Chapter 1: A Prayer to the God of the Sun

Erica was yanked from sleep by the now all-too-familiar scream of her child. No matter how many times she heard it—sometimes for nights in a row—it still sent a chill down her spine. Throwing her blanket to the side, she rushed out of bed, her thin frame trembling as she darted through the narrow hallway of her small, rundown home. The long, blue nightgown she wore clung to her body as she ran, restricting her legs with every hurried step. Tugging at the hem to free her movement, Erica paid no attention to the strands of unkempt brown hair whipping against her back or falling into her eyes. Normally, the sight of her dishevelled reflection—dark bags etched under her tired brown eyes and uneven nails she anxiously bit down to stubs—would gnaw at her, but not now. These last few years had made such worries trivial.

Molly’s cries grew louder as Erica approached her daughter’s bedroom. With a forceful push, she burst through the door, her heart pounding. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. Mommy’s here,” she said, wrapping her arms tightly around the trembling five-year-old. Molly’s frail body shook as she buried her face in Erica’s chest, her tiny hands gripping the fabric of the nightgown. The child’s screams subsided into quiet sobs as Erica stroked her messy, sweat-drenched hair. Molly’s snot and tears soaked through the gown, but Erica didn’t care. All that mattered was calming her daughter. “It’s okay, sweetie. The monsters aren’t real. Mommy’s got you,” she murmured.

The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but what else could she say? If Molly knew the truth—that monsters were real—it would only make her nightmares worse. Erica hated her helplessness. For the third night in a row, her daughter had been plagued by dreams of abominations that Erica could neither chase away nor fully understand. All she could do was hold Molly and whisper reassurances, no matter how hollow they felt.

Molly’s illness had always been a mystery, even to the doctors and priests who had examined her. Born prematurely and frail, Molly had battled a strange sickness that defied explanation. Her small body bore dark, blistering sores filled with a black liquid the doctors feared to touch. The child’s fevers came and went like waves, bringing headaches, abdominal pain, and exhaustion. Yet despite their expensive medicines and treatments, Molly’s condition only worsened. Erica had spent years watching her daughter suffer, clinging to hope even when the vile elven doctor coldly suggested putting Molly out of her misery. But how could Erica give up? Molly was all she had left. She couldn’t let her precious daughter die while she still had hope.

As Molly’s sobs quieted, Erica adjusted her grip, brushing away a stray lock of her daughter’s sandy blonde hair. The sight tugged at something deep within her. Molly’s features—her bright blue eyes, her small mole, the golden hue of her hair—were a cruel reminder of Richard Fairweather, the man who had ruined her life. He had swept into her world like a whirlwind, stolen everything of value, and left her with a child to raise alone. And yet, despite the pain and bitterness he represented, Molly’s smile was the only light in Erica’s dark and miserable existence.

She had met the conman in a tavern back when her life was still simple—when she was still considered beautiful, before people began saying she looked like an ugly old hag despite having only recently turned twenty-nine. The wine she drank with her friends that night had been the best she’d ever tasted, and likely the most expensive. If she had known then that she’d spend the rest of her life drinking cheap bottles of swill, she would have savoured every drop far longer. She wished she could remember its flavour, but all she could remember was how much she enjoyed it.

What she did remember, though, was how heads turned when Richard entered the tavern. His long, sandy blonde hair, tied into a neat bun, rested over the large lute slung across his back. His bright blue eyes sparkled in ways that put even gemstones to shame. His physique was equally striking, with a sword sheathed at his hip and a fancy button-up shirt he hadn’t bothered to fully fasten. So much skin was exposed that, had Erica been sober, she might have dismissed him as a shameless flirt or a simple manwhore.

Later that night, after Richard had offered to buy her a drink and her friends had tactfully left her alone with the dashing stranger, she laughed uncontrollably at his jokes and flattery. Whether it was the half-bottle of wine or the three cocktails she’d consumed earlier, she couldn’t tell, but something about him struck her as ridiculously funny. She prided herself on being composed, rarely letting out more than the occasional polite giggle. But that night, she had burst into laughter so unrestrained, snorting like a pig rolling in mud, that she nearly toppled off her chair.

She remembered putting on airs, acting all high and mighty as he teased her for sounding like a pig fresh out of the mud. But she also remembered how her heart had melted when he told her he appreciated how genuine her laugh was. What followed had been a stream of meaningless nonsense, all delivered with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. At least, that’s what she thought of it now. Back then, she had found his smile charming.

Had she been sober, she liked to think she might have seen through his façade. At least, that’s what she told herself. But deep down, she knew better. She likely would have fallen for his act either way. Her friends said she was “denser than a brick” for a reason.

That same night, she had taken him home with her, and she hated admitting how much she had enjoyed what followed. He knew exactly what he was doing. Even now, Erica dreaded thinking about the events of that night—the soft click of the door closing behind them, the whispered promises, the heat of his touch—right up until she had fallen asleep on his arm.

When she woke the next morning, a paralysing headache dulled her senses. She didn’t immediately realise he was gone. By the time her eyes fluttered open, hours seemed to have passed. The midday sun streamed through her curtains, blinding her as she reached out to the spot on the bed where his chest had been the night before. Yet her hand found nothing but cheap, wrinkled sheets.

It had taken her what felt like forever to pull herself out of bed, throw on her nightgown, and gulp down several mugs of water. Even then, her body and mind worked at the barest level of functionality. As the day wore on, her hangover began to fade, but the growing awareness of her surroundings filled her with unease.

Things were missing.

It wasn’t until she searched her home in a panic that she found a clue: a small but detailed drawing tucked into her sock drawer, beneath layers of neatly folded socks. The sketch was of him blowing her a kiss, hearts floating lazily above his outstretched hand. Her stomach churned as she realised where it had been hidden—the same drawer where she kept her coin pouch, filled with the hard-earned money she had saved after countless extra shifts at work.

Her friends had always warned her against putting her money in the bank, claiming the rich were skimming from the accounts of the working class to fund their aristocratic lifestyles. They said small amounts were syphoned from people’s savings every month, funnelled into the coffers of the wealthy. Back then, Erica had listened to them. She always did. But now, standing in her ransacked home, she felt like a fool. Furious at herself for blindly trusting their advice, and just as angry for not questioning their claims. Those feelings of betrayal and bitterness festered, eventually driving a wedge between her and her friends. It was why they had eventually all turned their back on her.

Staring at the six silver pieces Richard had left behind, Erica felt a hollow emptiness settle over her. She stood there, frozen, trying to convince herself that it was all just a bad dream or some cruel prank. Only the gods knew how long she stayed that way, staring at the measly handful of coins in her palm.

Once she had finally come to her senses, she counted her losses and prepared to report the theft to the city guards. All her money was gone, except for a few copper coins she had left in her jacket pocket and the six silver in her sock drawer. Along with the money, her box of jewellery, her grandmother's earrings, and her deceased mother’s necklace—heirlooms that had been in her family for generations—were missing. Even a glass bottle of fresh milk she had bought the day before, something she’d been looking forward to enjoying with her breakfast, had been taken.

Later that day, she made her way to the city guards. When she presented the drawing as evidence, they laughed, joking about the thief leaving a calling card with a picture of himself. They called him “the world’s worst thief,” but those buffoons never managed to find him.

And as if the man hadn’t already cursed her enough, she later discovered she was pregnant with his child.

While Erica loved Molly with all her heart, her daughter’s appearance was a constant reminder of the man who had ruined her life. It stung almost as much as watching Molly suffer from her inexplicable illness. Yet, despite the resemblance to her father, the love Erica felt for her child was beyond words. Molly was the tiny, flickering flame that brought some light to Erica’s otherwise bleak existence—a flame so fragile that even the smallest gust of wind might snuff it out. Molly was the sole reason Erica dragged herself out of bed each morning and pushed through her exhausting days. The way strangers looked at her with fear and disgust over her dishevelled appearance didn’t matter; because Molly looked at her with large, glimmering eyes full of unconditional love. Erica had sworn to herself that she would do whatever it took to help her daughter recover, because no child deserved to endure such suffering—least of all her own.

Still, Erica couldn’t deny the truth: she was the only one who believed Molly could recover. Or perhaps it wasn’t hope she felt, but desperation. In the doctor's own words it was a miracle that Molly was still alive. A few months earlier the doctors had brought Erica out of earshot to deliver the concerning news without Molly overhearing their conversation. Doctor William Witherbark had told her that it seemed as if the disease was almost purposefully letting Molly live as if to feed off of her for longer. Or as if to make her suffer for as long as possible. They had been baffled by this seeming sign of sentience within whatever this thing was, yet they all refused to properly study her further, out of fear of them catching whatever she carried. That Erica cared for Molly daily without falling ill wasn’t proof enough that the illness did not spread easily, and there had even been debates on whether or not Erica was allowed to leave her home because of how often she came in contact with the child. After much arguing they had allowed her to continue working as long as she agreed to taking part in weekly medical tests to ensure she wasn’t spreading the disease.

All this had made her lose faith in the doctors of this town, yet she could not afford to move. Why Molly was not being quarantined was something Erica asked herself every day, and the fact none of the doctors had mentioned it only convinced her of their incompetence. She had no education in medicine and she still knew someone who was very sick should be kept away from others. She couldn’t help but feel spiteful and bitter, and she wasn’t afraid to voice it whenever she encountered any of the four buffoons staffing the Willowcreek medical centre. Her temperament worsening with each weekly meeting.

While Erica could do little to ease Molly’s pain, she did everything she could to distract her from it. Borrowing books from the small, single-shelf library at the church of the sun god became part of her routine. The priestesses there had been kind enough to help her learn the words she didn’t recognize in the simple children’s books they owned, enabling her to read her daughter to sleep. These stories of heroes and legends, adapted for young minds, were the highlight of Molly’s otherwise monotonous, bedridden days.

Yet every tale she shared seemed to spark Molly’s imagination, bringing her joy but worsening her nightmares. Erica carefully softened or skipped sections with violence, hoping to shield her daughter from anything that might frighten her. Yet despite her efforts, she couldn’t deny the happiness these moments brought Molly. Her daughter’s smile was Erica’s driving force, the thing that gave her the strength to push through this hellish existence. And so, she kept reading, all the while reassuring Molly that monsters, curses, and heroes only existed in fairy tales.

“Can you tell me the story of Grumgin again?” Molly sniffled in Erica’s arms, her frail body trembling. Erica’s heart ached as she noticed a new dark blister forming near her daughter’s right collarbone. One more among the many that plagued her body.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I had to return that book to the church, but I’ll borrow it again tomorrow,” Erica replied, gently stroking Molly’s messy blonde hair, her fingers tangling in the knotted strands.

“What about Sindeldust?” Molly asked, her voice carrying a glimmer of hope.

Erica sighed. “Mommy’s good at reading books, but she’s not much of a storyteller.” Even though she knew the tales of Grumgin the green giant who guided lost children back home from the depths of the woods, and Sindeldust the ghostly demon child who devoured the nightmares, Erica lacked confidence in her ability to recount them in an engaging way. She had been called charismatic in the past, but storytelling had never been her skill.

“I hope Sindeldust will eat my nightmares someday,” Molly whispered, her eyes filled with tears. “I dreamt of the scary monster again… This time it ate farmers and their animals. It was like a big smoke cloud, and everything it touched just… died.”

Erica’s chest tightened at her daughter’s words. The doctors had always claimed that dreams stemmed from one’s imagination, but some had gone as far as blaming Erica for Molly’s nightmares. They accused her of planting violent ideas in her child’s mind, or worse, of being aggressive around her. Erica knew those accusations were absurd. She had always been gentle and loving with Molly, so where the nightmares came from remained a mystery.

She wrapped her arms around her daughter in a tight hug before letting her go. Laying her down and gently tucking her in. “I don’t know where you get these dreams from, but mommy won’t ever let anything scary like that near you. I hope you know that.”

“I know, Mommy,” Molly said, pulling the blanket over most of her face. Her large eyes, filled with fear and loneliness, peered out at Erica. “I just wish you could chase the monsters away in my dreams too… Like you scare off that mean doctor lady.”

“How about I get you some ice cream, and we can look at the stars for a little while before bed?” Erica suggested with a cheeky smile. Molly’s eyes lit up with a faint glimmer, and she nodded eagerly. “Alright, I’ll be right back,” Erica added, rising to her feet and heading for the kitchen.

Erica's steps were heavy as her thoughts drifted to the doctor’s appointment awaiting them the next day. The sun had yet to rise, but she already knew tomorrow would bring more bad news.

Once in the kitchen, Erica opened the hatch to the small cellar and descended the creaking stairs. Against the back wall of the modest, mostly empty cellar stood an ice box her mother had installed many years ago. It was one of the last traces of her moty it also made her nightmares worse and more frequent. Yet she kept reading them to her daughter, doing her best to milden or avoid any sections including any form of violence, because seeing her smile was Erica’s main driving force to push through this hellish time of her life. All the while she tried to convince her daughter that monsters, curses and heroes were all just something that appeared in fairy tales.

“Can you tell me the story of Grumgin again?” Molly sniffled in Erica’s arms, causing her heart to ache at the sight of her frail child, a new dark blister was seemingly forming near her right collarbone.

“I am sorry sweetie, I had to return that book to the church but I can see if I can borrow it again tomorrow.” Erica responded and pats her daughter's head, strands of messy, blonde hair tangling in between her fingers.

“What about Sindeldust?” Molly then asked with a slight bit of hope in her voice.

“I’m sorry sweetie.. while mommy is pretty good at reading books, she isn’t all that great of a storyteller.” Erica responded with a pained sigh. Even if she knew the tales of Grumgin the green giant that guided lost children back home from the depths of the woods, and Sindeldust the ghostly demon child who ate the nightmares that plagued kindhearted children, alongside many other children’s tales, she wasn’t confident in her ability to tell them in any sort of interesting fashion without some form of reference. She had been called charismatic in the past, and she knew she had a way with words when she wanted to, but she wasn’t a storyteller or even a good singer for that matter. Lacking those skills had never bothered her in the past but now that she was a mother her priorities had changed greatly.

“I hope Sindeldust will eat my nightmares someday… I dreamt of that scary woman again…” Molly said as a shiver ran down her spine and her eyes once again filled with tears. “This time she set houses on fire and people screamed… She also grabbed a woman by her hair then lit her on fire… I really hate her…”

The doctors had always told her that one's dreams are brought forth by one's imagination, and some of them had even blamed Erica for the dreams Molly was having. Claiming that she put these thoughts in the child's mind or that she was violent around her child, but Erica wholeheartedly knew that that was impossible. She had always been incredibly sweet around Molly and never told her any violent stories, so how she was having these sorts of dreams was a mystery to Erica.

She wrapped her arms around her daughter in a tight hug before letting her go, laying her down and gently tucking her in. “I don’t know where you get these dreams from, but mommy won’t ever let someone scary like that near you. I hope you know that.”

“I know mommy, I just wish you could chase the scary people away in the dreams too…” Molly said and pulled the blanket up to cover more than half her face, glimpses of fear, sadness and loneliness showing in her eyes.

“How about I go get you some ice cream and we can look at the stars for a few minutes before you go back to bed?” Erica suggested with a cheeky smile which caused Molly’s eyes to light up with a gentle glimmer as she nodded her head quickly. “Alright, I will be right back.” Erica added and got up to head for the kitchen.

Even though her daughter was once again safe, she didn’t feel filled with relief. Her steps were heavy and all she could think about was the doctor’s appointment awaiting her and Molly the next day. The sun had not even risen yet but she knew that tomorrow was going to be yet another day where she was delivered bad news.

Once in the kitchen she couldn’t help but aimlessly stare at the small, magical chest before her. It had taken her months to save up for, and was likely the most expensive thing she owned but it had been worth every gold piece. She used to feel proud over owning something like this, but now she couldn’t help but feel more empty than the chest before her as she opened it to take out the small paper box of ice cream. Part of her wished that her heart could have preserved the feelings of love and happiness she had been filled with a few years ago the same way the small chest before her preserved food. Back in the good old days Erica would store plenty of good foods in the chest, as nothing food related placed in the chest could go bad or rot, but now there was nothing but this box of ice cream, a paper bag filled with some deer jerky, and some leftover porridge.

With heavy steps she walked back towards her daughter's bedroom, once again filled with feelings of hopelessness. Two spoons in one hand and the practically empty box of ice cream in the other, yet her heart was filled with dread. How much longer would she have to keep fighting like this? She stopped a few meters outside her daughter's room and leaned against the wall, silently praying to the god she had offered her devotion too.

‘Aelius, God of the Sun and Lord of the Light, said to shine light upon the path forward for those lost in darkness. Please, I am begging you… show me the way out of this hell…’ying there. Given how little we know about this disease, we can’t risk exposing our other patients. Molly’s condition is tragic, but we have to prioritize safety,” William explained, his response quick and rehearsed, as if he’d anticipated this question.

Erica could only scowl. It was a valid excuse, but an excuse nonetheless and she didn’t have the energy to argue. The only safety he cared about was clearly his own.

“Do you have any other questions?” the doctor asked as he tucked his notebook into his robe pocket.

“No… I think that’s all for now.” Erica crossed her arms. She had plenty of questions, but none that he could answer. Asking again how to help Molly or what she was suffering from felt pointless. No one here was competent enough to provide those answers.

“Alright. I’ll see you in a few days. I’ll bring all the paperwork on future treatments then,” Doctor Witherbark said, heading toward the exit. He grabbed his hat from the hallway dresser before pausing at the door. “Stay strong. We’ll get Molly healthy eventually. You have my word.”

Erica only nodded in response. After all this time, she didn’t believe a word he said. It almost insulted her that he had the audacity to talk about hope while draining every last copper from her coin pouch.

“Have a good night, and may the gods bless you,” the doctor said quickly before stepping outside and shutting the door behind him.

Once he was gone, the silence was deafening. Erica’s mind, which had been racing all day, finally quieted as exhaustion overwhelmed her. A twelve-hour work shift with barely time for lunch, rushing home to care for Molly, and this appointment—it had all left her with no time to rest until now.

She let out a deep sigh as she sank into the single armchair, the only remaining piece of furniture in her sparse living room. Leaning back, she stared at the ceiling, her mind as empty as her wallet. Minutes passed before she closed her eyes, trying to recall the last time she had felt truly happy. Nothing came to mind. Frustration bubbled up, and a part of her wanted to scream, but all around her was silence and darkness—until that silence was suddenly broken by a deep, resonant voice that echoed in her mind.

“Do not let their words deceive you,” the voice said, strange and echoing, its reverberation rippling painfully through her thoughts. Her eyes shot open as she instinctively searched for the source of the voice.

“Who’s there?” she exclaimed, shivers racing down her spine. No one answered. For several minutes, Erica crept through her home in a state of paranoid vigilance, but everything seemed as ordinary as ever.

“Mommy?” Molly’s voice called out, loud yet innocent, as Erica passed her bedroom.

“Yes, sweet pea?” Erica replied quickly, opening the door. It was almost instinctual, her immediate response whenever Molly called for her.

“Did something happen?” Molly asked nervously, fiddling with her thumbs.

“No. Why do you ask?” Erica said, stepping into the room.

“You were gone a long time after the doctor left. Usually, you come back right away. I was scared the doctor told you something bad…” Molly said, her small voice tinged with fear and guilt.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was only gone for a few minutes—I just needed some fresh air,” Erica said as she sat on the edge of Molly’s bed, gently patting her daughter’s head. “Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.”

“But it felt like you were gone forever. I had time to tell Mr. Bear six bedtime stories,” Molly said, holding up her stuffed bear as if to prove her point.

“What?” Erica asked, genuinely confused. She got up and crossed the room to the window, pulling the curtain aside to peer at the distant clock tower. The time read just past eight in the evening. Strange—Doctor Witherbark had arrived at six and stayed only a short while. Had she fallen asleep in the armchair? But that didn’t make sense. Even on her most exhausting days, she’d never passed out like that. Besides, she’d felt completely aware the entire time. Turning back to Molly, she returned to the bed and sat beside her again. “That’s strange. It looks like Mommy lost track of time. I’m really sorry, sweetie,” she said, guilt weighing heavily in her voice. Worrying her sick daughter was the last thing she wanted.

“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re alright,” Molly said with a smile so genuine it could only belong to a child.

Erica returned her daughter’s smile but remained silent for a moment. She often felt at a loss for words, as though she were wandering without direction, unsure how to reach her destination. She wished she could take this awful disease and banish it back to whatever hell it had crawled out from, but life wasn’t that simple. A sense of powerlessness consumed her, like a marionette tied up in the strings of fate. Sometimes, everything felt meaningless—her actions, her words, even the town and reality itself. Maybe it was just exhaustion, a signal from her body and mind that she needed sleep. But sleep wasn’t a luxury she could afford right now.

“How about I try to borrow a new book from the church tomorrow? I can go right after work,” she suggested after several moments of silence.

“Oh! I’d love that!” Molly exclaimed, her face lighting up. “Can you get one with a hero who saves everyone and defeats the big, evil… baddie?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Erica replied with a soft chuckle. “But for now, I need to make your dinner. It’s important you get the nutrients you need to grow big and strong.”

“Do I have to eat the peas?” Molly asked hesitantly, sliding under her blanket while hugging Mr. Bear so tightly it looked as if she might strangle the poor thing.

“Yes, but I won’t put as many on your plate, okay?” Erica ruffled Molly’s hair before standing. “I’ll be back with your food soon, alright?”

Molly nodded quickly, and Erica left the room, leaving the door ajar so she could hear if her daughter needed her. The walk to the kitchen through the barren hallway felt uncomfortably long as her thoughts drifted back to the voice she’d heard. It had been unlike anything she’d ever experienced, its resonance sending chills through her. Terrifying as it was, there had been something oddly reassuring about it. Or was it just her desperation, clinging to the idea of otherworldly intervention? Was this the beginning of a god answering her prayers? Could it have been the voice of the Sun God? Or was she simply losing her grip on reality, imagining divine voices in her head?

“Do not let their words deceive you,” the voice had said.

What did it mean? Whose words was it referring to—the doctors? Her boss? Her so-called friends? All of them? Paranoia began creeping in, raising the hairs on her arms. Could she trust the voice? If it was the Sun God, she could place her faith in it without question. His religion emphasized fighting for a brighter future, protecting the weak, and spreading hope. But if it truly was the Sun God, wouldn’t he identify himself? Wouldn’t he send a champion to deliver his message? And why reach out to her now, after all this time? A year ago, when she still went to church regularly, she might have believed. But now, her prayers were rare and born of desperation. Was it even possible that the voice belonged to him?

Her thoughts were interrupted as she rummaged through the kitchen and realized she was missing some key ingredients for Molly’s meal. She dreaded the thought of grocery shopping but knew she had no choice.

“Molly, I’m heading out to buy some milk and eggs! I’ll be back in a few minutes!” she called, slipping on her simple leather shoes and draping a rose red scarf over her shoulders.

“Alright! Take care, Mom!” Molly called back from her room. Erica never left without making sure Molly knew she’d be alone, a reassurance she always gave. The thought of leaving her sick daughter behind gnawed at her, a worry that ate away at her from the inside out.

She stepped outside, locking the door with a large iron key before facing the world beyond her home. The wind swept her bangs from her face as the warm embrace of summer gave way to the chill of autumn. Above, the sky was a patchwork of gray clouds, letting only faint streaks of sunlight break through. In the distance, thunder rumbled, heralding the approach of a storm. Wrapping her scarf tightly around her neck, Erica quickened her pace toward Willowcreek’s small town square.

As usual, those who noticed her kept their distance, terrified of the nonexistent risk of catching whatever illness plagued Molly. There was a plethora of false rumours surrounding Erica, her small family and the disease Molly carried, almost as if each individual citizen had their own wild, delusional theory on the situation. Though their fear was understandable, Erica found it maddening. Five years had passed without her contracting the disease, yet no one seemed to consider that this should make the odds of transmission incredibly low.

The town square wasn’t far, and several farmers were already packing up their stalls, eager to get home before the storm arrived. Dread knotted in Erica’s stomach as her eyes fell on a familiar figure selling eggs at the market. Just seeing her made Erica want to turn around and abandon the errand altogether. But the thought of cooking a nice meal for Molly gave her the strength to press on.

The woman Erica dreaded encountering was Jessica, with her brown hair streaked with red and neatly tied into a bun. Her brown eyes, dull on their own, were accentuated by heavy makeup—a habit she’d kept since they were teenagers. While Erica’s dreams had long since shifted, Jessica still clung to fantasies of leaving Willowcreek for a big city like Laverne, Caerleon, or Dameril. Despite being a farmer’s daughter and working much of her life as a small-town waitress, Jessica dressed in what she imagined city elites wore. Of course, she’d never met anyone wealthy enough to confirm her assumptions. Her red dress revealed far more cleavage than Erica found comfortable, and the oversized gemstone necklace nestled in her décolletage was a cheap, polished imitation designed to fool the uninformed. Erica knew better—Jessica’s family could never afford such extravagance.

Rumors overheard in the tavern suggested Jessica’s parents were still trying to marry her off to someone from one of the cities she dreamed of living in. It wasn’t surprising; Jessica had apparently become the talk of the town after loudly declaring that none of Willowcreek’s “country bumpkins” were good enough for her. Erica wasn’t shocked by this—Jessica had always been full of herself. Erica was merely the introvert that Jessica adopted and reformed into someone who dared to open their mouth in public.

As Erica approached, Jessica gave her an annoyed look, as though the darkening sky was Erica’s fault. “Look what the cat dragged out,” she said in a tone meant to sound friendly but coming across as entirely fake. She even had the phrase wrong, but Jessica never cared to correct herself, convinced the “common folk” simply didn’t understand the “sophistication” of city language.

“Yes, the cat dragged me out to get some milk and eggs,” Erica replied curtly, hoping to cut the conversation short. She could feel Jessica fishing for gossip to share with their old acquaintances—women Erica hadn’t spoken to in years.

“I can tell. Looks like it did a number on your hair too. You really should try that mud treatment I showed you; it works wonders for split ends,” Jessica rambled, making Erica want to roll her eyes.

“I’d love to, but life doesn’t leave much time for that sort of thing these days. I’ll take two bottles of milk and eight eggs,” Erica said, steering the conversation back to her purchase.

“Ah, yes, life certainly hasn’t been kind to you since you gave birth to that little cursed… thing…” Jessica said, clearly struggling to find a word other than the insult she wanted to use. “I can’t even remember the last time I saw you smile.”

“She’s not cursed; she’s sick. And she’ll get better,” Erica spoke through gritted teeth, fighting to keep her composure.

“Oh, of course! She’s not cursed—she’s a curse,” Jessica quipped nonchalantly, as if it were some kind of joke. She packed the milk and eggs into a paper bag, oblivious to the hurt she was causing. “She sucked the fun right out of you.”

Erica inhaled deeply to keep from slapping the smirk off Jessica’s face. “You speak with such confidence about things you know nothing about. Then again, that’s always been your way. I suppose ignorance is to be expected from an uneducated farmer’s girl,” she said, letting the insult land squarely on its mark.

Jessica’s face darkened, her pride clearly stung. “There’s no need to be rude. You know I only say these things because I care about you. The girls and I miss you… Rachel’s a little scared of catching whatever plague your daughter has, but we all miss hanging out with you.”

Jessica placed the exact change on the counter, handing over the paper bag as Erica fixed her with a cold stare. “No offense, but I don’t think you’re capable of caring about anyone more than yourself. Maybe stop spewing nonsense and try warming that cold, dead heart of yours,” Erica said before grabbing her change and walking away.

Her chest felt tight as she hurried off, her emotions threatening to spill over. She wanted to cry but took satisfaction in finally saying what she’d held back for years. Part of her longed to see Jessica’s reaction, but she didn’t dare turn around. Let her words hang. Let Jessica stew in them. Erica focused on putting one foot in front of the other, determined not to let her emotions get the better of her.