Ash Stiltskin and the Curse of Names
In a forgotten corner of a kingdom where whispers still clung to cobblestones, lived a boy named Ash Stiltskin. His name carried a chill. Whispers of his infamous ancestor, Rumpelstiltskin, still haunted storybooks and scoldings. Even when no one said it aloud, the name Stiltskin hung in the air like the tail of a storm. Ash felt it every day. The way the baker’s smile faded when he entered. How children’s games stopped when he came near. The silence after he passed. Once, outside the bakery, two skipping girls froze mid-step. One pointed at him with wide eyes. “Rumpelstiltskin,” she whispered. Then they ran. Ash never knew his father. His mother, who had whispered stories with sadness in her eyes, had passed when he was small. He was raised by Old Nan, who knew the old magic and the older warnings. “You're not your name, boy,” she’d tell him, twisting herbs above the hearth. “But names hold weight. Yours most of all.” Ash didn’t spin straw into gold. He didn’t twist deals with r...