Katja opened her eyes, wincing at the stabbing pain racing up and down her arms. She hated waking up in pain, but then again, she also hated being trapped in a nightmare.

Gazing up at the stone ceiling above her bed, she rubbed her eyes, trying not to think about the bad dream. While the beginning of the dream varied, the ending was always the same—she was standing in a meadow, surrounded by thorn-laced vines whipping back and forth, eager to pierce her flesh.

Katja didn't remember ever hearing a story about such grotesque plants, and she certainly hadn't come across it in any of the books she'd read, but she had to have picked it up from somewhere. How else would someone who was only six years old be able to create such horrors in her mind?

Shaking her head and feeling slightly embarrassed at being able to imagine such terrible things, Katja grabbed her blue flannel robe from the end of her bed. Sticking her stocking-clad feet into her slippers, she padded across the room and climbed up onto the window seat, pulling her legs against her chest.

Dawn was just breaking, spreading warm rays of early fall sunshine across the Neckar River. The river ran in front of the castle, and Katja could see a thick mist seeping out of the trees on the opposite bank. The grey fog moved slowly, threading a course between each and every tree trunk in a way that made it difficult to tell if the mist was being affectionate or menacing.

Her scars always hurt more when the mist blanketed the forest.

Katja leaned to one side, resting her temple against the cool windowpane. She often found herself sitting here as her gaze made its way across the river, her eyes drawn to the dark expanse of forest on the other side. The Schwarzwald, also known as the Black Forest, was so named for the thick canopy formed by the trees, evergreens that towered above the forest floor and grew so close to one another they blocked the sunlight, keeping the world below in a state of almost perpetual darkness.

She stared at the imposing pines and gnarled oaks, extending their twisting branches in ominous invitation, beckoning her to the one place she was forbidden from entering. That should have been enough for her to put it out of her mind, but she couldn't—no matter where she was in the castle, she could sense the forest, a living, breathing presence in the back of her mind.

Perhaps the fact that witches such as herself weren't allowed in the forest was part of its appeal, part of the reason she found herself gazing at the trees, wondering what it would be like to stand beside them, to place her hands on their rough bark, to walk beneath their leaves and experience their world for herself.

But then again, she'd never been the sort to take an interest in something simply because it was forbidden; if anything, rules made her feel safe and she wasn't inclined to seek a way around them...which only made her interest in the Schwarzwald all the more inexplicable and offered further proof of how different she was from those she lived with.

Katja didn't want to be different. More than anything, she just wanted to fit in and feel normal. But Fate or Chance or some other faceless entity appeared to have other plans, as everything in her life seemed intentionally designed to make her stand out as much as possible.

To begin with, there were her scars. Katja caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window and leaned closer, carefully tracing a finger over the scar she hated most, the wide gash running from the corner of her left eye down the middle of her cheek until it disappeared at her jaw. It was bad enough to have scars on her arms, but having one so prominently carved into her face was almost unbearable.

To make matters worse, no matter how many healing spells or poultices she and the elder witches had applied to her skin over the years, nothing made the scars disappear.

Smoothing her sleep-mussed hair behind one ear, Katja moved her head from side to side, watching the scar shimmer. It was the same pearlescent white as the ones criss-crossing their way up and down her arms.

If only she knew how she'd gotten them! Having a story to explain the presence of such an obvious disfigurement would have been an enormous comfort, especially if it proved the scars had happened beyond her control, meaning she hadn't done anything to deserve them and couldn't have done anything to prevent them.

Whenever she'd asked about the scars, she'd been reminded that she hadn't been born in the castle, which was yet another thing marking her as different. While it wasn't unusual for witches to leave the Hexen to become pregnant, it was unheard of for their children to be born anywhere other than the castle.

Katja's mother had left the coven for three years, returning when her daughter was a toddler, and according to the witches who'd been present at the time, Katja had arrived at the castle already bearing her scars. Since her mother hadn't provided an explanation for them before dying, it seemed their origin was a mystery destined to remain unsolved.

Looking around at the other girls still asleep in the dormitory-style room, Katja pressed a hand against her face, the pressure lessening the physical pain even as her loneliness throbbed like a toothache. The sleeping girls offered further evidence of how different she was, as her scars weren't the only thing wrong with how she looked.

Most of the other Hexen had pale, fair skin that easily burned when exposed to the sun. Their hair ranged from almost white to ash blonde to bright gold, and they usually had green or blue eyes, although a few had brown. Compared to them, Katja felt like a rumpled shadow forced to stand next to glowing sunbeams.

Her skin was the color of honey left too long in the sun, or a stout ale that had gone flat. She tanned easily in the summer, which she didn't mind, since she enjoyed being outdoors, but her dark skin only served to draw attention to her scars, whose shiny white color reminded her of the inside of an oyster shell she'd seen once. Her eyes were a deep grey flecked with black, and her hair was the same dark brown as the fur of the field mice she left breadcrumbs for in the orchard.

Had it only been her appearance that separated her from the other witches, she might not have felt so alone, but in addition to how she looked, there was also the matter of her father, or more accurately, the absence of her father.

It wasn't unusual for the children of the Hexen to not know their fathers...only a handful of the men who contributed to creating future generations of witches actually moved into the castle and assumed a parenting role. Most children were the result of a short affair with a traveler or the product of a witch journeying to one of the distant villages. But Katja knew nothing about her father—not his name, what he looked like, if he was still alive, or, of the greatest importance to her, whether he knew he had a daughter.

And then, on top of all that, there was the issue of her mother.

Katja's chest tightened as she pictured the small painting locked away in a trunk under her bed. The image of her mother was one of her most prized possessions, but at the same time, looking at it always felt a bit like gazing at a distant relative, someone she ought to know but had never actually spent time with.

Based on the painting, her mother had also had dark brown hair, which was nice, but that was where the similarities ended. While the painter could have taken artistic liberties, Sabrina's skin was the color of fresh cream, and her eyes were blue as sapphires.

As always happened when she thought about her mother, Katja couldn't help recalling the last words the woman had supposedly said before she'd died, at least according to the two witches who'd been with her at the time: "One day everything I did will make sense. One day, everyone will understand just how special Katja is."

But one day never came, and Katja now believed her mother had been wrong.

The truth was, she wasn't special. Special connoted something valuable, rare, something to be treasured and loved. She was none of those things. She was different in every single way that mattered and every single way that kept her from fitting in and feeling at home with the other witches in the castle.

Before she could stop herself, her mind began to play the familiar refrain—

No father.

No mother.

No explanation for her horrible scars.

No reason she truly belonged.

But, some small part of her reasoned, perhaps at least one of those things will change this week. Perhaps at the end of the week, after completing her Affinity Testing and discovering her unique connection to magic, she would finally belong. She would have a skill, or at least the beginnings of a skill, which she could use to contribute to the Hexen coven over the years, an affinity that would win her friends and make the other witches see her as more than just the orphan girl with scars.

Somewhat cheered by the thought, Katja cast a farewell smile at the forest, then pushed herself off the window seat as the other girls began to wake. Grabbing clothes from her wardrobe, she made her way down the hall to the bathroom to change for the day ahead.

Perhaps today she would finally find the courage to ask one of the Hexen what her mother's affinity had been. She'd wondered about it for a while, but she'd always been too shy to ask; hopefully the right opportunity would present itself this week, and maybe, just maybe, she would end up with the same affinity as her mother.

(Artwork by Bergadder from Pixabay)