On the nightstand, a cup of coffee and a slice of toast waited, marked by a sticky note that barely read, "To Fer, from Mom <3"
Crunching on the crispy toast, sweet with strawberry jelly, Fer squinted at the gray morning light streaming through the window.
"Honey," her mom called from the kitchen, prepping her own breakfast, "can you handle the shopping today? I left the list on the table. My aunt’s coming soon, and I figured it’s a good excuse to get you out of the house before you have to suffer her yelling."
It’s a miracle that old woman still hears anything, Fer thought as she nodded, mouth full of toast.
"Okay! Got it, don’t worry," she mumbled.
After breakfast, she wiped her face, grabbed the crumpled shopping list, and stuffed it in her hoodie's pocket
“Eggs, rice, milk, flour, orange juice, bread, salt…” she muttered, memorizing it before heading out.
She tucked her pouch of coins into her pocket and stepped outside.
Fer walked with her hands shoved into her hoodie, flicking her father's old metal lighter open and closed with her thumb. Her sharp eyes took in every detail—the houses, the faded paint, the orange leaves skimming across the damp pavement. People were out and about: neighbors chatting, someone sweeping their porch, others walking to work.
Quiet little neighborhood, she thought.
She closed her eyes and took a slow breath. Steam curled from her lips in the cold.
Thud.
“Ow!” a girl’s voice yelped.
Fer snapped to alert. Instinctively, her hand reached into her pocket for the combat knife she always carries.
A shorter girl—orange hair, big round glasses, blue eyes—sat on the sidewalk, rubbing her forehead.
“Hey!… be more careful…” the girl said softly, almost kindly. “That hurt…”
Fer didn’t apologize. She just reached out and lifted the girl off the ground like she weighed nothing. Efficient. Wordless.
“Wait! You’re the new neighbor, right?!” the girl beamed. “I didn’t know another human was moving in! That’s so cool!”
Fer blinked. The girl’s reaction was so... enthusiastic.
“S-Sorry, I got a little excited,” the girl stammered, cheeks flushing. “It’s just… not many humans live here anymore. Most moved to more central zones. I’m not like—discriminating or anything! I just, y’know… like talking to girls of my kind…”
She leaned in and whispered like it was a state secret. “Don’t tell anyone, but orc girls have terrible breath and elf girls can be so full of themselves—even the middle-class ones.”
“Uh… what?” Fer replied, clearly lost.
Huh? Why is she smiling so much? She smells like... sugar? What the fuck?
“Oh! I didn’t tell you my name! I do this—I talk too much. My mom says I talk so much I could be arrested for noise pollution, but I swear I’m not annoying—well, maybe a little…Sorry. I’m Annya Oak!” she said, holding out her hand. Fer shook it, firmly. Her face was unreadable.
“Oh! You’ve got a strong grip!” Annya laughed, blushing again.
An awkward silence lingered.
“…Are you not gonna tell me your name?” Annya asked, tilting her head.
“Uh. Fer,” she said flatly, clearly looking for an escape.
“Fer what? Fer Fericia? Fer Jupiter? Fer Lemonpie?” Annya teased.
“Just Fer, okay?” she grunted, turning to leave.
“Okay, Just Fer, see you around!” Annya grinned and walked off, humming to herself.
Fer stopped, hesitating.
Shit…
“Hey! Uh… you wouldn’t happen to know where the supermarket is, would you?”
Annya turned, her eyes lighting up like a lantern. She giggled.
Minutes later, in the supermarket aisles.
“So, where are you from?”
“Soleria.”
Fer dropped a carton of eggs into the cardboard bag.
“Oh! Um. I’m sorry about the war. Can’t imagine what it must’ve been like to escape. I heard on the radio a lot of people migrated west, to the other republics.”
“Uh-huh.”
Another awkward pause.
“You’re not very talkative, are you?” Annya gave a soft laugh. “Mute as a statue.”
“No.”
“Well, if you won’t talk about yourself, I’ll talk about me!” Annya declared cheerfully, skipping a little as they walked. “My family owns a bakery nearby. Lucky’s Oak. It's popular around here! If you want, we can be friends. I’ll give you a discount on cinnamon rolls if you say yes.”
Fer raised an eyebrow as she stuffed a carton of orange juice into the bag. “Are you bribing me with pastries?”
“W-What?! No! I mean… maybe a little…” Annya blushed, then leaned in with puppy-dog eyes. “You’re sure you don’t want a discount on the cupcakes? They're sooo sweet…”
Fer sighed, rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll be your friend. But I’m cashing in that discount.”
“Yay! Thanks, thanks, thanks!” Annya beamed, bouncing in place.
Suddenly, without warning, she wrapped her arms around Fer in a quick hug. The taller girl froze, eyes wide, completely stunned. The shopping bag slipped from her hands and hit the floor—thankfully, nothing broke.
“Ah! Sorry, Fer! I just got excited. Here, let me help—”
Annya knelt and quickly gathered the items, slipping them back into the bag with care. She looked up. Fer was still standing there, stiff as a statue, staring at her like she’d just been ambushed by a ghost.
Fer didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her spine locked like someone had hit her with a paralysis hex. She just stared. Blank.
Did she just hug me? In public? Without warning?! Who the hell does that?! What is this girl, some kind of emotional landmine with freckles?!
“Anyway… let’s keep going. So sorry about that, Fer.” Annya said, adjusting her glasses with a sheepish smile.
After leaving the supermarket, they walked in silence. Well—Fer walked in silence. Annya hummed beside her, cheerful as a morning bird on espresso.
Fer’s eye twitched.
Stop humming. Please. For the love of every dead soldier I’ve ever met. Just. Fucking. Stop!
At the door, Fer shifted the bag and opened it with one hand. The familiar scent of coffee and something cinnamon-y greeted her. Inside, her mother stood with two unfamiliar adults.
“Ah! Feralynn, you're back!” Darina beamed, walking over to take the bag. “I was just having coffee with Mr. and Mrs. Oak—our new neighbors.”
The man stood and gave a small wave. “What a tall girl, Miss Blackwood!” he said, chuckling. He was short and red-haired, with a friendly face and a well-groomed goatee. His belly stretched the buttons of his beige cardigan.
“And just as beautiful as her mother!” added Mrs. Oak, a petite blonde with warm, kind eyes and a gentle smile.
At that moment, Annya peeked out from behind Feralynn with a sheepish grin.
“Oh! Annya!” Mrs. Oak lit up. “You’ve already met Feralynn Blackwood?”
Annya turned toward Fer with a playful pout. “Hey! You never told me your last name when I asked. Or eve your full name. You’re mean! Mean, mean, mean!” Her voice stayed soft and teasing.
The adults shared a chuckle at the exchange.
Feralynn sighed like a soul who just found out her trauma followed her home in cupcake form.
Great. Fucking great. The cinnamon menace lives next door.
She scowled at the floor like it owed her an apology.
About an hour later, the Oak family had returned to their house next door. But now, the living room echoed with the booming voice of Darina’s aunt. A kind woman, sure—but her voice was rough from years of smoking, and she had zero volume control. Darina sat with a nervous smile, nodding politely as the older woman launched into full melodrama mode, ranting about soap operas, vegetable prices, and neighborhood gossip with the force of a verbal hurricane.
Feralynn, meanwhile, was outside.
Sitting on the ground, back pressed against the closed front door, she had both hands clamped over her ears. The shouting was muffled, but not enough. She looked downright miserable. Bored. Trapped.
No mission.
No objective.
No neck to stab.
No rifle to fire.
Just… nothing. Absolute nothingness.
She stared blankly at the quiet street, at houses and strangers going about their peaceful lives. Then, without thinking, she picked up a stick from the yard and started stabbing the earth with it—puncturing the grass over and over again. Her chin rested in one palm, and she bit the inside of her cheek with a dull expression, halfway between sulking and existential crisis.
A few meters away, Annya Oak emerged from her own front door, carrying a rake. She hummed a lullaby as she swept the autumn leaves from her yard, utterly content with herself.
“Hm?”
She paused, eyes drifting to her new neighbor: the pale, dark-haired girl with the hoodie, currently stabbing dirt with a stick like it owed her money.
Annya dropped her rake and wandered over, leaning her arms casually on the wooden fence that separated their yards. A cheerful smile lit up her face.
“Hiya~”
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Fer didn’t look directly at her. She just raised her hand lazily in half-hearted acknowledgment.
“You bored?” Annya asked with a tilt of her head.
No answer.
“Hellooo~ I asked you a question,” she sang, undeterred.
Fer finally threw the stick aside with a sigh and stood up, looking visibly annoyed.
“What the fuck do you want?”
Annya blinked, momentarily taken aback by the hostility. But instead of retreating, she simply smiled wider, unfazed.
“I just noticed you looked a little aimless. Am I wrong?” she asked, voice still soft and friendly.
Fer didn’t reply. She rolled her eyes and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her black hoodie.
“And why the fuck you care?”
“Because I do!” Annya chirped. “As your new neighbor, it's my duty to rescue you from the abyss of boredom!”
Fer’s expression soured further.
“How about we bake something together?” Annya offered, bright-eyed.
Silence.
Fer didn’t blink. Her scowl remained firmly in place.
“…Bake? That’s your idea of fun? You’re joking.”
“Not at all! When I’m super bored, I just head to the kitchen and make cookies! I shape them into little stars or hats or animals—whatever I’m feeling!” She giggled.
Fer made a face like someone had just offered her a bowl of wet cement for dinner. She glanced at her window—Darina still sitting politely, her aunt in full shrieking monologue mode. Then she looked back at Annya, who was practically made of sunshine.
She sighed. Deeply. Defeated.
“…Fine.”
“Yay! Come in! My house is super cute, I promise—just watch out for Mittens. He’s a little grumpy with strangers, but only at first!” Annya said, practically skipping.
Fer followed. Quiet, sulking, confused as hell.
Because who the hell bakes for fun?
And why did that stupid smile actually make her feel… just a little bit less empty?
Feralynn followed in silence, each step like walking into a trap made of flour and sunshine, until she entered her neighbor’s house.
The inside of the house was… unusual to her.
A warm fire crackled in the hearth. A small tea table sat near it, draped with a floral-patterned cloth. Family photos lined the walls beside ornamental plates and soft paintings. A fluffy tuxedo cat slept soundly on a pillow clearly reserved just for him, lounging on a brown couch like a king.
Inside, Mrs. Oak was knitting a sweater beside a softly playing radio. She looked up as they entered.
“Oh! Annya, you brought Feralynn! Come in, dear, make yourself at home,” she said with a warm smile. “You can use the floating mirror to watch movies if you want.”
Fer gave the smallest nod. Her eyes were scanning everything—corners, furniture, windows, corridors, exits. She didn’t relax. In the backyard, she noticed Annya’s father tinkering with a lawnmower, his toolbox open on the grass.
“Hah?!”
Fer gasped and flinched when Annya—without warning or permission—grabbed her hand.
“C’mon! The kitchen’s this way!” Annya said with sunny ease, completely unaware that she had just triggered her neighbor’s inner defense protocol. Fer’s teeth clenched. Her hand instinctively moved to her jeans pocket, fingers brushing against cold metal.
Her knife.
Still there. Still ready. Still waiting for orders.
But she didn’t draw it.
Annya pulled her gently toward a large, open kitchen. The air smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. The smell of cinnamon hit her nose. She hadn’t smelled that since… since before everything. Back then, it had meant safety. Now? She didn’t know.
Fer glanced around, brow furrowed. “How is your house this big inside?”
“Oh! When my family first moved in, we hired an illusionist to expand the interior without needing major remodeling. It’s pretty common in these neighborhoods!” Annya explained cheerfully as she began prepping the countertop with flour, a rolling pin, and dough, laying out cookie cutters in every possible shape—stars, hearts, little dogs, and cartoon frogs.
“But you gotta be careful,” she added. “Some illusionists are total scammers. Ours gave us a good deal, though.”
Fer didn’t reply. Her eyes drifted to the old pendulum clock on the wall. Its ticking was sharp—too sharp. The owl eyes above it moved with every swing of the pendulum. Unblinking. Watching.
She hated it here.
But she hadn’t left.
Why was this girl smiling so much?! What did she want?! Was this a trap? Did people like this even exist without meds?
Annya dusted her hands with flour and clapped them together with a soft puff. “Alright! Let’s start simple. You ever baked cookies before?” she asked, pulling out a tray and placing it near the dough.
Fer crossed her arms. “Do I look like I’ve ever baked anything?”
Annya tilted her head, eyeing her. The black hoodie. The scowl. The eternal war-soldier aura.
“…Nope. Not even close,” she giggled. “Okay, so! First rule of cookie-making: don’t overthink it.”
Fer stared blankly at the blob of dough in front of her like it was an explosive device.
“Just… grab a piece like this,” Annya continued, pinching off a chunk and rolling it into a ball. “Then press it down. Like squishing a bug, but with love!”
“…That’s the dumbest analogy I’ve ever heard,” Fer muttered, reluctantly mimicking the motion.
Her hands weren’t used to this. The dough stuck to her fingers. She pressed too hard and it smushed weird. She tried to roll it again and it cracked. Then she tried a heart-shaped cutter—crooked. Tried a star—it ripped in half.
“This is stupid…” she grunted, hand filled with dough. “Ugh…”
“Hey, hey,” Annya said softly, nudging her shoulder. “You’re doing just fine. Relax!”
Fer didn’t respond. Her eyes lowered. Her jaw clenched.
“I’m not used to… this kind of thing,” she finally said. “I don’t know how to… make stuff. I break stuff. I’m good at breaking stuff.”
There was a silence. Not awkward. Just… quiet.
Then Annya reached over and gently fixed the crooked dough heart Fer had given up on.
“See? It’s not ruined. Just needs a little help. Cookies aren’t about perfection—they’re about effort. And sugar. Lots of sugar.”
Fer blinked at the dough. Then at Annya’s flour-dusted face.
“…You really think this matters?”
Annya shrugged. “Maybe not to everyone. But to me? It’s how I show love. I make things. I give them to people. Even if they come out lopsided.”
She smiled again, smaller this time. “You don’t have to be good at it. Just try.”
Fer hesitated. Then reached for another chunk of dough.
She pressed. Cut. This time, it looked vaguely like a lopsided wolf.
“…Huh.”
Annya gasped dramatically. “Fer made a thing! Alert the media!”
“Shut up.”
“I’m putting this one at the center of the tray. It’s got character.”
Fer tried not to smile. Failed. Just a little.
They kept working. The tray slowly filled with ridiculous shapes. An axe. A fireball. One Annya swore was supposed to be a frog, but looked like a cursed potato. Fer still felt out of place—but not alone.
The oven warmed the room. Vanilla and sugar drifted in the air. And for the first time in a long time, Fer wasn’t thinking about blood or gunfire. Just dough, warmth… and the weird girl who kept sneaking glances at her when she thought she wasn’t looking.
The scent of baked sugar filled the warm kitchen, clinging to the walls and swirling beneath the wooden beams like an old lullaby. Fer stood with her arms crossed, leaning against the counter, watching the cookies slowly rise in the oven—bent stars, a crooked axe, a vaguely cat-shaped blob with no face.
Annya was humming again. That stupid soft tune. The one Fer didn’t hate as much now. She sat nearby, flour still smudged on her cheek, smiling like the world had never once tried to kill her.
Fer didn’t get it. She didn’t get her.
But the kitchen was warm. The cookies didn’t suck. And no one had screamed or bled in the last hour.
It wasn’t war. It wasn’t survival. But it was something. Something... almost okay.
Fer exhaled, slow, resting her head against the cool cabinet behind her.
“I’ll go for some milk! Then we can eat them!”
Fer simply shrugged, deadpan, but the boredom was starting to get away. Very, slowly.
"Cookies ready!~"
…
…
…
Finally...nighttime.
Lying in fetal position, wrapped beneath the thick blankets of her borrowed bed, Feralynn clutched her combat dagger to her chest.
Sigh…
“It wasn’t that bad.
I mean—sure. Could’ve been worse. Between going deaf from Mom’s aunt screaming and Annya humming whatever song she had in her head... I’ll take the pancake girl.”
“What the hell is wrong with that girl? Why is she so... nice to me?
She owes me nothing. Barely knows me. One day. One fucking day.”
“She’s annoying. Loud. She grabs my hand without asking. She smiles at me.”
Feralynn exhaled sharply through her nose, unwillingly recalling the taste of something warm and soft melting on her tongue—a cookie. Sweet dough. A glass of milk. Shared on the kitchen floor with a girl she should’ve already pushed away.
“I’ll give her that—she can bake.
Didn’t think it was possible to eat something sweet without gagging. I hate sweets. Always have. They’re disgusting. Too fake. Too soft. But... hers weren’t bad.
They were... warm.”
“Does she know who I am? Is that it? Does she pity me?
No. No, that can’t be it. The unit was dissolved. Every record—gone.
Mine.
...His.”
She hugged the dagger tighter, pressing the hilt to her ribs, feeling the knot in her throat tighten. Every heartbeat slammed into her chest like a fist. Hard. Unrelenting.
“Dad…”
Her eyes shut.
“Please... I just... please... I want to sleep. I want to sleep. I don’t want to go back there. I don’t FUCKING want to.”
Her whole body tensed, curling around the dagger. Tears spilled silently down her cheeks, soaking into the black fabric of her hoodie. She bit into the pillow, muffling the sobs that refused to stay down.
Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. The storm settled. Her breath slowed. But sleep never came.
Still shaking, she rose. Took her blanket. Set her alarm one hour earlier than her mother’s wake-up time. Tiptoed to the bathroom. Closed the door.
She placed the blanket in the bathtub. Curled into it. Fetal position. Compact. Knife still clutched in hand.
No pillow.
The cold porcelain against her skin reminded her of the war camps—the frostbitten nights.
Weeks in tents.
Dead silence between firefights.
How the cold helped keep her numb.
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have—”
Her breath hitched.
“I shouldn’t have survived. I shouldn’t… I—”
She clutched her head, nails digging in.
“I shouldn’t have survived, I shouldn’t fucking have, I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t—”
A sob cracked through her throat.
“I wasn’t supposed to.”
A whisper, hollow and final:
“I'm so sorry, dad…”
...
...
...
Dear Diary,
Hiya! It’s me. Again. Like every night. Or every other night? I haven’t written in a while—not much has happened since my friends moved out of the neighborhood.
Monica and Graciela were the only other human girls around. We used to watch movies together on the Mirror Projector at my house.
But... I don’t think I’ll see them again.
They didn’t just move—they’re going to different schools.
And I... I’ll be attending the Larion Academy of Magic.
It sounds pretty, right?
I mean... the idea of having a gift, or a talent, or a blessing—whatever it is.
No one in my family uses magic. Not a single one.
I’ll never forget that day at Monica’s house. I tried on her dad’s old catalyst gloves—we were just playing around, but... I could control water!
I made bubbles and water float through the air!
Every time I think about it, I remember Moni’s shocked face! Hehe!
But... they don’t use magic.
And I don’t get it. Why some people can, and others can’t. It’s weird. I don’t understand it.
sigh
I’ll miss them. Lots. We promised to meet every weekend but... I don’t think that’ll happen. Not really.
These past weeks have been slow. I’ve baked a lot, sure, and sold cookies around the neighborhood to earn a few coins and buy accessories. Got some cute ribbons and earrings.
...
BUT I’M BORED!!!
Until today.
Diary, today a new neighbor moved in—
And she’s human! Just like me!
Her name’s Feralynn... um. Blakewood? Lakewood? Uh, I forgot! But that’s okay!
She’s tall! And seems pretty strong! And she has RED EYES!! Diary, I’ve never seen a human with eyes like that before! It’s amazing!
But she’s... kinda rude. Really rude. She said the F-word. Twice! Hmph!
She’s not very polite. I helped her shop at the supermarket, and I think the cashier got scared—she barely blinked or showed any expression.
And every time I touched her hand or got close, or when there was a loud noise, she’d instantly reach for her jeans pocket.
...Does she carry a weapon?
...Is she scared?
Hmmmmmmmmm…!!!
I need to know.
Anyway! I invited her to bake cookies with me—and she said yes!
It was so fun! I taught her how to make shapes!
Even though... she made daggers, swords, and a decapitated man out of cookie dough...
Still! Had a great time!
I don’t know if she can use magic. Forgot to ask her.
Oh…oops. Forgot to mention that to her. In fact I even forgot to ask her age or if she has siblings, or why she is so grumpy, or sad, or bitter. Guess I was too distracted, as always…
But she’s my neighbor now! I’ll get to see her often!
I can feel it—I just know we’re going to be good friends! Right…? I hope so…
I want a friend who won't leave me alone again…
Anyways!
Goodnight, Diary. I love you. Thanks for always being here and receiving all my silly rambling.
With love and kisses,
Annie ??
?
For a hapless witch who lost her past, the only road is to burn her everything for her future.
Expect:
- A slow-burning plot where mysteries linger and history reveals itself piece by piece.
- A balance of character-driven storytelling and precise, strategic combat.
- A soft-spoken, outmatched protagonist whose quietness hides wit, will, and defiance.
- Fierce, grounded battles where every victory costs something—and losses matter.
- Complex characters with personal motives; allies and enemies shift with circumstance.
- A flexible magic system built on creativity and personality rather than numbers—every Affinity reflects its wielder.
- A world where the overpowered hero exists… but isn’t the protagonist.
Reiteration: Witch of Futures.
Cover by @HepariArt (Twitter). Updates on Tue, Thu, Sat.