the arts of war.
I knew we shared a birthday. I knew we'd both lost our mothers under the same blood moon.
Some force seemed to bind us, and whenever he came to the village, he would find me.
Sometimes he stopped to play knucklebones with me in the dust of the village square; in his easy laughter and mischievous smile I found a friend.
But our playtime never lasted long. Someone from his father's household would appear, scowling, and drag him away by the ear, scolding him for wasting time with “low-born Romani trash.” But Caius never looked at me like that.
Not once. To me, he showed only respect…
and a kindness that felt rare in a world like ours.
“Magda! Stop daydreaming about who'll gift you the M?r?i?or and come help me in the garden,” my grandmother called, her voice sharp but not unkind.
I kicked at the dirt in front of our cottage, reluctant to leave my spot. She was the only mother I'd ever known, and while the villagers called her Zora, to me she was simply Buna.
“Stop moping, girl,” she scolded lightly, hands on her hips.
“Always so strange. You'd rather run wild in the woods with the boys, playing at wooden swords, than sew or tend a garden.
I swear, you'd have been happier if you'd been born a boy—free to ride and fight, not bound to hearth and cradle. Now grab me that basket of straw and help me lay it atop the soil here to protect these seedlings.”
She shook her head, a chuckle rumbling in her chest as I came through the garden gate. “Still, you're lucky you're so pretty. If not for that, I doubt many boys would look your way. You're too quick to anger—Magda, the little hellcat.”
I smirked at that. She liked to chastise me, but I knew better. Her words were threaded with fondness. Buna loved me fiercely, in her own way.
But Buna was right. I had been thinking about who might give me a trinket tied with red and white twine during the spring festival.
At M?r?i?or, male family members and friends gifted the women of the village these tokens—a symbol of winter's end and the fertile, sun-warmed days to come.
But for unmarried girls, the trinkets sometimes carried a different meaning.
A simple cord and charm could speak louder than words, hinting at a young man's affection… or even his intentions.
There was only one young man I wanted to see with such a token in hand—only one whose glance had ever set my heart tumbling—but even I knew it was foolish to hope. The distance between his world and mine was too wide.
And yet…
Buna had been right about something else too.
In the past year, the boys of the village had started to notice me.
My body, once all sharp angles and restless limbs, had softened around the edges, ripened.
The girl I'd been was gone, replaced by a young woman with strong shoulders and lush curves.
Tonight, the whole village would gather to eat, drink, and dance—to celebrate the end of winter and welcome the arrival of spring.
Buna had made me a new tunic for the occasion, embroidered with bright threads of red, black, and yellow.
Around my hips she fastened a belt of coins, the silver disks catching the light as they clinked softly with every movement.
I couldn't help running my fingers over them, imagining whose eyes I hoped might follow their sway.
As night fell, music drifted through the crisp air, carried from the village center on the wind. The sound of drums and fiddles quickened my pulse.
“Will you come and dance, Buna?” I asked, tilting my head toward her where she sat by the hearth, grinding dried herbs in her mortar. I wanted her to come, to step out of the shadows of our cottage and let the firelight touch her face for once.
But I already knew her answer.
The villagers sought her out when they needed her—the only midwife for miles, with her herbs and potions that eased pain and coaxed life into stubborn lungs. Yet when their need passed, they called her witch. They feared her. And by extension, they feared me.
I had learned to bear the word with pride. Let them whisper. Let them believe I possessed some unseen power. They thought their fear was a weapon against me, but I wore it like armor. Buna said my pride would be my downfall. Perhaps she was right. But tonight, I didn't care.
“Wait, Magda…here,” Buna murmured, her voice soft as she got up to fasten a small brass bell to my coin belt.
The tiny chime rang out, delicate yet clear.
“To ward off evil spirits,” she said, her lined fingers lingering for a moment on my hip.
Then she leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead. “It will protect you tonight.”
We were a superstitious people—none more so than my Buna.
I couldn't help but roll my eyes at her efforts, though a faint smile tugged at my lips.
And then I slipped from the cottage, the door creaking softly behind me as I stepped into the chilly night air.
The lane beckoned, thick with the scent of roasting meat and the sound of raucous laughter.
Music floated toward me, wild and inviting, drawing me closer to the heart of the village—and to whatever the night held in store.