Raw grief tore through Elara's chest. Her child, her innocent, lost baby, had known. Had drawn it. Had tried to tell her. A warning she'd dismissed as childish fantasy, a whim. The self-recrimination burned hotter than any fever. How could she have been so blind? So foolish? She'd failed her child. Utterly. Fingers trembled, clutching the faded drawing. Tiny horns. A woman's face, distorted, singing. The lullaby. The one she'd heard in her nightmares, the one that haunted the woods. Her child had *seen* it. Her child had tried to communicate the horror. Elara had just smiled, patting a small head, dismissing the terror with a benign 'what a vivid imagination.' Fury choked her. Not just at herself, but at the entire village. They had lived with this. They had *known*. Why had no one spoken? Why had no one warned her? Her world tilted, the solid ground beneath her feet dissolving into a sickening swirl of betrayal. The 'innocent' villagers, the kind faces, the hushed whispers about a 'curse' – all a lie. A convenient, deadly lie. Morwen. The name ignited a fresh wave of rage. Morwen, the elder, the keeper of secrets, the one who spoke in riddles and half-truths. She would know. She *had* to know. Elara would tear the truth from her, thread by agonizing thread, until nothing but stark, brutal reality remained. Pushing off the rickety chair, Elara stumbled out of her cottage. The cool night air did little to calm her racing heart. Every shadow seemed to mock her, every rustle of leaves a whispered accusation. Her child's face swam before her eyes, innocent, trusting. A trust she had utterly failed to protect. Her boots pounded against the packed earth, a desperate rhythm of fury and sorrow. The path to Morwen's cottage felt longer, darker than usual. She passed by windows where faint lamplight glowed, imagining the families inside, safe, secure – perhaps because *her* child, and others like her, had paid the price. Morwen's door stood slightly ajar. A faint scent of dried herbs and woodsmoke drifted out. Elara didn't knock. She didn't hesitate. She shoved the door open, the old wood groaning a protest that mirrored the one in her soul. Morwen sat by the hearth, stoking a small fire. Her back was to Elara, her silhouette ancient and unyielding. She didn't flinch, didn't turn. It was as if she had been expecting this. Expecting *her*.

The Price of Ignorance