The night pressed close against the village, thick and heavy like a shroud. The wind had died to a cold whisper, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and smoke, tangled with something darker—an ancient promise waiting to be fulfilled.
Inside the woman's hut, the fire was a sputtering pulse, casting fractured light on the rough timber walls. Shadows stretched and twisted, as though alive, writhing in time with the woman's shallow breaths. The air was thick, almost suffocating, heavy with the scent of sweat, blood, and the sharp tang of salt from tears unshed.
She knelt, hands trembling as she clutched the worn blanket wrapped tight around her swollen belly. The child within moved with relentless urgency, a tempest growing louder with each agonizing wave of pain.
The room was silent except for the ragged rasp of her breath and the dull crackle of the dying fire.
Outside, the world held its breath.
The village was cloaked in shadow, the torches long since extinguished. Only the stars dared pierce the veil of night, cold and distant, like indifferent witnesses to the unfolding fate below.
A crow perched atop a crooked rafter, its black eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. It watched with uncanny stillness, as if guarding secrets far older than the earth beneath.
The woman's body tensed once more, muscles coiling and straining as the first cry tore through the thick silence—a sharp, raw wail that shattered the stillness like a blade through cloth.
And then, the child was born.
---
To the untrained eye, he was like any newborn—small, fragile, skin pale and almost translucent beneath the flickering firelight. Tiny fingers curled and unfurled, soft and delicate, as if they could slip through the cracks of the world itself. His dark hair was damp and tangled, clinging to his head in wet, oily strands.
His lips parted in a sudden wail that echoed and twisted through the room, a sound both primal and chilling.
But then the eyes—
They told a different story altogether.
Six in total.
Two were flesh and blood—deep pools of molten amber that burned with an inner fire, flickering with intelligence and something older than time. These were the eyes that met the world, the eyes most saw, the eyes that held them captive with their unsettling gaze.
Two more lay beneath translucent lids, visible only to those touched by the unseen—the seers, the mystics, those rare souls who could pierce the veil between worlds. These eyes shimmered with a ghostly silver glow, pulsating softly like distant stars hidden beneath heavy clouds.
And the final two—hidden from all but wandering spirits, those caught between life and death, neither here nor there. They burned with a cold, eerie blue flame, flickering with an ethereal light that cast long shadows no mortal should see.
---
The villagers—if any dared to look—would have found their perceptions shattered.
Some saw only the two molten eyes, drawn helplessly like moths to a flame. Others glimpsed four, terrified by the unnatural doubling of sight that spoke of eldritch mysteries and dark power.
Few whispered of the six, though none could say with certainty what those unseen eyes meant. Only the winds and the spirits knew the full truth—and they kept it well hidden beneath the folds of night.
Yet every gaze—whether two, four, or six eyes—held the same unnerving clarity, an ancient knowledge wrapped inside the infant's fragile form. His eyes did not blink like a child's. They watched, calculating and knowing, heavy with secrets no one dared voice.
---
The woman, drained and trembling, wrapped the newborn close, feeling the strange, steady pulse of his heartbeat against her chest. The rhythm was not her own—it beat slower, deeper, a cadence that thrummed through the bones beneath her skin.
"He is ours," whispered a voice from the darkness—a voice old and cold, layered with echoes of the forgotten gods.
She dared not look, but the weight of those words pressed upon her like a stone.
Outside, the village remained silent, caught in a suspended breath of fear and wonder. The fires had been extinguished, the torches snuffed out in solemn respect—or terror.
The child's first cries faded into soft whimpers, mingling with the crackling of the dying embers.
The air in the hut shifted, charged with something electric and terrible—a promise that the world was no longer the same.