Ashers had lived in the vine-wrapped cottage for twenty years, and today she learned it was a cage. She had been dusting the high shelf behind the stained glass window when a loose board dropped a worn journal into her hands. The old woman who raised her called her daughter. The journal called her a job. Ashers sat on the floor and read. The pages were packed tight with plans. A child taken from a far village. A witch bloodline worth hiding. A payment received. Her own baby name was written near the top, circled twice. Her fingers shook. The woman she trusted had stolen her from a family who never stopped being real. She closed the journal. The smell of woodsmoke drifted from the chimney. It smelled like every morning of her life, and now it made her sick. She had always been told the door stayed locked to keep monsters out. She finally understood the lock faced the wrong way. Ashers went to the door and pulled it. It held. She pulled harder. The wood did not move. Behind her, the front lock clicked, and the old woman stepped inside carrying a basket of red mushrooms. She smiled the same soft smile she always wore. "You look pale, dear," the old woman said. "Come sit." Ashers held up the journal. "Whose child am I?" The smile stayed. That was the worst part. The old woman set down the basket and reached toward the door, and her hand moved to the lock, not to Ashers. "You are mine now," she said. "Reading was never good for you." Something broke open in Ashers's chest. Heat rushed down her arms. The amethyst charm at her throat, the one gift she had worn since childhood, flared with purple light. She had never made it glow before. She had never made anything glow. The old woman stumbled back, and fear crossed her face for the first time. "Stop that," the woman hissed. "You don't know what you are." "No," Ashers said. "But you do." She pressed her palm to the door. Purple light poured from the charm into her hand. The wood cracked, then split, then burst outward. Cold air rushed in. Outside stretched a forest she had only ever seen through colored glass. The old woman lunged for her arm. Ashers shoved her back with one bright hand and ran. She did not stop at the broken door. She did not stop at the vines. She ran until the cottage vanished behind the trees and her legs gave out. Ashers knelt in the dirt, breathing hard. She held the still-glowing charm and the stolen journal. She was free, and she was lost. She did not know the way to any village, or which family the journal meant. But somewhere out there she had a true name, and a true home, and she meant to find the people who belonged to her.