Chapter 3

Months crawled by. The jail cell became Anya' s world.

Then, Ethan returned.

He was different. Polished, his clothes expensive. A city lawyer.

With him was Seraphina Thorne.

Beautiful, her gaze cool, assessing. She carried a small, elegant riding crop, tapping it lightly against her skirt.

The town buzzed. Justice was at hand.

A public hearing was called in the dusty town hall.

Anya stood before them, flanked by deputies.

Sheriff Brody tried to get her to speak.

"Anya, just tell us what happened. Confess, and maybe there's mercy."

She remained silent. Her throat felt raw, but no words came.

The townsfolk, who once bought Elara' s bread and respected Jed' s skill, now saw a monster.

"Murderer!" someone yelled.

"Devil child!" another screamed, remembering the spiritualist. "He warned us! The star of sorrow!"

Children, emboldened by their parents' anger, threw mud. A stone hit Anya' s cheek. She didn't flinch.

Seraphina watched, a faint smile on her lips.

"Frontier justice," she murmured to Ethan, loud enough for those nearby to hear. "So direct."

Her riding crop tapped, an impatient rhythm.

Anya, beaten by their words, by the stones, by the exhaustion, felt her mind drift.

A flash of memory: Jed, his calloused hand gently guiding hers, teaching her to read tracks in the dust.

"See this, Anya-girl? The land speaks, if you listen."

Another: Elara, by the fire, her voice soft, telling stories of the Silver River People, her people, Anya's people. Stories of courage, of loss.

"Remember who you are, little bird, even when the world forgets."

The memories were a sharp pain, a contrast to the cold hate in the room.