The sun bled out behind the hills, surrendering the village to the creeping fingers of twilight. Shadows stretched and quivered, twisting into shapes that danced just beyond the edge of reason, whispering secrets no one dared speak aloud.
In the village square, the torches sputtered against a rising wind, their flames trembling like frightened eyes. Faces lined the worn cobblestones—some drawn tight with worry, others hardened into grim determination. Mothers clutched children to their chests, their breaths shallow and quick; fathers exchanged cold glances, hands tight on crude weapons forged from desperation and fear.
At the center, Old Mara stood with the stoic weight of her years, her voice low but steady as she muttered prayers to gods who had turned deaf ears. Around her, the elders knelt, clutching beads worn smooth by trembling fingers. The ancient altar bore the scars of forgotten rites, a place long abandoned now revived by urgent need.
Jorah, the blacksmith, paced near the edge of the crowd, his face slick with sweat despite the chill in the air. His broad shoulders hunched under the weight of a doubt he could not shake. "What if we're wrong?" he whispered to Tomas, the young hunter at his side. "What if this woman is no curse… but something else?"
Tomas's eyes never left the gathering dark beyond the trees. "The signs are clear," he said quietly. "The stream runs dry near her hut. The cattle won't graze. The child inside her moves like a storm waiting to break. We can't wait any longer."
A sudden gust swept through the square, carrying with it a sound—a low, haunting melody woven with the cries of unseen birds and the rustle of leaves. The villagers shivered as the wind curled around them like a breath from a forgotten past.
Old Mara raised her hand, silencing the murmurs. "We are the last line between this village and oblivion. The gods may have forsaken us, but we will not abandon our homes. Tonight, we cleanse the shadow that threatens to consume us."
The crowd responded with a unified murmur of assent, torches flaring bright once more, their flames carving bright scars into the deepening gloom.
As they prepared to move, a mother hurried past, clutching her son, eyes wide with unspoken fear. "Please," she whispered to Jorah, "protect them."
Jorah nodded, feeling the tight coil of responsibility deepen in his chest. He could not promise safety, but he would fight to keep that promise.
Beyond the forest's edge, the woman sat alone in her hut, the flickering firelight casting ghostly shapes on the rough wooden walls. Her face was pale and lined, but her eyes held a fierce, unwavering light. She placed trembling hands upon her swollen belly, feeling the pulse of the child within—a steady, insistent rhythm that both comforted and terrified her.
Outside, the wind carried whispers—words not meant for human ears—soft and terrible. The crow perched silently nearby, watching with dark, unreadable eyes.
Her breath hitched as a chill slid down her spine, the sense of encroaching danger pressing in from all sides.
She closed her eyes, murmuring a prayer not to the gods who had forsaken her, but to the life growing inside her—the uncertain, potent future wrapped in shadow and flame.
The night was coming. The storm was coming.
And the village was ready to fight for its soul.