Vivere

numerus nullus

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Witch, they called her mother, and witch they'll call her soon as well.

In a way, they were not wrong. Mother could kill a man with a whisper, eyes gleaming like molten iron in a fire. Nyx heals with a touch of her palm and eases the minds of dead men who went to them too late. Her mother told her she mostly took from her father.

Glinting black eyes to her mother's dim yellow ones, round in sharp edges and bright in her mother's harsh.

She wondered why Mother looked so bitter then as if it was an insult, not a compliment.

Sorcery met the scorns of the fearful people yet was also adored by the desperate ones. (Fearful people were often the desperate ones, however, and it satisfied Nyx when some epidemic occurs. They always come. Sorcery, it turned out, can be a good business.)

Sometimes, sorcery scared Nyx as well. Mother obsessed with a small, leather-bound book that gleamed bright sometimes-a book whom begins at page 4089. Her pitch-black, claw-like fingers grasped it so tightly and sometimes, Mother looked at the book as if conversing with it. When Nyx asked about the book, her Mother never answered and when she asked about her obsidian black hands, Mother diverted the topic.

It wasn't until Nyx sneaked into Mother's bedroom and saw the book predicting the future did she realize the explanation for the obsession. As for Mother's talon-like hands and the dark things that ran to her veins like a virus, that remained a mystery.

But, sorcery could only take them so far.
Even with the power to see glimpses of the future, they couldn't outrun the Grim Reaper's timer.

They still bleed; Mother collapses when she uses it too much, and it happens more frequently and longer than the last. But even so, the tales grew bigger, bigger until it was greater than the woman who created them in the first place.

And when kings hear great tales of power, armies follow.

Really, they just tried to fight off the inevitable.

Nyx stared through metallic prison bars and glared at the locked wooden door where she had last seen Mother, dragged by guards, cuffed and nose bleeding.

The ten-year-old hugged her knees, squinting, waiting. The doors clicked and the guards came for her next. They were bigger and taller than she could ever be, and with a twist, they'd bend her arms in the opposite way. They hauled her to hallways and through a large door filled with carved symbols that split open, revealing a court of gold, filled with men of wealth. Mother stood tall in the midst, head high as she stared coolly at the man wealthier than most.

He wore a purple robe that was laced with gold and adorned with jewellery. A cone made of gold, gems and silver sat atop his head, longer than his own beard. He's the King, Nyx thought. She had seen many kings with that sort of expression-one that expected unwarranted respect and curtsies. Mother always makes them groan in pain and Nyx smirked at the thought.

So, she waited.

When the King and his nobles cursed, she grinned at the incoming carnage.

But nothing happened.

Instead, Mother's yellow eyes pierced Nyx. Then she smiled wrinkled, old and tired as brownish-grey strands of hair messily framed her face. It looked uncanny and maybe it's because she looked more human.

And somehow, Nyx just knew in silent horror.

Mother no longer has magic.

The girl bristled, watching her get dragged away by the guards. The moment she neared, however, Mother suddenly tripped, lips hovering in Nyx's ears as she subtly placed a book in the pocket of her daughter's trousers.

“Be safe, my child.”

Then, Mother was yanked away.

Nyx snarled. The guard beside her tightened his grip on her shoulders instead and dragged her to the man with purple robes. The doors shut.

The man turned his attention to her now. He hummed, uninterested then nodded noncommittally. The guard unsheathed his sword and in one swift movement, thrusted the blade into Nyx's heart.

Blood dripped to the floor.

But it did not hurt, it never does.

The guard's eyes widened, flabbergasted as the crimson liquid reentered the wound and it began to heal. He raises his sword once again however, this time eyeing the nape, and—

“Stop.” The man rubbed his beard thoughtfully, now interested. He raised his hand; even they were filled with ornaments and rings. “Bring him in.”

The doors opened once again. But Mother didn't enter. Instead, it was a dying man carried on a stretcher. They brought him to her and Nyx knew now. Healing people now meant her own survival. She stumbled to the man, sucking in a breath; his wounds were deep but he hadn't lost that much blood yet. She pressed her palm carefully to it. Light sprang to her hands. The blood stopped gushing out, and slowly, slowly rendered his flesh and wound as the skin began to weave itself close. The eyes on her were burning holes and gasps rang on the court, clamouring and awed.

Then, her work was done. The wound looked like it never existed in the first place.

Satisfied, Nyx clambered backwards and glared at the King eye-to-eye.

The King paid her no heed and laughed deeply. His attention was to the watching crowd and his voice echoed. “All of you had seen it, have you not? A miracle. A girl that can heal anything.” He gestured to Nyx, eyes gleaming red and wicked. “And we have obtained it. With its help, our enemies will tremble in fear and we will reclaim the lands that belonged to us.”

Murmurs and whispers—witch she saw the word said on hushed breaths and she saw hesitance on the nobles' faces.

The King clapped his hands, joyously ignorant and Nyx wished for her Mother. Instead, the booming voice just continued, motioning to the guard. “Send it to the royal chambers. Make sure it doesn't escape.”

And that, they sure did.

Four springs passed easily and the fifth winter knocked at the door.

It begins, with a tragedy.

And dearest reader, I shall warn you. It ends as unhappily.

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