AMAYA
There’s something wrong with me.
I don’t say it out loud. I barely even let myself think it. But the thought returns, stronger each time I practice one of the healing methods from the old texts.
Today, I’m alone in the laundry cellar. I finish my chores early and sneak the book from the library under my apron. The laundry maid lets me be here sometimes when I need quiet. She doesn’t ask questions, and I don’t offer answers.
The book is cracked and worn. Its leather binding flakes every time I turn a page, and the pages themselves are yellowed and ink-smudged. But the knowledge inside feels ancient and potent, like it’s not meant to be read by someone like me.
Still, I read it anyway.
I kneel on the stone floor, my fingers tracing the faded drawing of a wolf’s paw layered over a
