Chapter 127: 500 Years Ago

Chapter 127: Chapter 127: 500 Years Ago

Dedication

{To every mother who held her child when the world told her they were different.

To the mothers who quietly sacrificed their dreams, their comfort, and everything they had, just to make sure their child never felt alone.

To the mothers who cried in silence, smiled through the pain, and chose their children again and again.

Your love is the kind of strength the world may never fully understand.

This Arc is for you.}

The world was different then.

A young girl ran through her village.

The sun hung high in a sky the color of fresh milk, casting long shadows that stretched across the packed dirt of the road like fingers reaching for something just out of grasp. The village was small—perhaps thirty houses, all of them built from the same pale stone and topped with roofs of woven thatch that gleamed gold in the afternoon light.

A white cloth covered her eye as she could not see.

Yet she moved freely among the other children, her bare feet finding every stone and root hollow in the path, her small body weaving through the chaos of play with an ease that seemed impossible. The other children had long since stopped being amazed by it. To them, Pronoia was simply Pronoia—the girl who couldn’t see but somehow saw everything.

Her hearing was sharp.

She could hear the whisper of cloth against skin as the other children ran and also hear the minute changes in their breathing as they exerted themselves, the subtle shifts in tone that told her whether they were laughing or crying or something in between.

Her sense of smell was equally powerful.

She knew where the other children were by the sounds of their movements and she could recognize people by their scent—the baker’s daughter always smelled of yeast and honey, the blacksmith’s son of iron and sweat, her mother of lavender and woodsmoke.

Then a woman’s voice called from nearby.

"Pronoia, it’s time to come inside."

The young girl stopped. Her mother’s voice. She would know it anywhere—the particular warmth of it, the way it curved around her name like a hand cupping water.

"Mother, I’m on my way."

She continued playing for a little while longer—just a few more moments, just one more game—before eventually making her way back home. The other children called goodbye, and she waved without turning, already mapping the path ahead in her mind.

The small house was modest. There was nothing luxurious about it—a single room for sleeping and eating and living, a hearth that doubled as a stove, a few rough-hewn pieces of furniture that had been in the family for generations. The walls were bare except for a single tapestry that her grandmother had woven, depicting a tree with roots that went down into the earth and branches that reached up into the sky.

But it was her home and that was enough.

When dinner was ready, Pronoia sat with her mother and father. The table was small, barely large enough for three, and the food was simple—a thin stew of vegetables and grains, a loaf of bread that was beginning to go stale, a single cup of water shared between them.

Before they ate, they joined their hands together and prayed. Pronoia felt her mother’s fingers, rough from years of work, and her father’s fingers, calloused and strong. She felt the warmth that passed between them, the connection that needed no words.

She kept the cloth over her eyes as she could not see the food before her. She didn’t need to as her other senses guided her—the smell of the stew, the texture of the bread, the weight of the spoon in her hand.

When the prayer ended, the family began eating.

For a while, there was silence. The comfortable silence of people who had shared a thousand meals and would share a thousand more. The silence of belonging then after a while her father finished eating and left the table.

Then her mother spoke.

"Pronoia."

"Yes, Mother?"

Her mother looked toward her daughter. Though Pronoia couldn’t see it, she felt the weight of that gaze—the love in it, and the fear.

"You are my only child."

"Yes, Mother."

Her mother’s voice became more serious. The warmth was still there, but it had hardened somehow, become something more like resolve.

"I don’t want anything to happen to you."

Pronoia became quiet. The stew sat heavy in her stomach. The bread seemed to stick in her throat.

"The visions you’ve been seeing lately are getting too much," her mother continued. "I don’t want you to attract attention toward yourself."

Pronoia listened carefully. She had always listened carefully as It was what she did best.

"So whenever you see another vision about something, come and tell me directly. Don’t tell anyone else."

She paused. The pause was full of things unsaid.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes..ss, Mother."

Pronoia hesitated. There was something she needed to know, something that had been gnawing at her for days.

"But can I tell Father?"

Her mother’s expression changed. Pronoia couldn’t see it, but she felt it—the sudden tension in the air, the slight intake of breath, the way her mother’s hand tightened around her spoon.

"No."

Pronoia tilted her head and asked.

"Why?"

"Your father is the type of person who would take any opportunity to make money."

Her mother sighed. The sound was tired as It was the sound of someone who had carried a burden for a very long time and was only now beginning to feel its weight.

"If he knew about your ability, he could tell people about it and try to use it to make money."

Pronoia thought about it. The logic seemed sound, but there was something missing. Something her mother wasn’t saying.

"If we made money from it, wouldn’t we be the ones who benefited the most?"

Her mother nodded slightly. The movement was reluctant, as though she was conceding a point she didn’t want to concede.

"It’s true."

Then her voice became softer. Softer and sadder and full of a fear that Pronoia could smell—a sharp, acrid fear, like smoke from a fire that hadn’t yet begun to burn.

"But it would attract unwanted attention."

She reached toward her daughter. Her hand found Pronoia’s cheek, warm and rough and infinitely gentle.

"And unwanted attention could mean death."

Pronoia understood.

She understood in the way children understand things they shouldn’t have to—not fully, but enough. Enough to know that the world was dangerous. Enough to know that some gifts were also curses and that her mother was afraid that her fear was not irrational.

She slowly nodded.

"All right, Mother. I will only tell you."

Her mother sighed. The sound was different now—relief, perhaps, or gratitude, or simply the release of a tension she had been holding for too long.

A small smile appeared on her face. She reached out and rubbed Pronoia gently, her fingers tracing the curve of her daughter’s cheek.

"That’s my good girl."

Then she left.

Pronoia remained behind to wash the dishes. She carefully cleaned the remaining plates and utensils, her hands moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times before. The water was cold, and the soap was rough, and the work was tedious—but she didn’t mind. There was something soothing about it that is meditative.

When she finished, she made her way toward the place where she and her parents slept. They were poor and could not afford a proper bed. But what they had was enough for them—a pile of blankets and cushions, arranged in a corner of the room, soft enough to sleep on and warm enough to keep out the cold.

Pronoia found her place between her mother and father and lay down. She could feel their warmth on either side of her, their breathing slowly evening out as sleep claimed them. The house became quiet. The world became quiet.

Eventually, she fell asleep then she dreamt.

She saw death.

Her mother. Her father. Both of them were dead. Their bodies lay on the floor of their home, their faces frozen in expressions of terror and pain. Blood pooled around them, dark and thick and smelling of iron.

Someone was responsible and had learned about her ability. Someone had discovered her secret and decided to use it for their own purposes and had come to their home in the night and done this terrible thing.

Then a person was dragging her away.

She could feel their hands on her arms, rough and strong and utterly without mercy. She could hear their breathing, harsh and eager and could smell their intent—a cold, calculating thing, like the smell of a snake before it strikes.

But Pronoia could not see the person’s face.

Then she woke up.

She gasped for air. Her lungs burned. Her heart pounded. The darkness of the room pressed in on her from all sides, and for a terrible moment, she didn’t know where she was or what was real.

Her mother immediately woke beside her. She reached toward her daughter and held her tightly, her arms wrapping around Pronoia’s small body like a shield.

"Are you okay?"

Pronoia tried to steady her breathing. She tried to remember that she was safe and tried to remember that the dream wasn’t real.

"I’m okay, Mother."

Her mother looked concerned. Pronoia couldn’t see it, but she could feel it—the way her mother’s hands trembled slightly, the way her breathing had become shallow and quick.

"Did you see something?"

Pronoia hesitated. The dream was still fresh in her mind, still vivid and terrible and impossible to forget.

"Yes."

"What did you see?" Her mother asked.

And pronoia told her.

She had seen both her mother and father dead and had seen their bodies, broken and bloody and still and had seen someone who looked like a guard dragging her away, their face hidden in shadows but their intentions clear.

Her mother’s heart sank.

The silence that followed was terrible. It was the silence of a woman who had feared this very thing and had tried to prevent it, who now realized that her efforts had been in vain.

She quickly embraced Pronoia.

"Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to us."

She held her daughter tighter. Her voice was fierce, determined, desperate.

"We’re not going to die. Not now."

But someone else had heard everything.

Pronoia’s father was not completely asleep.

He had been drifting on the edge of consciousness when his daughter’s gasp had pulled him back and he heard her words heard his wife’s response and heard everything they both talked about.

He remained still.

His breathing was even. His body was relaxed. To anyone watching, he would have appeared to be asleep.

But inside his mind, another thought had already taken root.

If Pronoia could see the future, then perhaps her ability could make them money. Real money. Enough to escape this village, to build a better life, to become someone.

The very thing Pronoia’s mother had feared was beginning to happen.

And neither of them knew how much it would eventually cost.