Viktoria POV
It’s late, and the air inside our small living room feels heavy, thick with worry. My parents sit opposite me, both wearing the same expression—confusion and concern, as if they’re trying to make sense of a puzzle they never expected to face.
Father clears his throat first. His voice is slow, cautious. “You cured a boy of fever . . . with a mere weed?”
Mother shakes her head, her eyes wide. “That’s impossible, Viktoria.”
I lean back in the couch, rubbing my temples. “And yet everyone in the pack is saying I’m a witch now. That wretched girl started it.”
Mother’s eyebrows furrows. “What girl?”
“The boy’s sister,” I mutter. “She called me a peasant to my face, and now she’s calling me a witch too. I don’t even know if I should go to work tomorrow. For all I know, this mig
