The village was restless.
By midday, every man, woman, and child seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the sun to slip beneath the horizon and for the night to claim the earth. The air buzzed with the energy of fear and something darker—a collective reckoning.
In the heart of the village square, torches sputtered against the growing wind. Faces, pale and drawn in the dying light, circled around the ancient stone altar. It had been centuries since the altar saw a ceremony of this kind, but tonight was different. Tonight was desperation.
Jorah, the blacksmith, knelt by the altar, hands steady despite the tremors in his heart. The fires he had stoked all day flickered low, casting long shadows across his scarred face. His jaw tightened as he listened to the whispered prayers of the elders.
"We do this to save what remains," Old Mara's voice cracked with age and fear. "She carries a darkness no god will forgive. The child inside her is a curse… and soon, it will be born."
Jorah swallowed hard. He thought of his children, safe within their home, innocent of the terror that had gripped the village. "Is there no other way?" he asked quietly, voice almost lost beneath the murmurs.
"There is none," Mara replied, eyes cold and unyielding. "We have prayed. We have hoped. The gods have remained silent. It falls to us now."
Across the square, a group of men sharpened spears and swords. Their movements were mechanical, rehearsed from months of whispered planning. The fear in their eyes was tempered by grim determination. They would protect their home, even if it meant spilling blood.
Among them, Tomas, a young hunter with steady hands and a quicker mind, paced nervously. He glanced toward the thick woods that bordered the village, imagining the woman's hut hidden deep within. She was once part of their lives, but now she was a shadow—a threat growing larger by the day.
"It's not just fear," Tomas said to a companion. "There's something unnatural in the air. The plants wither where she walks, the animals avoid her. The child moves… like it's aware."
His companion nodded slowly. "We can't let this spread. Tonight, we end it."
As the sun dipped low, the villagers gathered their weapons and torches, forming a silent procession toward the woman's home. Mothers clutched children, urging them to stay indoors, while others steeled themselves for what was to come.
The air was thick with tension, every step forward heavy with years of fear and whispered stories. No one spoke, but the weight of their purpose was clear.
Near the edge of the village, the procession paused. Old Mara raised her hands, voice ringing out like a bell.
"Tonight, we cleanse the village of this curse. We do not act in hatred, but in survival. The gods have turned their faces from us. It is our duty to carry the burden."
The crowd murmured their assent, flames flickering against the darkening sky.
Jorah felt a chill despite the fire's warmth. He looked toward the forest, where the woman's hut lay shrouded in shadows. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it a soft, unsettling pulse—like a heartbeat not their own.
As they advanced, Tomas's grip tightened around his spear. The moment to act was near.
Inside the hut, the woman sat with her back to the door, unaware of the gathering storm.
The villagers reached the edge of the clearing. Torches raised, they stepped forward, the moment suspended between dread and inevitability.
Then the first cry shattered the night—sharp, fierce, and filled with raw power.
The child was born.