The wind carved the cliffs like the hands of gods. Wolves cried to the moon, not out of fear, but fury. And in a hidden village pinned between two mountains, a girl was born in blood and silence.
They named her Ajkuna — "the pure one" — but there was nothing delicate about her.
Her mother died delivering her.
"It is a curse," the midwife muttered, washing the blood from her hands with cold river water. "Girls that come howling like beasts always bring sorrow."
The men did not weep for the dead. The women were not allowed to. Her father spat at the fire and walked out. That was her welcome to the world.
Ajkuna was raised not with lullabies, but with rules.
Do not speak louder than your brothers.
Do not climb the fig tree.
Do not run with your hair loose.
Do not look a man in the eyes.
And never ask why.
But Ajkuna was born with a hunger. A roar under her ribs.
She would sneak from her bed at night and climb the cliffs barefoot, just to scream into the dark. She would let the eagles hear her — the sacred creatures of the skies. She believed they understood her silence better than the humans ever did.
One day, she asked her father, "Why must I eat last?"
He slapped her so hard her vision blurred for a week.
When she bled for the first time, her aunts wrapped her in black cloth and told her: Now you belong to your future husband. Keep your head bowed, and your legs closed. Your value sits between your thighs.
She tried to scrub herself clean in the river that night. But no matter how cold the water, it could not wash away the shame she was taught to carry.