Prologue - Laughter Under Pale Firelight

Before the fire, there was laughter.

Before the war, there was a village at the edge of the Witchlands, where the river ran silver at night and the people believed the moon could hear their prayers. It wasn't much - a handful of homes stitched together by warmth, song, and stubborn hope - but it was the only world I knew.

They weren't my blood, but they were my family all the same.

Old Mara, who smelled of sage and smoke, claimed she found me as an infant on a night when two moons touched the same sky. She said the gods had sent me as a blessing, though the neighbors muttered about curses. Mara never listened to them. "Blessing or curse," she would say, ruffling my hair, "we'll raise you anyway."

And so I grew among them - the weavers, the blacksmith, the children who chased fireflies through the fields. We had no crowns, no titles, only each other.

---

That night, the moon was full - so bright it painted the thatched roofs white. Someone had caught a deer earlier in the day, and that was reason enough for the village to gather. A fire roared in the square, and the air hummed with the smell of roasted meat and pine resin.

I remember sitting cross-legged near the flames, clutching the old wooden bowl Mara had carved for me. The villagers danced around the fire, feet stamping, skirts swirling, laughter spilling into the night like spilled light.

It was a fragile joy - the kind that feels too perfect to last - but I didn't know that then.

Someone began to sing, a song older than the forest. Voices joined in until the night itself seemed to breathe with them.

And I remember thinking that the moon must have been listening, because its glow deepened - soft and silver and alive.

Mara sat beside me, her wrinkled hands working a strip of leather. When she finished, she held something out: a small necklace, its cord dark and simple, its pendant a smooth stone the color of frozen moonlight.

I gasped. "It's beautiful."

"Moonstone," she said. "Old magic. Found it by the river this morning - or maybe it found me." Her eyes crinkled with amusement. "Either way, it should have a home."

She slipped it around my neck. The stone was cool at first, then warm, pulsing faintly against my skin, like a second heartbeat.

"Does it have a spell?" I whispered.

"Only the one you give it," she replied. "Remember this sound, Luna."

"What sound?"

"The laughter under pale firelight," she said softly. "That's what home sounds like. If you ever lose your way, listen for it - and you'll find your heart again."

I didn't understand then, but I nodded solemnly.

---

The night stretched on. The fire burned lower, the songs faded into quiet talk and the clink of mugs. I remember lying beside the embers, half-asleep, watching the sparks rise into the dark like tiny stars. The world smelled of smoke, honey, and rain - my three favorite things.

Somewhere, someone began to hum the lullaby Mara always sang when storms rolled in. I smiled without opening my eyes. I thought I'd remember that sound forever.

I did.

But not the way I wanted to.

---

The screams came just before dawn.

At first I thought it was part of the dream - the crack of thunder, the smell of burning pine. But when I opened my eyes, the sky was red, and the world was fire.

Houses collapsed in on themselves like candles melting too fast. Shadows moved between the flames - men and not-men, their eyes empty, their blades dripping with the same black smoke that devoured the roofs.

I ran. Everyone ran.

Mara's voice cut through the chaos: "Luna! The forest - go!"

I turned once. She was at the doorway of our cottage, her face lit by firelight. For a heartbeat, I thought she was smiling - not in fear, but in farewell. Then the roof caved in, and she was gone.

The sound that filled the air wasn't laughter anymore. It was something broken wearing the same shape.

But the Moonstone burned hot against my throat, dragging me forward. I ran until my lungs tore, until the world was nothing but ash and light.

When I finally fell, the sky had turned white with smoke, and the only sound left was the crackle of what used to be home.

---

I never saw the village again.

Only the necklace remained - and the memory of Mara's voice, soft as the wind:

"Remember the laughter under pale firelight."

I do.

Every time I close my eyes, I still hear it.

And it hurts.

Because laughter should never echo in flames.