Page 4 of Their Pretty Little Monster

As I’m flung, the weight of death is closing in.

And with it comes my father’s words.

Death comes for us all…

Chapter

One

SAGE

13 Years Later

Earth

Iwake with a scream stuck in my throat, the nightmare still clinging to my thoughts.

“Sage, are you all right?” My mother’s voice floats across our small cottage into my room.

I manage a laugh. “Just the world ending in my sleep again. Nothing to worry about.”

She’s all too familiar with the nightmares that haunt me—earth splitting, fires raging, and now the latest joy… my bedroom cracking in half as I tumble into nothingness. It’s enough to make me dread sleep.

Feeling cursed is the only way to make sense of it.

Grudgingly, I remember the errand waiting for me this morning, so I peel myself from beneath the threadbare blanket and get to my feet. The warm summer air wraps around me too quickly.

Stumbling out of the tiny bedroom across the creaky floorboards, I make my way to the bathroom. A splash of cold water chases away the dream from my mind. Quickly dressed in my burgundy cotton dress and scuffed ankle boots, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I comb back my silver hair.

A faint violet hue shimmers amidst the silver, and I gasp. “What in the world?” Leaning in closer, I examine the new color, a chill sweeping through me. No one else in the village has hair like this. And despite attempts with my friend, Alina, to dye the silver using beetroot juice and charcoal, it’s only become more pronounced—now turning violet. Another reason to set me apart from others in the village.

Heart racing too fast, I pull my hair into a ponytail, hiding the color as much as possible, hoping no one sees it.

In Nightingale Village, differences are dangerous.

Ever since my mother fell pregnant with me out of wedlock and was abandoned by a man she barely speaks of—only mentioning he wasn’t from this village—she’s been treated as an outcast. Yet, she raised me alone, which is more than some in the village are capable of.

Setting the comb on the counter, I step out of the bathroom. Floors that creak, walls lined with worn wallpaper, and furniture that shows patches of repair—all signs of a lived-in cottage with personality.

I wander into the kitchen, where the sweet smell of cinnamon porridge fills the air, making my mouth water. Mom stands by the stove in her faded gray dress and cardigan, stirring the pot with gentle precision.

“Morning, lovely. Have some breakfast before you start your day.” Her voice is warm.

I lean over the pot, watching the thick mixture bubble, anticipating the moment Mom will add a dollop of raspberry jam.

But I’ll have to wait.

“Keep mine warm. I just have to go collect some buckets as my last ones broke,” I say. Truth is, I’m behind on my berry-picking quota, so I need those buckets urgently. My sales go to buy smoked meat, which I trade for Mom’s medicine.

She glances over her shoulder at me, arching an eyebrow in silent question.

The improvement in her health since starting them has been undeniable. I’ll break every damn rule if it means she heals.

She’s been struggling with a lung illness for nearly a year, the local medic unhelpful and insisting that her condition is incurable. They won’t even prescribe anything to alleviate her symptoms, forcing me to take matters into my own hands. Which is why I’ve resorted to illegally buying medicine from a Village Protector.

She’s suddenly coughing harshly, leaning heavily against the counter to support herself.

“Come sit down for a bit,” I urge, guiding her gently to the couch. She settles with a weary sigh. “Have you taken your medicine this morning?”

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