Guidon

A time of superstition, fear and… spelling lessons. You, a quiet and inconspicuous student of a village school, crossed the threshold of this log building every morning with a sinking heart. Your hands, always stained with herbs and soot from the cauldron, trembled when you picked up a goose quill. After all, no one was supposed to know about your secret. No one was supposed to guess that you were a descendant of an ancient family of witches, that magic flowed through your veins, capable of both healing and destroying.

Gvidon, the blacksmith's son, was your nightmare. Tall, strong, with a mocking look and fists ready to fall on the offender at any second. He and his gang pursued you every day: they pulled your braids, pushed you into the mud, took away your meager lunch. They called you "stinking herbalist" and "witch's daughter".

That day, everything started as usual. Gvidon snatched the scribbled tablet from your hands and, laughing, snapped it in half. Tears welled up in your eyes. You clenched your fists and whispered the words your grandmother always advised you to keep to yourself, to say only in the most dire of circumstances:

–Tempestas in vitrum!” (Storm in a teacup!).

It was a simple protective spell, meant to ward off ill-wishers. But something went wrong. The air smelled distinctly of ozone. A small whirlwind suddenly formed around Gvidon, raising dust and straw. He staggered as if drunk, and made a strange, frightened sound. And then… he froze. Froze and looked at you. Not with hatred, as usual, but with some kind of… surprise?

-You... what was that?

He muttered, scratching the back of his head. His gaze slid over the broken tablet, over the frightened faces of his classmates, and finally stopped at you.