Motherless

There’s nothing like a mother’s love.

No bond stronger than the one between mother and child.

Who do we run to first when we have something to share? Mom.
Who wraps us in their arms when we stumble—whether from a scraped knee or something far worse? Mom.

But not all of us are so lucky.

Some never know that love. And its absence? It carves a hole inside you, shaping a fate you never see coming.

This is their story.

This is my story.

One of those who grew up motherless.

***

No one should have to grow up without a mother.

No hug in the world can compare to a mother’s embrace during life’s most cherished moments—when laughter fills a feast hall in celebration of another year lived, when a girl takes her first trembling horseback ride, when the sun dips low over the horizon, painting the sky in golds and violets as she watches from the porch, safe in the warmth of arms that will always catch her.

Without a mother, those moments feel… incomplete. Hollow. As if a vital piece of the world has gone missing, and no one but you seems to notice.

And let’s be honest—no one cooks quite like a mother.

No cookies taste as sweet as the ones she bakes, still warm from the oven, their scent wrapping around you like a second skin. No pie as perfect, its crust flaking under a fork, no bread as light and golden as the loaves she kneads with hands that have known both labor and love.

Mothers shape their children in ways too many to count. And hugs and pumpernickel loaves are just a few of them.

I knew that.

I knew exactly what I had missed out on by not having a mother. And that knowledge galled me to no end.

But it wasn’t just the absence of her touch, her voice, her warmth.

In my case, it was more than that.

It was the silence.

I didn’t even know the given name of the woman who brought me into this world. Not her face. Not a single story to help me imagine who she was.

The townsfolk of Dowling had no answers. No whispered rumors tucked away in their knowing glances. No brittle letters hiding in attics, waiting to be found. No passing mentions in conversation, no accidental slips that might grant me the smallest thread to pull.

Nothing.

For me, my mother was nothing more than a myth. A ghost without a name. No more real than the legends of dragons or the old gods of Aisen, whose names had long since faded from the tongues of men.

Did any of them ever really exist?

Did she?

And if she was nothing, then what did that make me?

***

On my eighteenth birthday, my search for answers had led me to the distant village of Ackley, nearly twenty leagues from Dowling—the village where I had grown up.

It was a long road, winding through frostbitten fields and dense, whispering woods, the kind where unseen things rustled just beyond the edges of the path. It was the month of Raisk, and the air had carried the damp scent of turned soil, the promise that winter was losing her grip. My horse, a patient old mare borrowed for the journey, had snorted clouds of steam into the morning chill as we pressed on.

And for what?

As expected, the trek yielded nothing. No hints, no whispers, no buried secrets about my mother. No knowing glances from village elders, no unexpected flicker of recognition when I spoke my name.

Still, the journey wasn’t a complete waste.

“Tell me your father’s surname, Marissa. What was it again?”

“Loughry,” I said, blowing gently over the rim of my mug before taking a tentative sip. The cider was scalding, but I took the risk. If heaven existed in a mug, it was here—steeped in spice and warmth, rich as an autumn harvest.

Slowly, the heat seeped into my bones, unfurling against the lingering chill. The ache of the road dulled just a little.

Bren Bonifay, my host, shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve ever met anyone with that name around these parts. No Loughry has come to Ackley and made off with a Bonifay bride in my lifetime, I promise you that. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

Disappointing, but not surprising.

I had come here to speak with the many members of the Bonifay Clan who called this region of Indamar home, hoping—praying—that we might be related.

My father had given me my mother’s last name at birth. Why? I had no idea. He never spoke of her. It was the only scrap of information I’d ever managed to pry out of him about their relationship. And that single shred of truth had led me here.

And now, like all the others, this road had led me to another dead end.

I should have felt something sharper—frustration, anger, the sting of wasted time—but in truth, I was too tired to feel much of anything at all.

At least the cider was worth it.

And Bren Bonifay, at least, was pleasant company.

***

"Forgive me for saying this, Marissa, but your father doesn't seem like a good parent," Talma Bonifay said, settling beside me. She ran a brush through my hair with slow, practiced strokes, the way a mother might untangle a child’s curls after a long day of play.

"And I dare say he doesn't even seem like a decent person."

A sad little smirk tugged at my lips.

"Well, I don’t figure he’s all that decent, so no offense taken."

The people of Dowling barely considered Father more than a hoodlum, and I had long since given up on pretending otherwise. He had too many vices, too many shortcomings, and I had spent too many years watching them wear him down to something small and bitter.

Talma hummed in thought, her fingers light against my scalp. "Does he drink?"

"Every night," I said. "And every afternoon. And every morning, too, come to think of it."

She nodded knowingly. "Sounds about right." Her voice was gentle, careful—concern wrapped in warmth, as if she already knew the answer to her next question but wished she didn’t have to ask.

"Does he hit you?"

"Not so much these days," I said, flashing a grin that was all teeth. I tugged up the sleeves of my dress for effect. "He's been scared of me lately."

Talma blinked, startled—but then, to my surprise, she let out a soft, rich laugh.

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

***

The Bonifay graveyard sat atop a hill just south of town, overlooking the village of Ackley like a silent guardian. From here, the town stretched out in tidy rows of thatched roofs and cobbled lanes, smoke curling from chimneys in the crisp afternoon air.

The graveyard itself was picturesque—well-kept, clearly loved. Tall oak and cedar trees marked its boundaries, their sprawling branches shifting in the breeze, murmuring secrets to the wind. The scent of fresh soil lingered, mingling with the sharp, clean bite of winter.

One arrangement—an assortment of frostbloom petals—caught my eye. Their pale blue blossoms curled at the edges like the tips of frozen waves, dusted with a fine layer of frost no matter the time of day. A winter flower, rare and stubborn, thriving where others would wither.

"That’s my mother’s grave," a stately, gray-haired gentleman said as I knelt to admire them.

I glanced up.

He stood with an easy authority, hands folded behind his back. His coat was of fine make but well-worn at the cuffs, the kind of man who valued dignity over vanity. His face, weathered but strong, bore the same sharp Bonifay features I had seen in others throughout the village.

"Talma is kind enough to come up here and place a few flowers from time to time," he added.

"Talma is a kind one, to be sure," I agreed, rising to face him.

This was Monroe Bonifay—the patriarch of Ackley’s Bonifay Clan. He’d made it clear he wouldn’t let me leave town without showing me around, without speaking with me.

"I’m sorry you didn’t find what you were searching for when you came to Ackley, especially after traveling so far," Monroe said. "But I’d like to think you found something just as valuable as the answers concerning your mother’s past."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Why, I mean, you need to stay with us here in Ackley," he said, flashing an endearing smile. "This could be your new home. Finding a place to stay and ways to earn your keep wouldn’t be any problem. And we have plenty of handsome young fellows around these parts, just so you know."

He wiggled his bushy white eyebrows.

I blinked.

I blinked again.

Was he serious?"

The offer took me so completely by surprise that, for once, I didn’t have a damn thing to say.

***

"We have plenty of handsome young fellows around these parts, just so you know," I muttered to myself, wiggling my eyebrows just like old Monroe Bonifay.

I deepened my voice in imitation of him. "What do you say? Would you like to become part of our family here in Ackley?"

The truth was… I did want to be part of that family.

I wasn’t blood, but the Bonifays of Ackley had shown me nothing but kindness. More kindness than I’d ever known. Here, I could start over. I could escape my father. I could leave poverty behind. I could marry one of those handsome young fellows, serve steaming cider on crisp autumn nights, and finally have the warmth of a genuine home.

A whole new life.

The thought settled over me like a heavy quilt—warm, comforting at first.

But suffocating.

I sat on the wooden bench in the quiet town square, hands curled around its rough edges. The wind whispered through the streets, rustling the banners that hung from doorways, carrying the scent of fresh bread from the bakery down the lane. The town was peaceful. Safe.

And I knew—knew—this life wasn’t meant for me.

It wasn’t something I had been told. It wasn’t something I had learned.

It was something I felt.

I wasn’t made for a life of ease and comfort. I wasn’t meant to be surrounded by family and friends, wrapped in safety and warmth.

No.

I was born for the storm.

A sharp caw split the air.

I looked up just in time to see an enormous black crow descending from the sky, its wings cutting through the wind like a blade. It landed atop the stone Obricon monument in the village square, talons scraping against the worn surface.

The bird fluffed its feathers, stretched its wings wide, and let out another piercing cry—as if it had read my thoughts and agreed.

A chill ran down my spine.

I stood.

"Indeed," I told the crow, my voice steady against the rising wind. "I was born for the storm."

***

“I told you old man Bonifay would invite her to stay in Ackley,” said Morgan DeVaunt, fellow witch and practitioner of the black craft.

“And I told you she would decline,” I replied.

From our table on the porch of a quaint village café, we watched as Marissa rose from the bench. She turned to the great black crow perched atop the stone Obricon monument.

“Indeed, I was born for the storm,” she said.

Morgan glanced at me. “Oh my.”

She found a single tear trailing down my cheek—from my one good eye.

Then, the winter wind picked up, driving the crow from its perch atop the monument. Rather than shrink from it, Marissa turned north, lifting her arms as if welcoming the wind’s cold embrace.

I lowered my head before I became a weeping wreck.

A few moments later, as Marissa left the square to begin her trek back to Dowling, the third member of our group finally spoke—Matron Isadora, leader of our esteemed coven.

“My god, she reminds me so much of Lidya at that age. Lovely, curly black hair, and a perfect blend of brilliance and belligerence.”

“That she is.” I wiped the tears from my cheek.

“She’s ready to be tested,” Isadora declared. “It’s time.”

Morgan leaned forward. “And ready to be bound to the coven,” she added. “For all time.”

I nodded.

“It began with Lidya Bonifay. And I will see it through.”