The moon hung low and swollen in the sky, casting a pale silver light over the village square. It was the kind of night the elders called _truthful_ —when secrets could no longer hide in the dark.

Rosalinda stood at the center of the gathering, wrists bound loosely with ceremonial twine. Not as punishment—yet—but as tradition. The council had summoned her, and the chief himself sat beneath the sacred baobab tree, flanked by the village priest and the women’s leader. The villagers formed a wide circle around her, their faces unreadable, their eyes sharp with judgment.

Behind her, Sara trembled. Her hands were cold, her mouth dry. She had not spoken since the women left her parlour. She knew what was coming. After all, she had orchestrated it.

The chief’s gaze was steady, his voice deep and deliberate.

“Rosalinda, daughter of Sara, you are brought before us under suspicion of bloodshed. Speak now. Did you kill your father?”

Rosalinda lifted her chin. Her voice was quiet, but unwavering.

“He was not my father. He was a monster.”

She was tired of hearing him called that— _father_. Even in death, he clung to a title he never earned. She would not allow her name to be tethered to his. Perhaps she deserved what was coming. She had wished for his death more than anyone. Even if she hadn’t done it, she would have.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The priest shifted uneasily. The women’s leader narrowed her eyes.

“That is not an answer,” the chief said, frowning.

Rosalinda’s gaze swept across the faces before her. She saw no mercy. Only curiosity. Only judgment.

“Every night, he beat me. Every night, my mother wept behind closed doors. I begged her to speak. She did not. I begged the gods to take him. They did not. So I did.”

She did not glance at her mother. She knew that path too well.

Silence fell like a shroud.

Sara collapsed to her knees, sobbing.

“I tried to protect her. I tried to be a good wife. I failed both,” she choked.

The priest stood, his voice trembling with the weight of ritual.

"The gods do not condone murder, even in pain. But they do not ignore suffering. We must seek their guidance.”

He turned to the sacred fire, tossing in a bundle of herbs. Smoke curled upward, dancing like spirits in the night.

The women’s leader stepped forward, her voice rising above the murmurs.

"Let us not forget—this girl was failed by her mother, her community, and her gods. If she is cursed, it is a curse we all share.”

The chief considered her words. His eyes lingered on Rosalinda, then on Sara.

“The gods will speak by dawn. Until then, she shall remain in the shrine. If they pardon her, she will be free. If they do not…”

He did not finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

---

Rosalinda sat alone in the shrine, surrounded by carvings of ancestors and offerings of fruit and feathers. The air was thick with incense and silence.

She did not cry.

She did not pray.

She waited.

Outside, Sara knelt in the dust, whispering to the wind.

She knew what was expected of her—a mother in mourning, desperate, broken. She screamed into the night.

"Take me instead. Spare her. She is all I have.”

But the gods, as always, remained silent.

Inside, Rosalinda rolled her eyes. Her mother’s theatrics were exhausting. Was this the protection she had spoken of? If the women’s leader hadn’t intervened, she would already be dead.

The shrine door creaked open. The priest entered, his brows furrowed, his expression unreadable. He sat across from her, staring as if trying to decipher something etched into her soul.

“I do not like the aura you carry,” he said, voice laced with unease.

Rosalinda tilted her head, forcing a sick smile onto her usually expressionless face.

“Aura? Is it that you do not like it—or that it frightens you?”

The priest flinched, as if snapping out of a trance.

“When you were younger, your mother brought you to me every New Year. Do you know why?”

She blinked. Her childhood was a fog. A blur of bruises and silence.

His voice dropped lower, almost reverent.

"You couldn’t sleep. You screamed every night from nightmares. And when I asked little you what you saw…”

He trailed off.

Rosalinda’s breath caught in her throat.

“What did I see?” she whispered.

The priest stood and walked to the far end of the shrine, turning his back to her.

"War. Deaths. And the rise of something ancient.”

The shrine seemed to darken around them, the carvings casting longer shadows.

Rosalinda stared at the priest’s back, her heart pounding.

She wasn’t cursed.

She was something else entirely.