The Horned Women (Reimagined)
The Horned Women (Reimagined) The wind howled like a wolf at the door, clawing at the stones of the cottage and rattling the oaken shutters. Within, the woman of the house stirred her pot, a hearty stew bubbling and spitting over the fire's crackling heat. Her hair, streaked with the silver of a dozen harsh winters, was braided back tightly, revealing the sharp contours of a face lined with strength, labour, and loss. It was past midnight, that hour when the veil between realms was thinnest. She felt it, deep in her bones, a foreboding cold that no fire could chase away. It was then, as she stoked the flames with a practiced hand, that the knock came. A hollow, grim rapping at the door. The kind of knock that brooked no refusal. She hesitated but a breath, then set down her iron poker. Her hands, strong from work but trembling now, gripped the latch. With a creak that seemed to echo into the night, she opened the door. There stood a woman, cloaked and cowled, with eyes as pale as...