I don't understand this feeling. This strange, unfamiliar warmth deep inside me, like a ray of hope trying to bloom in the darkness.

I should have died back there—alone, forgotten, like I always thought I would. I had given up, accepted that my life would end the way it always seemed destined to. But then he appeared.

Why? Why save me?

It doesn't make sense. I've spent my whole life learning one truth: people hate me. They always have. Yet, for some reason, he didn't. He looked at me like I mattered, even when I didn't believe I did.

I shifted in my sleep, the faint crackle of a distant campfire blending with my thoughts. But the warmth wasn't enough to keep the memories away. They came rushing back, unbidden, vivid as ever.

I don't remember much of my earliest days. But I remember love.

We were happy once. I had a caring mother, a hardworking father, and… someone else. Someone special. My sister, Lyla. Her name feels fragile in my mind now, like a whisper I'm afraid I'll forget. She was the one who took care of me, the one who made me laugh when no one else could. I can still remember her soft voice, calling me "Lia" when we played games in the garden, or how she would brush my hair before I went to sleep, as if weaving dreams into my hair along with the strands.

My mother, she was the heart of our home. She had gentle hands that knew how to soothe, how to bake the best bread, and how to wipe away tears with just a glance. She would hum softly while working, and her voice could always calm even the most restless storm inside me. She always called me mommy's little girl, a nickname that made me feel safe and loved, no matter how big the world seemed.

Father, though quieter than mother, had a strength about him that I admired. He worked long hours as a fisherman, waking before the sun, his hands rough from the ropes and nets. But he always made time for us, always found a way to carve out moments for a story or a laugh at the dinner table. He believed in hard work and honesty, and his faith in those simple principles was unwavering.

Together, they built a home filled with love and laughter. It wasn't much, but it was everything to me. And Lyla, she was the anchor, the steady one who kept us together when the world outside seemed too big or too difficult.

We lived in a small village near the shore of Celestine Realm. A village that seemed caught between the gentle ebb of the sea and the great expanse of a land I never fully understood. The village was peaceful, with cobblestone streets that led to tiny cottages, their roofs covered in moss, as though the earth itself was trying to hold us close. From our home, I could always hear the waves crashing softly against the rocks, a sound that felt like a lullaby, soothing in its rhythm. The beach stretched endlessly, golden sands meeting the rolling tides, and when the sun set, it painted the sky in shades of pink and orange that made everything feel like it was touched by magic.

I used to wonder why it was called the Celestine Realm. There was a beauty here that felt otherworldly, but I didn't know much about the continent. I'd heard bits and pieces—stories passed between the elders or whispered around the campfires—but I'd never asked about the world beyond our shores. Sometimes I would catch myself staring at the horizon, wondering what lay beyond the blue, what secrets the land of Celestine might hold, but it was always too big a question to ask.

The beauty of our village never ceased to amaze me. The way the waves glinted in the sunlight, or how the breeze carried the salty tang of the sea, mixing with the scent of wildflowers. It was a place where every sunset felt like a promise, and every morning seemed to bring new hopes. How could I not feel blessed living in such a place? How could I have known that everything I loved could change so quickly?

Our village was a lively place, full of faces I once adored. I had friends—a whole group of them. We were inseparable, dreaming of adventures we'd one day share.

"One day, I'll travel beyond the mountains," Mira would say, her eyes sparkling as we played explorers in the woods.

"We'll build a real fort up there!" Toby would add, hammering together sticks and rocks like they were planks and nails.

Elise would hum in agreement, her soft voice blending with the songs we made up during chores.

Ronan was always climbing, always daring, saving me more than once when I got stuck in a tree I shouldn't have been in.

And Fiona… oh, Fiona. Her laugh could brighten the darkest day. She always raced me to the river, calling me a slowpoke even when I won.

Then there was Kiel, quiet but kind. He found me crying once, hiding under a tree, and simply sat with me, his book in hand. That was the kind of person he was—always there when you needed him, even if you didn't realize it.

They used to call me Stella, saying I was part of those glowing stars, even when I didn't feel like I belonged to anything.

In our village, it was tradition for children to receive their names only after their 10th birthday. Before that, we were simply called by whatever name our parents felt suited us, but it wasn't permanent. The village believed that naming a child too soon could invite misfortune, that a curse might slip in before the name could shield them properly. So, before reaching the age of ten, you were a nameless soul, drifting between the world of childhood and something more.

When the time came, the village would gather, and each child would be given a name—one that was meant to guard them against anything dark. But before that, I had no name of my own.

And so, my friends, they called me Stella. It wasn't the name I was born with, but it felt right. It meant I was part of the stars, a piece of the night sky—something constant and bright, even in the darkest moments. It felt like a promise, one they made me believe in, even when I didn't feel like I had a place among them.

I had many fond memories with them. But there was one in particular I cherished the most.

It was Firebloom Night, the time when our village lit bonfires to welcome spring and chase away misfortune. The stars always seemed brighter on that night, and my friends said it was because the sky was happy to see us.

That year, there was no joy in Firebloom Night for me. Lyla's condition was worsening—she was sick. Each day, her breaths grew fainter, her small frame growing weaker against the weight of an illness none of us could fight. Her laughter, once the melody that filled our home, had become a distant memory.

I stayed by her side during the day, holding her hand as if my grip could somehow tether her to this world. I whispered stories to her, but she was too weak to respond, her eyes barely pulsing open. I smiled for her sake, but it felt like my face was cracking every time I forced it.

The medicine she needed wasn't in the village, and while it was on its way, a week felt like a lifetime—a lifetime she might not have.

I couldn't just sit and wait. Sitting felt like giving up. That night, while the others danced around the bonfires, their laughter and joy only deepened the ache in my chest. I couldn't bring myself to join them, not while Lyla was fading.

Instead, I sat outside my house, my hands trembling as I packed a small satchel with everything I could think of—a canteen, a bit of bread, a scarf Lyla had made for me. My fingers fumbled with the knot, clumsy from the frustration building inside me. I swiped angrily at the tears streaming down my face, but they kept coming.

I grabbed a lantern from the porch, its soft glow glimmering against the night. My hands shook as I lit it, the flame unsteady, like me.

"Please," I whispered to no one in particular. "Just let this work. Let me do something." My voice cracked, and I clenched my fists so tightly that my nails bit into my palms.

With the satchel slung over my shoulder, I made my way to the edge of the woods. The darkness stretched before me, the faint sounds of the festival behind me. I felt small, like the shadows might swallow me whole, but I didn't care. I couldn't sit and do nothing anymore.

The next village was close—maybe they had the medicine. I told myself I'd go alone. It was my responsibility, after all.

But they found me.

"Stella! What are you doing?" Mira's voice stopped me in my tracks. She was the first to catch up, her breathing heavy, eyes shining with worry.

I turned to face her, clutching the strap of my satchel. "I have to go. Lyla doesn't have time, Mira." My voice cracked, betraying the tears I'd been holding back.

Before Mira could answer, the others arrived. Toby came barreling through the bushes in a hurry. "You can't just leave on your own! What if you get hurt?"

"She's not going alone," Ronan said firmly, his usual daring tone laced with seriousness. He crossed his arms, standing as if ready to block my path.

"You don't have to do this by yourself, Stella," Elise added softly. She stepped closer, her gentle voice like a balm to my frayed nerves. "We're your friends. Let us help."

"I can't ask you to—" I started, but Fiona cut me off with her usual energy.

"You didn't ask. We're coming. You think we'd just let you wander off? You're as stubborn as an old goat sometimes, you know that?" She grinned, but her voice trembled, betraying her own worry.

Kiel was the last to speak. He didn't say much, as always, but his words carried weight. "Stella, you don't have to carry everything alone. We're here."

Their determination left me speechless. I wanted to argue, to tell them it wasn't their burden to bear, but when I looked at their faces, I saw nothing but resolve.

We set out that night, the six of them surrounding me like a shield. Mira kept spirits high with stories about the stars and how we'd reach the next village by morning. Toby carried my lantern when my hands shook too much to hold it steady.

Elise sang softly as we walked, her voice calming the fears I couldn't voice. Ronan led the way, daring but careful, making sure the path was safe. Fiona made us laugh, even when the darkness felt overwhelming, and Kiel stayed close, his quiet presence a reminder that I was never alone.

When we reached the village and found the medicine, I thought my chest might burst from the weight lifting off it. The moment I clutched that vial, a wave of ecstasy washed over me—relief, hope, and joy all collided in a rush. It felt like a heavy storm finally passing, leaving behind only clear skies. The thought that I had the power to save Lyla, to finally bring her relief, filled me with a happiness I hadn't felt in ages. There was no stopping us now. We didn't even pause to rest, our steps quickening as if propelled by the weight of our mission. Every step closer to home only deepened the hope in my heart. I could save her. I could fix this.

We arrived back at the house, and the moment we walked through the door, my parents rushed toward me, their faces filled with concern and a storm of questions. "Where have you been?" my father asked, his voice tight with worry. "What happened? Are you alright?" my mother added, her hands reaching to touch me, as if to confirm I was truly safe.

But I barely heard their words. My focus was on one thing only: Lyla. I rushed past them, hardly noticing their shocked expressions, and headed straight for her room. I had to get to her.

Lyla lay there, pale and weak, her body trembling from the sickness that had gripped her. She looked up at me, her eyes filled with worry. "Lia," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Don't come too close... the illness... you might catch it too."

But I shook my head, not even hesitating for a second. "I don't care about that," I told her softly, my voice full of conviction. "All that matters is your safety, Lyla. Nothing else matters."

Her eyes softened at my words, and I could see the hesitation in them. I opened the vial, took the medicine, and gently helped her swallow it. My hands shook as I held her, but I didn't care. All that mattered was the act of healing her, saving her from this torment.

And then, as I pulled away slightly, I saw something in her eyes. A glow. It was the first time in days that her eyes were clear, full of warmth, and almost... relieved. It took everything in me not to break down right there. I watched as her eyes shimmered with the beginnings of tears. She tried to hide it, but I saw it—saw how she was fighting back the emotions that threatened to spill over. I had done it. I had saved her.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I saw a glimmer of hope return in her eyes. And in that moment, I knew that I would do anything—sacrifice anything—to keep that light in her eyes shining.

That night, I realized something I'd never forget—they weren't just my friends. They were my family, the stars in my sky. And as they liked to remind me, I was Stella, one of them.

I couldn't have asked for a better group of people to stand by me, to give me strength when I had none left to give. Their kindness, their unwavering support—it meant everything. I was no longer alone.

We were going to grow up and travel the world together. That was our promise. To leave the village, to adventure, to see everything life had to offer. I believed in that dream. In them.

But everything changed.

It was a month before my 10th birthday when it started. My hair began to fade, day by day, from black to snow-white. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light. But then the pain came. My eyes burned constantly, so much that I couldn't even cry. The more I tried, the worse it got.

My parents were frantic, rushing me to the village doctor, trying remedy after remedy. Nothing worked. I remember my mother telling me to keep my eyes closed, whispering soothing words as if that would make it better. But nothing stopped the pain. Nothing eased the agony that gnawed at me every second.

I accepted her idea and kept my eyes closed, hoping it might bring some relief. But as I did, the world vanished in an instant. The warmth of the fire, the faces of those I loved—it was all gone, swallowed by the darkness behind my eyelids. I couldn't see anyone, couldn't feel anything but the ache that consumed me. It was as if the world had turned its back on me, leaving me alone in the shadow of my pain.

I stopped talking to people, locking myself away in my room. I didn't want anyone to see me like that. I didn't want them to see what I was becoming.

At first, my friends would visit daily, their voices calling to me from outside my door, trying to coax me out with laughter and stories. My parents came too, their concern heavy in every word they spoke, while Lyla just wanted to sit beside me, quietly holding my hand. But I told them all to leave me alone, insisting that I was fine, that I didn't need anyone. Slowly, one by one, they stopped coming. They left, just as I wanted. I thought it was better that way—better that no one had to see me like this.

But Lyla wouldn't leave me alone.

She used to call me "Lia" out of love, saying it described how precious I was to her and that she would sacrifice anything to protect me.

Every night, she sat outside my door, her voice soft and unwavering as she tried to comfort me. "It'll get better," she would say. "I'll be right here. Always." Her words carried a hope I couldn't feel, like she was clinging to something for both of us.

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But sometimes, her voice wavered, and I could hear the desperation beneath her calm exterior. "Lia," she whispered, her words like a plea. "I know you're hurt. I can hear it in the silence... please, let me in. You don't have to carry this alone. You don't have to hide away."

I felt the weight of her love through the door, pressing down on me like the world was collapsing. "You don't understand," I whispered back, my voice barely audible. "I can't keep going like this. It feels like I'm drowning, and no matter how hard I try, I just want to disappear sometimes."

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. Then she spoke again, her voice trembling. "Lia, no... you're not broken. You're hurting, and I see that. But you are not alone in this. I see your pain, I feel it, and I'll stay here—every step of the way. I'll hold you when you fall apart, and I'll remind you of the strength you can't see right now. You're more than this moment, Lia. You're more than the fear and the doubt you feel. Please, don't shut me out. I need you just as much as you need me."

Her words felt like a lifeline, pulling me from the darkness, but I was too afraid to reach for it. Still, I could hear her—her heart in every word, her determination to keep me from slipping further away.

"Lia, you're my heart," she continued, her voice breaking. "You're the reason I am alive. You're the reason I keep going, even when everything feels impossible. Don't you dare believe you're alone in this. I swear, I will never leave you. I will fight for you, with everything I have."

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to let her in, to feel her warmth, but I didn't know how. The pain inside felt too heavy, too deep to share.

I told her to go away. My voice was sharp, my words harsher than I intended, but I couldn't stop myself. Again and again, I screamed at her to leave, my heart twisting each time I heard the hurt in her silence. But she stayed.

No matter how much I pushed her away, she stayed. Through the nights when I sobbed quietly into my pillow, convinced no one could hear. Through the days when the world outside my door felt like a foreign place I didn't belong to anymore. She stayed.

Her voice was my lifeline, even when I pretended not to hear her. She told me stories, spinning tales of adventure and heroes who overcame impossible odds. She made up jokes—most of them terrible—just to coax a smile from me. I never gave her the satisfaction of a laugh, but her persistence was the closest thing to warmth I could feel.

I never opened the door. Not until the night before my birthday. I don't know what made me do it. Maybe it was the way her voice cracked as she whispered, "I just want you to know you're not alone. Not now, not ever." Maybe it was the quiet sniffle I heard afterward, the sound of tears she thought I couldn't hear.

When I finally turned the handle and saw her sitting there, arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes red and swollen from crying, I realized something I hadn't let myself believe. She wasn't just waiting for me to get better. She was breaking too, and she was still there, holding on for both of us.

I let her in, and the moment I saw her face, I broke. The pain, the fear, the loneliness—it all came spilling out in sobs I couldn't control. Lyla didn't say a word at first. She just wrapped her arms around me, pulling me close, stroking my hair like she always did when we were little.

"It's okay, Lia," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Let it out. I'm here. I've got you."

"I-I can't," I choked out between sobs. "I can't do this anymore, Lyla. I'm not strong. I'm weak—a crybaby who can't handle anything!" My words felt heavy, as if saying them out loud only made them more true.

"Don't say that, Lia," Lyla said softly, pulling back just enough to look me in the eyes. Her gaze was steady, her voice firm but gentle. "You're wrong. You're so much stronger than you think."

"How?" I asked, my voice breaking. "I push everyone away. I hide. I can't even—" My words dissolved into more tears.

She cupped my face, brushing away my tears with her thumbs, her touch gentle but firm. "Do you remember when I was sick?" she whispered, her voice trembling as she spoke. "How you stayed by my side, day and night? You never gave up on me, even when I was too weak to lift my head. You held my hand, told me stories, and made me laugh when I thought I'd forgotten how. You kept me alive. You're the reason I'm here."

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak, my chest tight with the weight of everything I couldn't put into words. But she wasn't finished.

"And now it's my turn, Lia," she said, her voice soft but unshakable, her gaze never leaving mine. "You helped me when I couldn't help myself. You gave me strength when I had none. It's my duty—no, it's my privilege—to do the same for you. You don't have to go through this alone. I won't let you."

Her words wrapped around my heart like a lifeline, but the fear and shame held me back. I wanted to believe her, but the darkness in my mind felt too heavy to escape. She could see it though—the weight I was carrying, the despair I couldn't shake.

Lyla leaned in closer, her forehead resting against mine, her breath warm and steady. "You are not alone, Lia. I'm right here. Every step of the way. I'll be the strength you need when you don't have any left. I'll carry you when you can't stand. Don't you dare think you're a burden to me. You're my sister. You are everything to me."

The tears came again, but this time, they didn't feel as heavy. They were just... a release. A breaking open of all the pain I had kept hidden for so long. I leaned into her, letting her warmth and love fill the cracks in my heart.

"I'm scared," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "What if I'm too much for you?"

Lyla pulled me into her arms, holding me tight as if she could shield me from the world. "You'll never be too much for me, Lia. Never. I'll always be here. You don't have to be perfect, you just have to be you. And that's more than enough for me."

Her words sank deep into me, breaking through the walls I'd built around myself. "But I'm scared," I whispered. "What if I'm never okay again?"

She hugged me tighter, resting her chin on my shoulder. "Then I'll keep being here, every step of the way. We'll face it together, one day at a time. You don't have to be okay right now, Lia. Just know that you're loved, and I'm not going anywhere."

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself to believe her.

The morning of my birthday was the happiest I'd felt in weeks. My parents threw a party, inviting half the village. They told me they were going to give me my name, something they'd dreamed of for years.

Mother wanted to call me Celestara, after the goddess who blessed Celestine. She believed that my snowy white hair, so much like the pure light of the moon, would be a perfect match for the name. My mother was deeply religious, and curses were her greatest fear. She made sure I never came in contact with anything she considered dark or ill-fated. To her, Celestara was a name of purity, of divine blessing, one that would protect me from any misfortune that might try to cling to me.

Father, on the other hand, had his own idea. He wanted to name me Anastasia, meaning "resurrection" or "rebirth." He said it symbolized hope—perhaps the hope that even the darkest days could bring new beginnings. My father had a strange fondness for names that carried weight, names that meant something greater than themselves. I always found it funny how he could get so passionate about something so simple as a name, but to him, it was more than just a label. It was a symbol, a reminder that life always moved forward, even through the toughest times.

Then there was Lyla. My dear sister. She wanted to name me Selene, after the moon. She said it represented the deep bond we shared, how she had always been there for me, just like the moon had always been there for the stars. Selene was calm, protective, and constant—just like her. She said the moon was always watching over the night, soothing the world with its light. And she wanted me to carry that same protection, that same serene presence in my life.

It was a name that felt almost too grand, too perfect for me. I had always been Lia to her, a name that was simpler, more familiar. But Selene—Selene felt like something more. Something powerful. The way she spoke of it, with such certainty and tenderness, made it hard not to believe in its meaning. It was astonishing, really, how a name could carry so much weight, so much love.

And of course, my friends—Mira, Toby, Elise, Ronan, Fiona, and Kiel—wanted me to be called Stella. They were all well over the age of ten, but they treated me as their equal, never once making me feel less than them, despite my age. They all said that I was a part of the stars, that I had a light inside me even when I didn't believe it. They made me feel like I truly belonged, like I was meant to shine alongside them, no matter how small or fragile I felt. I was happy being able to call them my friends. Even though they were older, they treated me with such care and respect that I never once felt out of place. And in that moment, on my birthday, with the sun shining brightly and my heart full, I felt like their Stella—a name that made me feel as though I belonged.

For the first time in a month, the pain started to fade. I could open my eyes again, the bright sunlight almost too much to bear. My hair, they told me, had turned completely white. They said it suited me, that I looked like an angel.

But when I finally looked up at my mother, everything changed.

Her face, once full of love, now looked cold and hard. Her eyes were distant, like she was looking right through me.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice sharp and cold, cutting through the silence.

I didn't realize at that time, but my eyes had turned glowing red, a color I had never seen in myself before. They resembled the Queen of Curses, a woman of legend feared by all. I had heard stories about her—how she was the only one with eyes like mine. It was as if the curse itself had somehow seeped into me, though I never asked for it.

She dropped to her knees, leaning in close, her eyes searching my face as if trying to find something—anything—that made sense. Her gaze was unsettling, like she was looking for a stranger instead of the child she once held in her arms.

I blinked, confusion filling my mind. I reached out to her, feeling a strange sense of fear in my chest. "I'm Mommy's little girl," I said, forcing a smile, my voice shaky. I stepped forward, arms open, hoping for the hug I used to feel safe in.

But instead of holding me, her hand struck me across the face. The slap was hard, sending me to the ground. I could feel the sting on my cheek as I stared up at her, confused and hurt, the ground cold beneath me.

She stood over me, her eyes wild with disbelief. Her voice cracked as she screamed, "LIES!" Her words were venomous, full of disgust. "How could you be mine? How could I have given birth to someone who looks like her?"

Her gaze flickered to my eyes, glowing with a cursed red, and the horror in her expression deepened. "You're not my daughter... you're a monster."

The weight of her words crushed me. My mother, the one person I had longed to believe in me, was looking at me like I was something less than human.

I looked up, tears stinging my eyes, and saw nothing but hatred in her eyes.

The villagers were no better. Their cheers quickly turned to gasps, then whispers, then shouts that filled the air with fear.

I could feel their eyes on me, cold and full of judgment. My friends, who had been close, began to move away, their faces stricken with disbelief. The moment they saw my eyes—those cursed, otherworldly eyes—their expressions faltered. One by one, they backed up, as if afraid they might be pulled into whatever darkness had taken hold of me.

"A curse!" one man yelled, his voice trembling with panic as he pointed at me.

"She's the Queen of Curses reborn!" another voice cried out, followed by murmurs of dread from the crowd.

"Stay away from her!" another shouted, fear seeping into his voice.

I didn't understand. I had done nothing wrong.

I could hear the rustling of clothes as people stepped back, eyes wide with fear. A child clutched their mother's leg, looking at me like I was something dangerous, something to be avoided. The elderly woman at the market crossed herself and hurried away, muttering under her breath. A man in the back spat on the ground, his face twisted in disgust.

They kept their distance, staring at me as if I had just grown horns or become something unrecognizable. I stood there, trembling, not understanding what was happening.

I had done nothing wrong. I hadn't asked for this, hadn't asked for any of it.

But still, their eyes bore into me, full of fear, like I was a threat. A curse.

Lyla was the only one who defended me, standing firm between me and the crowd. Her voice was loud and desperate, cutting through the rising chaos as she screamed at them to see reason.

"Please!" she begged, her eyes wild with panic. "She's just a child! She's not a curse!"

But the villagers didn't listen. They only shouted louder, their fear growing. Even my father, who had once held me close, now turned away. He looked at me with disgust, his face twisted in anger.

"She's a monster!" he yelled, his voice sharp with hate. "A curse! We can't let her stay here like this!"

Lyla's face twisted in agony as she reached out, grabbing my father's arm to stop him from coming closer. "Please, don't!" she cried, her voice cracking. "She's just sick. She's not dangerous!"

The village chief's voice rang out, cold and indifferent. "Let's say we believe you for now," he began, his tone dismissive, as if her pleas were little more than an annoyance. "But if she doesn't change back by tomorrow," he declared, his words like a death sentence, "she'll have to be sacrificed. We can't take the risk. She's too dangerous."

Lyla turned to him, her eyes filled with tears, but she didn't back down. Her voice broke as she pleaded with him, desperately trying to make him understand. "You don't understand! She's just a sick kid! She doesn't deserve this! She needs help, not... not to be treated like this!"

She paused, trying to hold herself together, looking at him with all the hope she had left. "Please, Chief, you're wise. You can see this isn't what it looks like. We can find another way."

But the chief's face remained hard as stone, unmoved by Lyla's desperate pleas. He shook his head, his decision final, a weight settling on the village's future. "This is the only way," he said coldly, his words like a death sentence. "We can't risk her bringing more danger to us all."

Lyla's cries echoed in the air, but they were drowned out by the growing roar of the crowd, their fear turning to anger. She called out to him again, her voice cracking, but it was no use. The chief had made up his mind.

She thought he would be wise enough to stop this madness, to see reason, but instead, he sneered at her, his eyes cold. "You don't get it, do you, Lyla?" he growled. "She's a curse, a threat, and there's no way around it. You'd better stop protecting her, or I'll do what needs to be done. The village comes first. I don't have patience for this. Why should I let everyone suffer when I can just kill her right now?"

Lyla froze, her heart hammering, but there was no fear in her eyes. Slowly, she wiped away her tears, her face turning a serious expression of cold resolve. Then, with a deadly calmness, she spoke.

"Why don't you try it?" she said, her voice as cold as ice.

The villagers gasped, stunned by the change in her tone. Lyla's once gentle aura, full of desperate pleading, was now replaced with an aura of pure disgust and evil. The air around her grew colder, heavier, and a dangerous energy radiated from her like an approaching storm.

Lyla took a step forward, eyes locked on the villagers. "I have more power than any of you realize. I've mastered ice, water, and fire magic—three elements you can't even begin to challenge. No one in this village could even come close to stopping me, physically or magically."

Her words were met with stunned silence. The crowd could feel the shift in the air—the power that had been hidden beneath her pain now laid bare. Lyla wasn't just angry anymore; she was a force of nature, and every person there could feel it.

She turned her eyes back to the chief, her eyes burning with fury. "Try to hurt Lia," she said again, her voice a low growl. "And I'll make sure it's the last thing you ever do."

The villagers watched in shock as the once hopeful, pleading Lyla transformed into someone they didn't recognize. The air was thick with tension, and the line between protector and destroyer blurred in the intensity of Lyla's presence. She was no longer begging them to stop. She was warning them. Threatening them.

Lyla's aura shifted from the pure, emotional energy of someone desperate to protect her sister, to something darker—more lethal. The villagers could feel it. They saw her for what she truly was—a force not to be underestimated.

From that moment on, there was no turning back.

Since that day, my life was over.

That night, when my father came for me, his hand raised to strike, Lyla was there. She fought him, blocking his every move, her arms shaking with the effort. "Stop! Please, stop!" she shouted, her voice desperate. She grabbed his wrist, trying to force him to see reason, but his eyes were filled with hatred.

"Lyla, please!" I cried, my heart breaking. "Don't! You'll get hurt."

But she wouldn't let go, standing between me and my father like a shield. "You're wrong!" she screamed at him, her voice raw with desperation. "She's not the monster you think she is! She's my sister! She's just sick! Don't do this!"

My father's face twisted in anger, and he took a step forward, his voice low but filled with fury. "Lyla, stop! You're blinded by your emotions. Can't you see? This—this thing is not your sister anymore." He pointed at me, his finger trembling with disgust. "She's possessed. She's a vessel for the Queen of Curses. The curse is inside her, waiting to destroy everything."

Lyla shook her head violently, tears streaming down her face. "No! No, that's not true! She's not a curse! She's just—she's just sick, Dad!"

But my mother, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, her face a mask of disgust, her eyes hard with something darker than anger. "You don't understand, Lyla," she said, her voice sharp and venomous. "Your sister is gone. She's not the little girl I gave birth to. She's a curse—a monster—and we have to get rid of her. I wish I could erase her from existence right now."

Lyla took a step back, her eyes widening in disbelief. "No, Mom, please, that's not her! It's the disease, it's not her fault—"

"Stop protecting her!" My mother's voice cracked, filled with fury and revulsion. "She's dangerous, Lyla! You think I don't see it? The moment I gave birth to that thing, I knew it was cursed. We can't afford to keep her alive—she's poison to all of us. If you truly loved this village, you would let her go. She needs to die. For all of us. For the future of this place."

Her words sliced through me like a blade, and the tears that had been on the edge of my eyes froze. My mother's voice had never held such venom before—it felt like she was speaking not just to Lyla, but to me as well, tearing apart any remnants of love or care she had once held.

Lyla's body trembled with anger, her face twisted in disgust as she turned to face them both. "You're all disgusting," she spat, her voice colder than ice. "You all loved her once, when she looked normal, didn't you? You all fawned over her. But now that she's different, now that she's not what you want her to be, you turn your backs on her. You're nothing but degenerates—trash people. I can't believe I ever called this place home."

Her voice wavered then, the walls of her anger cracking as the pain and heartbreak spilled out. "How can you say that about your own daughter?" she choked out, her voice breaking. "How can you just throw her away like this? She's still my sister. She's still the same person, and I'm not going to let you do this to her. I won't."

My mother's expression softened for just a moment, but she said nothing. Her eyes moved to my father, who gave a curt nod, his face unreadable.

Lyla's hands shook, fists clenched, but she didn't back down. She turned to me, her voice softening. "Please, don't listen to them. You're not what they say." She moved to stand in front of me again, her arms wide, blocking any further attacks from my father.

She gently placed her hands around my shoulders, pulling me close as she leaned down, her forehead resting against mine. "You're not a curse, Lia," she whispered, her breath warm against my skin. "You're my sister. And nothing will change that. You're you, no matter what they say."

My father didn't try to reach for me again. Instead, he let out a bitter laugh. "Then you'll be just as lost as she is, Lyla."

That night, Lyla kept me close, her arms wrapped tightly around me as she whispered comforting words in my ear. "We'll get through this, I promise. I'll always be by your side. No matter what they say."

Tears filled my eyes, but I didn't want to cry. I wanted to be strong for her, even though everything felt like it was falling apart. She gently wiped away my tears, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. "Don't worry, okay? We'll leave this place. We'll go somewhere where they can't hurt you."

Lyla took my hand and led me out into the dark night. The village was silent behind us, the distant sound of the villagers' voices fading away as we left. She didn't say much more, but the weight of her promise filled the air around us.

"Everything will be okay," she said softly, her voice full of conviction, even though I could see the fear in her eyes. "I'll keep you safe, lia. Always."

We walked into the night, the world ahead of us uncertain and dark, but Lyla's hand in mine made everything feel a little less cold.