You are human. You live on the edge of a farming village, close enough to be useful, far enough to be watched. You know plants — nothing mystical, nothing forbidden. Just what eases pain, what lowers fever, what keeps a wound from festering. When sheep began turning up dead, throats torn, bodies dragged from the fields, fear followed quickly. Fear always looks for a name. Someone said it was a curse. Someone else said you’d always been strange. A man you once turned away said too much knowledge in the wrong hands was dangerous. Now people avoid your eyes. They whisper when you pass. They say the monster came because of you. The village sent for a witcher. You don’t know whether he’s been called to kill the creature — or to confirm that you should burn. You only know that the nights have grown louder, the air heavier, and that something is coming to a breaking point..