Page 11 of Of Shadow and Moon

Here, people’s faces are harder, more guarded. This part of the city edges closer to the Dark Forest, and everyone here knows it. Its looming presence is like an unspoken threat, a silent understanding that danger is never far.

The houses here, if you can even call them that, arebarely standing. Some are just patched together shelters, leaning precariously on what remains of a foundation.

People here know that the guards rarely venture this close to the forest, leaving them to fend for themselves against the strange creatures that sometimes emerge from its depths. Death is a constant presence here.

I stop in front of the last shop before the forest’s edge, a rickety little shack barely holding itself together. The sign above the door, worn by years of weather and neglect, readsMara’s Apothecary, the paint so faded it’s a wonder the letters are still legible. The building leans slightly to one side; the wood cracked and weathered, and the scent of herbs and something sharper, magic, probably, drifts delicately on the breeze.

Sitting just outside the doorway is a woman. At first glance, she’s unremarkable, small, hunched, with a tattered headscarf covering most of her head. A few silver wisps of hair escape the fabric, curling stubbornly in the wind. But as I step closer, there’s nothing ordinary about her. Her frame is slight, even shorter than mine, which is surprising considering I barely stand above five feet tall. Yet despite her small stature, there’s an undeniable presence about her.

Her hands are knotted and calloused but move with the steady precision of someone who has been working them for centuries.

She’s most likely a witch. There’s no other explanation for the raw power radiating from her, a current that brushes against my senses and sets me on edge. We have never discussed it, though.

She glances up as I approach, her dark eyes locking onto mine. They’re sharp, startlingly so, and they hold a depth that makes my skin prickle. There’s wisdom there, as if she’s seen the rise and fall of empires and remembers everydetail. Her gaze lingers on me a fraction too long and I resist the urge to shift under the weight of her gaze.

“Forest bound, are ya?” She raises an eyebrow.

I nod, not trusting my own voice. She watches me for a moment before she sighs low and pulls a small vial from her apron and holds it out to me. The liquid inside glows, a soft blue light pulsing like a heartbeat.

“For luck,” she says, nodding. “Take it.”

I hesitate but accept it, slipping it into my pocket. “Thank you.”

She nods, her gaze lingering on me for a second longer before turning back to her mending, as though she’s already said goodbye.

I glance back at Mara’s shop, her small figure a shadow against the doorframe as she watches me walk away. Even though she doesn’t wave, there’s a warmth in her gaze that I can feel all the way down the path. It’s a rare feeling, a kind of comfort that only she’s ever given me, though it’s been silent between us, understood rather than spoken.

It’s been that way since I was twelve. I don’t remember much about that night, ten years ago, except for the pain. The memory blurs into vague shapes and colors, but I remember the blood, so incredibly hot and sticky, running down my leg, and my limp as I struggled to keep moving. Tepetl’s streets had been quieter than usual, the noise and hustle of the market fading as I slipped into the back alleys to avoid being seen. Alexander’s instructions were always clear: don’t talk to anyone, don’t draw attention, and never, under any circumstances, reveal where I come from. His eyes are everywhere, he told me, and I learned early on not to question it. The few times I’d slipped up, his punishment was enough to remind me of the rules.

That night, I didn’t care. The pain had overwhelmedevery other thought, pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t shake off. I wasn’t supposed to feel pain, at least, that’s what Alexander told me every time he drove his lessons into me. But I was only twelve, and I’d just barely finished a mission that, in truth, I hadn’t been ready for. My leg throbbed, and I could feel every single cut and bruise as if they were burning brands on my skin. All I wanted was to make it back to the Citadel without anyone noticing.

That’s when I stumbled into Mara’s path. She was standing by her shop door, adjusting a few crates stacked outside, when she caught sight of me. I don’t know what made her pause, but she did, her eyes narrowing as she took me in, lingering on the blood smeared across my leg and the way I favored my left side. For just a heartbeat, I froze. Torn on what to do.

She took a step toward me as if she’d made a decision she wasn’t going to second guess.

“You’re hurt,” she gruffly responds. It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t wait for me to confirm it. Before I could think of an excuse to get out of it, she started pushing my shoulders towards her shop.

The shop was small and cluttered, with shelves lined with jars of powders and potions, and tables covered in scattered vials, cloths, and other herbs. She led me to a chair in the corner. Her movements were quick and precise, as if she knew exactly what I needed and she had been doing this sort of thing for years. And at that moment, I didn’t have the strength to refuse or argue.

She never asked me anything as she cleaned my wounds and she never tried to get me to explain myself. Her hands were gentle but firm as she dabbed ointment over the cuts, and she worked in silence, her face set in a concentration that made me feel strangely safe. I hadn’t felt that ina long time, and part of me wanted to pull away, to hold on to the detachment Alexander had drilled into me. But I didn’t.

“Hold still, child,” she murmured when I winced, her tone more kind than I was used to. “This will help.”

Her words, simple as they were, stayed with me long after I left that night, the ointments she’d given me stashed carefully in my bag. I hadn’t told Alexander about her, hadn’t dared to. I knew he’d be furious if he found out. But something about her kindness, her quiet care, made it feel like a secret worth keeping.

Since that night, I visited Mara whenever I had a mission in Tepetl. It became almost routine—she’d look me over when I arrived, taking in whatever fresh scrapes or bruises I’d gathered, her sharp eyes assessing without judgment. She’d fuss, but in her way, a mixture of chiding and comfort. Each time, she never asked questions, never demanded explanations. She’d simply press a vial or an herb bundle into my hand, a wordless reassurance that made the weight of Alexander’s demands feel a little lighter, if only for a while.

I didn’t speak much to her either, not at first. Over the years, though, words slipped into our visits, simple things, questions about the day’s weather or how her plants were faring. It felt normal, somehow, these conversations that skirted around the chaos of my life and focused on little things that didn’t seem to matter. They grounded me, made me feel, if only for a moment, like I was just a girl.

Even now, as I look back, I wonder if Mara ever suspected the truth of what I was, of the things I’d done. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t, but she never treated me differently. She’d make small talk, tell me about her son who had left for the noble district years ago, or grumbleabout the rising price of lavender oil, her voice laced with a warmth that made the shop feel like a different world altogether. Though I rarely responded, her stories filled a quiet space within me, I didn’t even know was empty.

On my fifteenth birthday, though, something in me shifted. I remember stepping into her shop, feeling the familiar ache of fresh bruises, my ribs tender from a recent fight. Mara took one look at me and sighed, as if she’d seen this a thousand times before. She didn’t say anything as she pulled out her usual ointments, her movements steady and practiced.

But that day, she reached for something else, a small, worn bracelet made of rough cord, a simple charm tied to its center. She held it out to me, her expression softer than usual.

“For protection,” she said quietly, her voice almost hesitant. “I made it years ago, for my son. But I think… maybe you need it more.”

I wanted to refuse, to tell her I didn’t need anyone’s protection, that Alexander had trained me to survive without such things. But the words stuck in my throat, and before I knew it, I’d taken the bracelet from her hand, my fingers closing around it tightly. The only birthday present I ever received.

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