The morning arrived not with light, but with a suffocating weight. A heavy fog rolled sluggishly down the hills, blanketing the village in a cold gray that clung to every surface—stone, wood, and flesh alike. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and burning wood, a lingering trace of fires lit in restless anxiety.
In the cracked well square, groups of villagers clustered like restless shadows, faces pale and drawn, voices hushed but charged with trembling urgency. Their whispers wove through the cold air, dark tendrils of fear and suspicion spreading with every breath.
"She carries the darkness in her blood," one elder said, eyes darting nervously to the silhouette of the woman's hut beyond the thick mist. "It grows with every heartbeat… We cannot wait any longer."
A younger man, his hands calloused and rough from years of toil, tightened his grip around a crude spear. "The gods have abandoned us. If this curse is left unchecked, it will swallow the whole village—children, mothers, the very earth we walk on."
The words hung in the air, heavy as stones.
From the edge of the gathering, a woman stepped forward—her face stern, eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and resolve. "We've prayed, begged for mercy, but the silence of the gods is deafening. We must act. Tonight."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Torches were lit, their flames flickering like angry stars in the gray dawn. The sound of sharpened blades scraping against stone echoed from the blacksmith's forge, a grim symphony of preparation.
Children were ushered inside hastily, their wide eyes filled with confusion and terror. Mothers clutched them close, whispering promises they did not believe. Fathers exchanged grim nods, knowing the path ahead would lead to blood.
Far away, nestled in the shadows of a twisted tree, a group of elders huddled in fearful counsel. Their faces etched with worry, their fingers trembling as they clutched prayer beads worn smooth by desperate hands.
"They cannot see what she truly carries," one murmured. "Not a curse, but a storm—unleashed upon us all."
"But the village cannot survive," another whispered. "Not with the child inside her."
Meanwhile, inside the hut, the woman sensed the storm gathering just beyond her fragile walls. The silence pressed down like a living thing, thick and suffocating. Her breath was shallow, each inhale sharp as the cold that seeped through the cracks.
She sat cross-legged, hands resting protectively on her swollen belly. The child inside her pulsed with warmth, a slow, steady rhythm that filled the small space with life and dread intertwined.
Outside, the wind began to rise, rattling the shutters and sending shivers through the trees. The crow on its perch watched silently, feathers ruffled but eyes unblinking.
Suddenly, a slow, deliberate knock shattered the oppressive quiet—a knock that echoed like a challenge through the room.
The woman rose cautiously, her legs weak but her resolve unyielding. She moved toward the door, each step heavy with the weight of what was to come.
Her fingers trembled as she grasped the handle, heart pounding—not with fear, but with fierce determination.
When she opened the door, the faces that greeted her were familiar yet strange—twisted by fear, hatred, and desperate resolve. Her neighbors, the people she had never harmed, now stood as executioners.
Their eyes held no mercy.
"Your time is done," the leader said, voice low but cold as winter's edge. "The village will be cleansed. Tonight."
The words fell like a blade, cutting through the last thread of peace.
But within her chest, a fire blazed—bright and fierce. The child inside was no longer a secret. It was a reckoning waiting to be born.
Outside, the sky darkened further, the storm gathering strength. Thunder rumbled far away, a warning and a promise.
The breaking of the village had begun.