They call it a plague

It was a village forgotten by time, where the fields had dried and the winds blew bitter. The villagers whispered that misfortune had been summoned by some treacherous heart, a heart that cried out for vengeance, and so the plague had taken shape. They said that, as the last night of harvest fell, a shadow had descended upon the valley, swallowing the crops and numbing the air with a silence as heavy as death itself.

Lady Alina, a dark and haughty figure, once beloved by her people, was now shunned with the fear reserved for specters. And when the children fell ill and the soil refused the grain, they called her a witch, blaming her for their misfortunes. Her fame had been thrown into the fire, like the dry twigs that the villagers gathered to keep their hearths burning during the cold autumn nights.

Alina suffered, but her dignity was as faithful to her as her shadow. Once, by the river that separated the village from the desert, she spoke to the wind: "They call me a plague, but it was the poison of their own pride that brought death to the field." With a final breath, Alina disappeared, dissolving into the mist of the night, leaving behind only the echo of her words, a warning to those who live without compassion.

Years passed and the soil never flourished again. The villagers, still tormented by the past, called this place cursed. They did not understand that the true plague was not the lack of harvest, but the lack of mercy in their own hearts.