It had been half a month since Lilith's words, half a month since the shadow of mystery left Anna's home. The woman was gone, but her presence lingered in every corner, in every silence of the night.
And then Anna began to notice the changes.
Her body grew heavy with weariness, her appetite shifting strangely, her steps slower. At first, she dismissed it as the toll of sorrow and sleepless nights. But when the queasiness came in waves each morning, she knew something within her had changed.
Heart pounding, Anna went to the village healer, her palms damp with sweat. The old woman examined her closely, her eyes narrowing before she finally spoke.
"You are with child, Anna. Not newly, but far along—four months at least."
The words crashed over her like a storm. Anna staggered back, her mind reeling. Four months? Impossible. She had not known a man in that time. Yet the signs were undeniable—her womb carried life.
Days passed, then weeks, and her belly swelled. The whispers began soon after.
At first, it was the women at the market. "She has no husband, yet she carries a child?" Then the men outside the smithy. "Four months, they say. How? And by whom?"
Anna tried to ignore them, tried to smile through the stares. But with each passing moon, the whispers grew sharper, colder.
And still, her belly grew.
Four months stretched into six. Six into nine. A full year passed, and Anna remained with child—but no labor came. No cries of life, no babe in her arms. Only the ever-swelling curve of her womb, heavy with something that refused to be born.
The whispers turned to fear.
"Her womb is cursed."
"She carries a demon."
"She consorts with witches from the forest."
Soon the fear became accusation. Stones were cast at her feet as she walked. Doors closed when she passed. Even the friends who once brought her bread now crossed to the other side of the road.
At last, the elders spoke.
They summoned her to the square, where torches burned and the people gathered, their faces twisted with suspicion.
"Anna," the eldest declared, "you have mocked the gods with your abomination. A child that never comes, a womb that never releases—this is no blessing. This is witchcraft."
The crowd roared in agreement.
Tears streamed down Anna's face as she fell to her knees. "No! I am no witch! I have done nothing but suffer—why would you condemn me so?"
But her cries fell upon deaf ears. Fear had already won their hearts.
That night, Anna was cast out. Banished from the city of Cural, driven beyond its walls with only the clothes upon her back. Alone, pregnant with a child that would not come, she walked into the darkness, branded as a witch.
And behind her, the whispers followed.
Chapter Nine – The Birth in Shadows
The night Anna was cast out of Cural, she wandered aimlessly through the wilderness. The air was cold, the ground uneven, and hunger gnawed at her stomach. She stumbled forward, clutching her swollen belly, until the dark wall of trees rose before her—the edge of the Forbidden Land.
Fear gripped her heart. All her life, she had been told to stay away, that this forest was cursed, haunted by spirits and witches. Yet with nowhere else to go, she stepped cautiously inside. She did not wander far, for the tales still lived in her blood, but she needed shelter, a place to breathe, to survive.
That midnight, under the cloak of silence, she crept back to the outskirts of the city. With careful steps, she gathered what few belongings she had left—pots, a mat, scraps of cloth, and tools she could carry. She even took what little food she could find, knowing she would not return again.
By dawn, she set to work.
Memories stirred—childhood lessons in carpentry, learned from the father of a close friend. With shaking hands, she gathered wood, cut branches, and dried leaves. Hour after hour, sweat ran down her brow, her body weary, yet she pushed on. And when the sun dipped low, she stood back, gazing at the small hut she had built with her own hands.
It was no palace, but it was hers.
She moved her things inside, lit a small fire, cooked her food, and rested for the first time since her banishment. That hut became her refuge. Weeks bled into months, and though her belly grew heavier with each passing day, no sign of labor came.
Until the night the wind howled.
The forest groaned under the storm's breath, branches snapping, leaves scattering. Anna awoke to a searing pain in her belly, sharper than she had ever known. She cried out, clutching her stomach as her water broke upon the earthen floor.
Alone, she stumbled to her bed, her cries swallowed by the night. Her hands gripped the edges of the mat as wave after wave of agony consumed her.
It was labor—but not ordinary labor.
Her pain stretched through the night, hour upon hour. Six hours passed, then twelve. Her throat was raw from screaming, her body drenched in sweat. She pushed with all her strength, but still, the child did not come.
By morning, her cries had grown weak. Her body trembled, her mind slipping into despair. At ten in the morning, her voice broke into prayer.
"God… gods… Zethral, anyone… help me. Give me the strength to live. Do not let me die here, alone."
The hours dragged on, her strength fading. By noon, Anna could barely move. Her vision blurred, and she whispered into the silence, "I cannot… I cannot go on…"
And then, it happened.