Ashe_world

The night Elira was born, the sky wept with a storm so fierce it drowned the village’s crops and sent the river surging through the streets. The elders whispered that it was an omen—a cursed child had entered the world.

Her mother, Lirien, barely survived the birth. She had screamed through the labor, clutching the straw bedding as if the pain itself was trying to steal her soul. When she finally held her newborn daughter, she gasped—not out of love, but fear.

Elira’s eyes were too sharp, too knowing for a child who had only just entered the world. The midwife, an old woman with trembling hands, hesitated before cutting the umbilical cord. A chill passed through the room, the flickering oil lamp nearly snuffing out. The air felt… wrong.

The village healer arrived soon after, summoned in desperation. She pressed her palm to the newborn’s tiny chest, feeling the thrum of something unnatural beneath her skin. “She is touched by the old magic,” the healer murmured. “A witch, from birth.”

Lirien sobbed, clutching her baby to her chest. “No, please. My daughter is innocent.”

The healer gave her a sorrowful look. “You must keep her hidden. If the village learns the truth, they will fear her.”

And so, Elira grew up in the shadows.

Her childhood was not one of warmth, but of caution. Her mother, though loving in her own way, kept her at arm’s length, afraid of what she might become. Her father, a bitter man worn down by poverty, looked at her as if she were the reason for all his misfortunes.

But magic cannot be contained forever.

At the age of five, Elira made a dead flower bloom in her hands. At seven, she whispered to the wind, and it answered. At ten, she healed a wound on her mother’s arm simply by touching it.

Her family’s fear grew with each passing year. They did not see a daughter, a sister. They saw a curse.

Then, when Elira was thirteen, something happened that changed everything.

A boy from the village—one who had tormented her for years, throwing stones and calling her “witchspawn”—fell from a tree and broke his leg. The bone jutted through his skin, his screams echoing through the hills.

Elira, acting on instinct, ran to him. She laid her hands on his leg, her power surging like a wave. The bone snapped back into place. The wound closed.

He was healed.

But instead of gratitude, there was terror. The boy’s mother shrieked. Villagers came running. They saw what she had done, what she was.

“Witch,” they whispered. “Monster.”

By nightfall, her family had packed their belongings and fled the village, leaving behind the only home they had ever known.

They wandered from town to town, never staying in one place too long. Her parents blamed her for their misfortune, for their suffering. They cursed her magic, wished it had never been born within her.

But when Elira turned eighteen, everything changed again.

A wealthy businessman came to their town, looking for a wife. He was powerful, rich beyond imagination—a man who could lift them from poverty.

And he wanted a woman who was pure, untouched, innocent.

Elira’s parents saw an opportunity.

“She is a blessing,” her mother told him, forcing a smile. “A gift from the heavens.”

Elira said nothing. She had learned long ago that the world would never see her for what she truly was.

And so, she was given away to a man who believed he had married a saint—when in truth, he had married a witch.

The Witch’s Vow

Damien held the photograph between his fingers, his pulse slow and measured, but inside—his mind was burning.

With a woman he had never seen before.

And the message scrawled beneath it:

"Do you really know the woman you married?"

Someone was playing games with him.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. His assistant peeked in.

"Sir, Mr. Blackwood is here to see you."

Damien exhaled sharply, tossing the photograph onto his desk. "Send him in."

Moments later, Lucian Blackwood entered, his presence always carrying an air of unspoken authority.

Blackwood took a seat across from Damien, his dark eyes glinting with curiosity. "You look troubled."

Damien slid the photograph across the desk.

Blackwood studied it, then smirked. "She's beautiful. But I assume that's not the issue."

Damien ignored the comment. "Do you recognize the woman she's with?"

Blackwood leaned back, tapping the edge of the photograph. "No. But I can find out."

Then Blackwood said, "You suspect your wife, don't you?"

Damien's fingers curled slightly against the desk.

Because he didn't know.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Elira sat in the nursery, watching her children play.

The triplets—Adrian, Cassian, and Isolde—were still young, their innocence untouched by the truth of their lineage.

They did not yet know what they were.

What they would become.

And she wanted to keep it that way.

But after last night's visit from Mirella, she knew—

Time was running out.

A soft laugh brought her back to the present.

Adrian was levitating one of his wooden blocks, completely unaware of what he was doing.

Cassian and Isolde clapped excitedly, thinking it was some sort of magic trick.

Her children's powers were awakening.

She gathered them close, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads.

"I will protect you," she vowed silently. "No matter the cost."

The Investigation

That evening, Blackwood returned with information.

"The woman in the photograph," he said, handing Damien a file. "Her name is Mirella Vasquez. No digital records, no official background, but I have sources who claim she's connected to something… unusual."

Damien flipped through the file, his expression unreadable. "Unusual how?"

Damien's fingers stilled on the paper.

He wasn't a man who entertained superstitions.

But something deep inside him—some instinct—whispered that this was not just some rival's mind game.

This was bigger.

And Elira was at the center of it.

It was time to stop asking questions.

It was time to get answers.

The ConfrontationThat night, Damien found Elira in the library, her back to him as she studied a book on the high shelf.

For the first time since their marriage, he watched her—really watched her.

Her graceful movements. The way she lingered over certain books.

The way she seemed to exist in two worlds at once.

A woman with secrets.

His voice was quiet, but firm. "Who is Mirella Vasquez?"

And for the first time… he saw fear in her eyes.

She knew exactly who Mirella was.

She had been lying to him all along.

Chapter 9 A Husband’s Doubt