Arianna was beautiful in the way nature itself seemed beautiful: effortless, quietly certain of its power. When she walked through the village square at dawn, the early mist clung to her skirts, and people would swear the fog turned silver around her.
They admired her for her figure—tall, graceful, hair the color of dark honey, and eyes like green glass. But if they truly knew her, they would have spoken less about her beauty and more about her hands.
Because her hands could heal.
It was no parlor trick, no whispered superstition. When children scraped their knees, Arianna's touch closed the skin. When fever raged in a farmer's wife, Arianna sat by the bedside, whispering old words passed down through her mother's line, and the fever broke. She'd learned to keep it quiet—to let the village think she was "just good with herbs," but even she knew it was something older, something more.
The old ones in the village called her blessed. The priest called her dangerous. The local lord pretended he didn't know about it, so long as no one made trouble.
But trouble had a way of finding Arianna.
The day began like any other. She woke to birdsong outside the shuttered window, the scent of drying herbs filling the little cottage. Sunlight danced across the shelves, illuminating jars labeled in her careful hand—sage, feverfew, nettle, poppy.
She sat up slowly, brushing sleep from her eyes. Outside, the village bells rang for the first prayer. She paid them no mind.
Arianna never attended prayer. The priest didn't want her there anyway.
She dressed in a simple green gown and laced it tightly at the waist, admiring the way it hugged her figure. She'd long given up feeling guilty for the attention it drew. Let them stare. She was beautiful, yes, but she was also busy.
Outside, she gathered her basket and headed for the green. Villagers waved as she passed.
"Morning, Arianna!"
"Morning, mistress healer!"
"Need any help today?"
She smiled at them all. It was easy to love them, even if they didn't understand her.
At the well, old Marta was drawing water, coughing so hard she nearly dropped the bucket. Arianna frowned and set down her basket.
"Marta," she said gently, "let me see you."
"Oh, no, child—I'm fine," the old woman wheezed.
Arianna pressed her palm to Marta's back. She felt it immediately—the tightness in the old lungs, the rattling airways. She closed her eyes and murmured, words no one else could hear, words no one had taught her but that lived in her blood.
A warm glow spread from her palm. Marta gasped. The coughing eased.
When Arianna opened her eyes, Marta was staring at her with watery gratitude.
"Thank you," the old woman whispered.
Arianna smiled, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. "You know you don't have to thank me. Just drink your tea, stay warm."
She picked up her basket again and continued down the lane, leaving whispers in her wake.
They admired her. They feared her. Both were true.
She had no family left. Her mother had died years ago, her final words lost in feverish rambling about "the old ways" and "the gate beneath the earth." Arianna had been too young to understand, and she believed in old tales that she felt connected her to something beneath. Her father had vanished in a mining collapse, leaving only debts and her mother's green eyes on her face.
She'd survived alone, becoming the village's healer by necessity. She had no one to disappoint except herself.
And she did disappoint herself, sometimes.
Late at night, she dreamed of other places. Grand cities. Glittering balls. Books in languages she didn't know. She woke with tears drying on her cheeks and shook them away.
She lived here. In this quiet village. Healing scraped knees.
This was enough.
It had to be.
That morning, after seeing Marta, she went to the green to collect yarrow and chamomile. Dew sparkled on the grass. The sun rose higher, gilding everything in soft gold.
It was, she thought, perfect.
Almost too perfect.
Because Arianna wasn't stupid. She'd heard the old stories. About the underworld beneath their feet.
About people who vanished in sinkholes and never returned. About bargains with death itself.
But that was all nonsense to people who overhear the stories. Arianna believed in the stories especially her mother dyeing words was about the beneath.
She shook her head, smiling ruefully at herself, and plucked a handful of flowers.
"Don't be silly," she murmured aloud. "Those are stories to scare children."
And yet—
As she stood, basket on her hip, she felt something underfoot shift.
Just a little. Like the ground had sighed.
She froze.
Looked down.
Nothing.
Just grass.
Just Earth.
But the old crone's words whispered in her memory:
"Beware the living gate. It opens for the chosen."
Arianna exhaled, annoyed at herself.
She turned to head back to the cottage, ignoring the chill down her spine.
But the ground wasn't finished.
It shuddered.
Cracked.
With a thunderous snap, the earth split beneath her feet.
Arianna screamed.
The basket flew from her hands.
She clawed at the air, at roots, at anything.
But the ground gave way completely, opening like a hungry mouth.
And she fell.
Down, down, into blackness.
Her scream echoed in the dark.
And the world closed over her like water.