The wind carried the sour breath of famine, curling through the withered fields and hollowed forests like a dying whisper. The year was 1316, the heart of the Great Famine, where bread turned to ash in the mouths of the starving, and the earth refused its yield. Beneath this pall of despair, Ruprecht sat on a splintered stool in the shadow of his sagging cottage, the light of a weak fire flickering across his face. His hands trembled, not from the chill but from the weight of an unbearable decision.

Adelheid, his second wife, leaned against the crooked doorframe, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. She was tall, with sharp angles to her face and voice alike, and her hollowed cheeks only sharpened her fury. Her daughter, thirteen-year-old Gretel, slept fitfully on a straw pallet in the corner, her breath catching in restless dreams. Eight-year-old Hansel sat on the cold stone floor, fingers fidgeting as his darting eyes moved from his father to his stepmother. Neither child knew the words spoken in hushed, venomous tones.

“It is not just food,” Adelheid hissed, her voice low but sharp enough to cut. “It is the noise, the chaos. Hansel cannot sit still. Gretel is sly—too much like me, perhaps—but she does not have the sense to see beyond herself. Together, they eat and run and shout, and they tear apart what little remains of our peace.”

Ruprecht’s voice was hoarse, worn thin by days of fruitless arguments. “They are children, Adelheid. My son, your daughter. We cannot abandon them.”

Adelheid’s laugh was cold, brittle as the frost crusting the ground outside. “Sentiment is a luxury for the fed, Ruprecht. And they will outlive us, if left to the forest. At least there, they may survive.”

Ruprecht’s head bowed, his fingers twisting into his thinning hair. He had married Adelheid for practical reasons—two broken families seeking to stitch themselves into one. Her cunning balanced his timidity, her daughter’s sharp wit matched his son’s boundless energy. But the famine had exposed every weakness, turned every bond brittle. Now, the prospect of sending the children into the forest to fend for themselves felt like ripping his soul apart—but what soul did a starving man have left?

Hansel’s voice broke the tense silence, his words rapid and punctuated by a nervous energy. “Papa, why do you and Mother argue so much? I—I can help! I’ll hunt. I’ll catch birds. I’ll bring home mushrooms.”

Adelheid’s gaze fell on him, her expression unreadable but heavy with disdain. “And when the birds are gone, what will you catch then? Shadows? Your father can’t feed you with good intentions.”

Hansel shrank back, his hands clenching into fists. Gretel stirred, her sharp eyes opening and narrowing as they settled on Adelheid. “I could feed us all if you’d just let me do what needs doing,” she muttered, voice low with defiance.

“And what would that be?” Adelheid asked, her tone mocking. “You think you can charm food out of the trees? Or perhaps you’ll steal from the neighboring farms?”

Gretel sat up, her movements deliberate. “Better a thief than a coward.” Her eyes burned with a challenge, but Ruprecht stood abruptly, his face pale.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice trembling. “No more words like these.”

Gretel held his gaze for a long, tense moment before lying back down, her movements sharp with anger. Hansel shifted closer to her, his fingers plucking at the loose threads of her blanket.

In the silence that followed, the fire sputtered and died. Ruprecht returned to his stool, his mind racing in circles as the cold crept in. Somewhere in the forest, wolves howled.

Adelheid stood near the window, her figure silhouetted against the faint moonlight filtering through the cracked panes.

“You should let me help,” Adelheid said, her voice sharp as the edge of a blade. She didn’t turn from the window, her eyes fixed on the darkness beyond.

Ruprecht didn’t answer at first. He stared at his hands, flexing his fingers slightly, wincing at the pain that shot up his wrists. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and tired. “You know my answer.”

Adelheid let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh against the silence. “Your answer is a death sentence, Ruprecht. For all of us. Look at you—your hands are worthless. You can’t chop wood. You can’t carve. You can’t even light a fire without fumbling. And yet you sit there, holding onto your principles like they’ll feed us.”

Ruprecht flinched but refused to meet her gaze. “It isn’t about principles. You’ve seen what your kind of help brings. I’ve seen it.”

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“Oh, have you?” Adelheid turned sharply, stepping closer to the table. Her shadow stretched across the floor, long and jagged, as if the firelight itself recoiled from her presence. “Tell me, Ruprecht, what have you seen? A few shadows shifting in the night? Mist that moves where it shouldn’t? What harm have I done with it? What destruction?”

“It’s not just shadows,” Ruprecht snapped, his voice trembling. He stood abruptly, the motion sending a sharp pain through his wrists, but he ignored it. “It’s the wolves you call to circle the house when you’re angry. The mist that creeps through the cracks under the door when you’re brooding. The iron that twists in your hands like it’s alive. You think I don’t notice? You think the children don’t notice?”

Adelheid’s eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I’ve done nothing but protect this family, Ruprecht. If the wolves come, it’s because I keep them from tearing us apart. If the mist moves, it’s because I command it to shield us from what’s out there. And the iron? It bends to me because I need it to. Because you won’t.”

Ruprecht slammed a fist onto the table, the wood groaning under the force. “I told you when we married. No sorcery. No shadows, no mist, no wolves. That wasn’t protection—it was a bargain. And I won’t let you twist this family into something unnatural to save it.”

Adelheid stepped closer, her shadow merging with the dark corners of the room. The firelight flickered, casting her face into sharp relief. “Do you think this world is natural, Ruprecht? This famine? This hunger? Nature has abandoned us, and you refuse to see it. There is no firewood left for you to chop, no food left for you to carve a bowl for. The only tools we have are the ones I wield. And you’d rather die than let me use them.”

“It’s not just us, Adelheid,” Ruprecht said, his voice shaking but resolute. “There are children here. Hansel and Gretel. They watch you. They listen. Do you want them to think this is the way? To command shadows and wolves instead of learning to fend for themselves?”

Adelheid’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. “Fend for themselves? Like you have? Tell me, Ruprecht—when was the last time you fed this family? When was the last time your useless hands held anything but regret?”

Her words struck deep, and Ruprecht staggered back as if physically wounded. The fire sputtered, the shadows in the room growing darker, heavier.

Adelheid turned away from him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “You’re a fool,” she said softly, her voice a whisper but no less cutting. “And fools die hungry.”

Ruprecht sank back into his chair, his head heavy in his hands. The wolves howled again, louder this time, closer. He flexed his fingers, the pain a sharp reminder of his limits, of all the ways he had failed. Somewhere in the corner, Hansel stirred in his sleep, and Gretel turned onto her side, her breathing steady and quiet. But there was no comfort in the sound. Only the creeping certainty that Adelheid was right. Time was running out.

The wolves’ howls pierced the silence again, closer now, their mournful cries a cruel reminder of what waited just beyond the fragile walls. Ruprecht’s fingers twitched uselessly against the table, his wrists flaring with pain every time he tried to close his fists. He was a layperson—a man of simple means, of wood and iron and honest work. Or at least, he had been. The famine had stripped even that identity from him, leaving him hollow, unable to protect or provide.

Adelheid, in stark contrast, stood like a figure carved from stone, unyielding and sharp. The shadows around her seemed to gather, pressing against the edges of the room as if waiting for her command. Her arms remained crossed, her face set in cold fury.

“I’m done arguing with you, Ruprecht,” she said, her voice low but laced with menace. “This… this play at survival, at hope? It’s cruelty. To all of us. Especially to them.”

Ruprecht’s head shot up, his eyes wide. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Adelheid continued, stepping forward until her shadow stretched across the table, swallowing his trembling hands in darkness, “that we’re only delaying the inevitable. Hansel and Gretel won’t make it through the winter. You know that as well as I do.”

Ruprecht pushed himself to his feet, the pain in his joints momentarily forgotten. “You don’t mean that,” he said, his voice trembling but insistent. “They’re children, Adelheid. They’re our children.”

Adelheid scoffed, the sound cutting like a blade. “They’re burdens, Ruprecht. And every day we keep them here, we only add to their suffering. You think I enjoy watching Gretel grow thinner by the hour? Hearing Hansel cry himself to sleep because his stomach aches? We’re torturing them. For what? So we can die together?”

“They’re alive,” Ruprecht said, his voice growing firmer, though his hands still trembled at his sides. “As long as they’re alive, there’s hope. I won’t let you take that from them.”

Adelheid’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the room seemed to darken. The faint flicker of the fire struggled against the growing shadows. “You think this is living? You think they don’t know what’s coming? Gretel watches me with those sharp eyes of hers, like she’s already figured it out. And Hansel? He’s too stupid to see it, but he feels it. The fear. The hunger. You’re not saving them, Ruprecht. You’re prolonging their misery.”

“I’ll find food,” Ruprecht said desperately, stepping around the table as if putting himself between Adelheid and the sleeping children. “I’ll find firewood. There’s always something, always a way.”

“You can’t even hold an axe,” Adelheid snapped, her voice rising. “You’re useless out there, and you know it. What are you going to do? Fight the wolves with your bare hands?”

“Then I’ll die trying,” Ruprecht said, his voice breaking. “But I won’t… I won’t let you harm them.”

Adelheid’s expression hardened, her shadow deepening until it seemed to stretch into the corners of the room, pressing against the walls. The wolves howled again, closer now, their cries almost indistinguishable from screams. “You won’t stop me, Ruprecht,” she said softly, but her tone carried the weight of a storm. “If you can’t face reality, then I’ll do it for you.”

Ruprecht staggered back, his heart hammering in his chest. “You’re talking about killing them,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m talking about mercy,” Adelheid said, her gaze unwavering. “Better to let them go quietly, in their sleep, than to send them into the forest to starve or be torn apart by wolves. Better than watching them waste away before our eyes.”

Ruprecht shook his head violently, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. “No. No, I won’t let you.”

Adelheid stepped closer, her presence looming like the wolves outside. “You can’t stop me, Ruprecht. You’ve already failed them. I’m just finishing what you started.”

“No!” Ruprecht’s voice broke as he lunged forward, his trembling hands reaching for her arm. But Adelheid didn’t move. The shadows seemed to shift around her, like a living barrier, and Ruprecht’s fingers passed through empty air. He stumbled, collapsing against the table, his body wracked with sobs.

For a long moment, there was silence. The wolves howled again, and Adelheid turned away, her shadow retreating with her. “You can hate me if you want,” she said, her voice cold but steady. “But at least I’ll be the one to end this. For all of us.”

Ruprecht didn’t respond. He stayed where he was, slumped over the table, his tears soaking into the rough wood. The fire burned low, the shadows growing longer, darker, as Adelheid moved toward the door.