The night had swallowed the village whole. The sky was a black canvas splattered with cold, distant stars, but no moon dared to cast its light. A wind rose, sharp and restless, stirring the branches and sending leaves swirling like ghosts through the empty streets.
The villagers moved like shadows themselves, their footsteps muffled on the dirt paths. Torches flickered weakly, casting twisted shapes that danced against the crumbling walls. Faces hidden beneath hoods and scarves were tight with fear and resolve.
Jorah led the procession, spear in hand, every muscle taut with tension. His breath came in shallow bursts. Beside him, Tomas scanned the darkness, eyes sharp for any sign of movement beyond the glow of their torches.
They had waited too long. The silence that hung over the village was no longer peaceful—it was the hush before a storm, the moment just before thunder shatters the sky.
At the edge of the forest, the trees closed around them like a wall of teeth. The woman's hut lay beyond, nestled between gnarled roots and twisted branches. It looked ancient and forgotten, the sagging roof barely visible in the thick shadows.
Jorah's voice was barely a whisper. "This ends tonight."
A sudden rustle made them freeze. The crow appeared, perched on a low branch, its black eyes glinting like embers. It tilted its head and let out a harsh, rattling caw.
Tomas swallowed hard. "She's waiting."
A moment passed—heavy, suspended. Then, from within the hut, a faint glow spilled through the cracks in the door. Warmth and light against the cold night.
The villagers exchanged nervous glances. This was no ordinary birth—they all felt it. The air hummed with a presence that was not wholly human.
Old Mara stepped forward, raising her hand. "By the gods of old, by the earth beneath us, we call for the darkness to leave."
Her voice echoed, trembling and fierce.
Inside, the woman knelt, clutching her belly, sweat beading on her brow. The child inside moved with urgency, a pulse that seemed to shake the very walls.
A cry tore through the silence—the child's first scream, raw and piercing.
Outside, the villagers stiffened, breaths caught in their throats. The moment they had feared and hoped for had arrived.
But as the cry faded, an unnatural stillness fell.
Then, a whisper on the wind, so soft it was almost lost:
"You cannot stop what is born of shadow."
The night closed in, thick with secrets and the weight of what was to come.