CURSED BY FATE

The first thing people noticed about me was always my eyes. Not my voice—I barely used it. Not my face—too pale for comfort. Not even my strange white hair, which earned me whispers and cruel nicknames. It was always the eyes. Violet. Unnatural. Glowing too much under the wrong kind of light. A teacher once said they were beautiful. She vanished the following week. The girls in my school didn’t think they were beautiful. Neither did the boys. Not when they shut up the moment I passed. Not when they whispered behind their hands, or worse—when they laughed right in my face. Witch eyes. Cursed hair. Demon girl. Bad luck. Sometimes, I believed them. Other times, I stared in the mirror, tucked a strand of white behind my ear, and whispered: You’re just different. Not cursed. Not dangerous. Just different. That lie worked—until the dreams started bleeding. I woke on the night of my seventeenth birthday gasping, soaked in sweat, the sheets twisted around me like vines. The same dream again. A throne of bones. A woman in black armor. Hair like mine. Eyes like mine. Fire pouring from her mouth instead of words. Screams. Not hers. Theirs. Men. Women. Children. They burned. And I stood there, watching. Unmoving. Unfeeling. I didn’t remember casting the flame. But in the dream, I always knew—I was the one who lit the match. The sky outside was steel-gray and moody, just like me. I dressed quickly—black hoodie, ripped jeans, old sneakers. My aunt had left me a note on the dresser with a plate of toast and a banana, but I ignored both. My eyes flicked toward the silver pendant beside the note, its chain coiled like a sleeping serpent. It was shaped like a crescent moon, with faint etchings I’d never deciphered. The metal always felt too warm for silver, like it pulsed when no one was watching. Lately, it had felt warmer. Almost… aware. My aunt gave it to me two years ago on the night I had my first flame-dream. She didn’t explain why. She never explained anything. Today of all days, I didn’t want it against my skin. I slipped it into the side pocket of my backpack instead. It still felt like it was watching me. By the time I reached Black Hollow High, the clouds were heavier, and the air clung to everything like static. A storm was coming, and not just in the sky. The school loomed ahead like a crooked skeleton—gothic arches, cracked stone walls, black iron fences that looked more like a prison than a place of learning. Inside, I ghosted through the halls like I always did. No friends. No smiles. Just a pulse of whispers trailing behind me. “She’s the witch girl.” “Don’t make eye contact.” “I heard she made a kid’s nose bleed just by looking at him.” If only they knew how much worse it really was. In second period, History, Mrs. Henley had the gall to lecture about the Salem Witch Trials. Of course she did. I sat in the back row, head down, notebook blank. Cassandra—queen bee, red lipstick, perfect curls—turned just enough to throw me a smirk over her shoulder. “Careful,” she whispered. “You might combust.” I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. Because for the briefest moment, my hands tingled. Heat curled inside my palms. I clenched my fists until it faded. I skipped lunch. I always did. The abandoned greenhouse behind the gym was my only peace. Broken glass, overgrown vines, rust on everything. The floor was cracked, and the air smelled like moss and memory. I sat cross-legged in my usual spot and finally let myself breathe. Ten minutes of silence. That’s all I wanted. But the world had other plans. Footsteps. Soft. Measured. Not sneakers. Leather boots. I stiffened. Turned slowly. A boy stood at the door. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dressed in black from boots to coat. Hair dark as midnight, windswept. His face was sharp and pale, but it was his eyes that froze me. Not because they were beautiful—though they were. But because they were looking at me like they knew me. I rose slowly. “Who—” “Jewel Del-ray.” My breath hitched. No one called me that. Not here. Not even my aunt. People just said “Jewel.” That was safer. Simpler. “How do you know my name?” I asked. He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he’d waited years to solve. “You’re marked.” “What?” “The dreams. The fire. The woman who looks like you. You’ve seen them.” My mouth went dry. My knees nearly buckled. “How do you—?” “You feel it, don’t you?” he went on. “The heat that crawls beneath your skin. The way things tremble when you’re angry. The whispers in your sleep.” I took a step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stepped forward—slowly. Carefully. Like I was something wild and half-broken. “You were born for something,” he said. “And now that you’ve turned seventeen, they’ll come for you.” “Who?” His eyes darkened. “Everyone.” The wind howled through the broken glass, stirring leaves and dust and something older. Colder. The pendant in my bag began to burn. “Stay away from me,” I snapped. “I can’t,” he said softly. “Why?” “Because if I don’t, they’ll get to you first.” Then he turned and walked away—just like that. Like a ghost. I chased him out the door and into the hallway But he was gone. No sound. No trace. Just silence. And the softest echo of my name, whispered from a place that didn’t feel like it belonged in this world. I stood there for a long time, heart pounding, breath caught in my throat. Then I reached into my bag and touched the pendant. It was still warm. No. It was hot.