Dinner in the countryside wasn't just a meal.
We always began with silence then we hold hands.
I took my mother's hand in one, Leuven in the other. His fingers were sticky with berry glaze from dessert he snuck before dinner. Mine were still dusty from chasing the devil-rooster through the garden. I smelled like feathers and old sweat that smelled like smugness.
My father bowed his head and closed his eyes.
"We give thanks to the Rune God for weaving our lives and granting us stillness in a world of blood."
"Amen to that," my mother whispered.
Then we all spoke in unison, like a song that had been passed through a hundred mouths:
"To the Rune God, who weaves without flaw, thank you for keeping our pattern strong."
The candles flickered with the wind. Silence held for a beat too long, like even the wind was praying.
"Let's eat."
And gods help me, I did. I devoured everything.
I began with the buck my father had tracked just two days ago. The meat was grilled over wildwood charcoal, glazed in sweet kelp, and dusted with salt from the ocean shelf. I sank my teeth into it and forgot how to speak. It was soft. The juices soaked my tongue.
Next, the wrapped fish, grilled whole and drizzled with vegetable oil. Then roasted root vegetables—purple carrots, beets, pickled garlic bulbs—tangy and sweet all at once.
And the bread. Oh gods, the bread.
Crusty on the outside, still steaming inside. Mother's homemade wheat-loaf, baked in a clay oven she made with her own hands. I tore off chunks, smeared them with salted butter churned that very morning. I crammed them into my mouth like I hadn't eaten in weeks.
Because honestly? I hadn't.
In my last life, I was used to eating out of dumpsters behind brothels in the Amsterdam district. I chewed on fries soaked in rain and spit, snatched half-eaten club burgers from vomit-soaked tables. Once, someone gave me mushy and sour bread and I cried because it had raisins in it. Actual raisins. Another time, I found a rat halfway buried in a half-frozen pie, and I ate around it.
Homeless people back then fought for spoiled meat the way royals fought over gold. Food wasn't nourishment. It was survival. It was addiction. You ate to not collapse. You ate so someone else wouldn't slit your throat while you were weak.
And here? Here, I had options.
I didn't even realize I was crying until my mother touched my face.
"Slow down, Verdamona. No one's taking it away."
But I didn't slow down. I kept eating and eating, plate after plate. I wasn't even hungry anymore. My body just didn't believe the food was real.
"You alright, sweetheart?" My father asked after a while.
I nodded, mouth full of kelp crisps.
"I think she's on her fourth fish," Leuven muttered.
"Fifth," I corrected, cheeks burning. "Sorry."
"No need to be sorry," my mother said softly. "You eat, darling. You eat till your heart's full."
"But look at her," Leuven said, poking my horns with his spoon. "She has demon curls and sky eyes. She doesn't even look like us."
The whole table stiffened. I froze mid-chew. Just like that, the sacred quiet snapped.
"He's right. I don't look like you guys."
My father only chuckled.
"You don't. That's true. But that doesn't mean you're not ours."
"But you have green eyes like everyone in the island. And mother has that caramel hair like Leuven. I have your hair."
"And I…" I touched my head. "I've got horns."
"They're beautiful."
"They're weird. And I have hair like black glass. My eyes are too blue."
A hundred years ago, the Ashven Blood Rain fell across the world. It changed everything it touched. People mutated. Cities dissolved. The air became bitter and alive with whispers.
But it only rained once here. Just once.
The first ABR storm hit New Zealand's northern and southern island. It bled across the hills, soaked the beaches, sank into the land and sank the southern island.
But it didn't last on the north. A being—no one knew what or who—stopped it. A powerful, godlike force pulled the sky shut and rewrote reality itself. They called him the Rune God.
And in return for saving the land, he gave the people a blessing: enhanced bodies, stronger senses, faster reflexes, tougher skin, longer lives. No Flux, no supernatural powers. Just… superhuman potential.
All he asked in return was one thing.
Don't leave the island, live simple live, grow food, raise kids, tell stories. And stay on the island.
Those who tried to leave—whether by sea, by air,—they unraveled cell by cell and disintegrated like dust in wind.
The people didn't complain. Why would they? They were safe, blessed and healthy. They didn't need the outside world.
And they loved it.
But me? I wasn't born here. Not really.
"She's different," my mother said at last, clearing her throat. "And that's fine. We're all threads from the same spool. Some are brighter. Some are blacker."
"But she's not just different," my father agreed, eyes on me now. "She's remembering. No child talks so intellectually unless she is blessed. And I think the Rune God has a reason for weaving you into our pattern."
"Can I have more bread?" I asked.
My mother smiled and passed me the loaf. "Of course, baby. Eat all you want."
And I did.
Even if the food didn't make me forget the past, it reminded me that this was real. That I was here.
My belly ached a little when my mother spoke.
"Verdamona, don't forget. We're heading to the market tomorrow morning. Wash up early."
I glanced at her over the rim of my cup.
"Right. Market."
"To get thread," my father added, wiping his hands on a cloth. The Crescent Seller only trades during the waning phase. And, we're seeing the Oracle."
I froze, hand resting just above the warm plate. She was one of the reasons I decided to be born here.
She wasn't just a prophet or village seer in my last life. She was the Oracle, the first native to ever leave the island and survive.
I met her once. Or… no. Seven of us did. She found us back when the world was still drowning in chaos in Buenos Aires. During the fifth disaster, she told us we were meant to save the world.
She gave us names. Said we were bound by a thread older than the world. Fate, was it?
The word didn't sit easily on my tongue. I looked at my family—my new family. My mother, Bena, with her green eyes and caramel braid. My father. Felix, with dark hair and tanned skin with green eyes. And my brother, smirking faintly at me from across the table, the last of his bread soaking in stew.
They all had the same eyes. Pale hair and lightly freckled tanned skin kissed by wind and sun.
Then there was me.
Dark hair, radiant blue eyes like electric wires and small, curling dark horns pushing gently from my scalp, just above my temples. They hadn't said much about them when I was born, but now that I was four, they were noticeable. Too noticeable.
People had started whispering.
"She doesn't look like either of you," I heard the women say when they came to visit.
"Are you sure she's yours?"
"She looks… touched."
I heard it all. I never forgot anything. Not from this life. Not from the last.
"That's why we're visiting the Oracle," my mother finally said, slicing a soft red fruit and placing a piece on my plate. "To ask about your horns and eyes."
Tomorrow, I'd ask her.
Tomorrow, everything would begin again. Let's just hope she doesn't go through riddles like she used to...