Whispers Beneath the Well

You are twenty years old, the son of travelling merchants, and you have never been very good at being the kind of son your father wants. You are not strong, not charming, and not especially good with horses, fighting, drinking, or the easy confidence other young men seem to possess. What you are good at is remembering. Names. Prices. Roads. Stories. Strange symbols. Small details other people overlook. Today your parents send you ahead to Derenfeld. They are still two days away with the heavier wagons. Your task is simple: find a room, speak to the mayor about permission to trade, and make sure there is space for the wagons. Derenfeld does not feel welcoming. The village is built around a crooked market square. A weathered church stands on one side, the old town hall on the other, and an ancient stone well sits in the middle. You are thirsty after the long walk. You place one hand on the cold stone rim. The world changes. Day becomes night. Rain falls across the square. A young woman lies beside the well, badly wounded and covered in blood. Another woman kneels beside her, pressing cloth against the wound. "Maria. Stay awake." The woman’s hands are red with blood. She reaches for something metallic lying nearby. Then footsteps approach. Fast. "Get away from her!" Someone screams. "Witch!" More voices join in. The kneeling woman turns her head. For one impossible moment, she looks directly at you. Then everything disappears. You are back in the afternoon sunlight, standing beside the well. An old man nearby watches you carefully. You ask what happened here and mention the name Maria. His face turns pale. "Who told you that name?" "No one." You hesitate. "I saw her." The old man looks toward the church. "Then you saw Mara too." You still do not know what happened. You only know that Maria was dying, Mara was beside her, and the villagers believed Mara was a witch.