《Beware The Voices In Your Head - Epic Dark Fantasy Meets Cosmic Horror》


 Prelude (Pt 1)

    <b><i>"Your kind shall bring about your own destruction¡­" She had said. "¡­Just as you did mine. Your young shall burn, as did mine!"</i></b>


    ¡ª¨C¡ª


    Chief Nelius Tuscan cleared his throat to get rid of the suffocating feelings of regret accumulating in his chest for the umpteenth time. The dim glow of the lanterns and the fiery brightness of the torches carried by his folks cast creepy shadows over his cruel face. He caressed his bushy mustache to hide the despondent tears from pouring out, but mostly to stroke his ego. Because firstly, men don''t cry. Secondly, a true man never dwells on the past even if he had wronged; all that matters is his ability to move forward and face the consequences with bravity.


    That''s a woman''s nature, he thought - crying over spilt milk, regretting things that went wrong, being stagnant, unhelpful and hopeless, for those are all they are - hopeless!


    He glanced around the herd of people flocking silently in a long queue through the mountainous terrain. Twenty eight able- bodied men with titanous build of muscles carried large unsculpted pieces of a giant boulders to the makeshift clearing.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan cleared his throat again so when he spoke to his men, his voice doesn''t waver. His men looked up to him; he needed to stay strong for them if not for himself. "Okay, that''s far enough. We should start building the tomb as earlier as possible." He said, stepping into the clearing, accessing the ground for the appropriate spot to start laying the foundation.


    It had been only a month since they established their village of new Tuscanvalle along the banks of the gigantic, almost mythical Lavalthon Lake.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan''s eyes moistened at the thought of their old homeland.


    Oh, how prosperous their lineage had been! The world spoke of them as if they were Gods. People from the prestigious Elysian Empire, the opulent Yadora Empire and the colossal Devatonka Dynasty preferred to give and take brides with Tuscanians just so they could have a drop of the Tuscanian blood mingle with theirs. Because the Tuscanian offsprings have always been brawny, potent and unassailable. But after¡­ the witch hunt¡­


    ¡ª¨C


    As with every human ever born on Earth, the Tuscanian Chief was a flawed person. He had led his people with atmost care and responsibility but sometimes, things go wrong. Together, they would do certain foolish things like throwing feasts that lasted days, or hunting the most dangerous beasts just for sport, or even occasionally, they would go into the forbidden lands. But never had they ever encountered something as dire as the witch hunt.


    The witch hunt was the most foolish thing the Tuscansians have ever done.


    The witch hunt!


    It destroyed their life of fame and pride; marked the end of Tuscanian adulation.


    ¡ª¨C


    The memory gnawed at him as he stood in the clearing. "Chief," a voice interrupted his grim thoughts. It was the priest of their civilization, an old man with a hunched back. "The sun is about to rise. It''s time for the Sacred Bath and the farewell fire."


    Chief Nelius Tuscan looked at the eastern sky, where the first light of dawn was beginning to break through the darkness. He nodded at the priest''s words, knowing that the next steps in their ritual were crucial for their long journey ahead. He turned to his men and gave them another nod, signaling for them to follow the priest''s instructions.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    The priest led the procession to the edge of the lake, where several giant log boats were tied to the tree trunks along the banks of the Lavalthon lake. They had used these logboats to bring the stones and blocks for the tomb from the other side of the lake, where their tribe has set camp.


    The sacred bath marked the first step in the ritual. Tuscanians always built a Traveler¡¯s Tomb before departing their homeland or venturing into the unknown. It was a tribute, an honor bestowed upon those who left the safety of Tuscanian territory for noble causes.


    ¡ª¨C


    Three days after they had settled near the Lavalthon lake, Chief Nelius Tuscan had confided in his wife, Rosa: "I''m travelling again. To find a way to lift the curse. To find a way to save my people."


    Rosa¡¯s sorrowful eyes had searched his face. ¡°But my lord, look at them,¡± she had pleaded, gesturing toward the children¡ªthin, pale shadows of their former robust selves. "The children can barely walk. Their mothers are too weak to feed them. We need to rest, not more travels."


    His jaw tightened at her words. He glanced toward the children playing beneath the massive tree marking the edge of their new territory. Their gaunt frames and sunken eyes were a stark contrast to the brawny, potent offsprings the Tuscanians had once been known for. Rosa was right¡ªthey were no longer what they had been.


    How wholesome they were mere months ago!


    The Tuscanian pride!


    Nelius turned back to her, his tone softening only slightly. "This time, it is not the women or children who will travel, but men. You will stay here, Rosa. Lead the women, care for the children. The land is fertile, the lake full of fish. This will be your sanctuary."


    "But my lord," she had whispered, her voice laced with fear. "The beasts here are unlike any we¡¯ve known. Even our strongest men fell to them during the journey. What can a bunch of women do against such creatures?"


    His attention shifted to their mothers, cooking the roots and vegetables they had found in the wild and the meat of the panther that had unknowingly entered their territory to quench its thirst from the lake. Carnivores don''t normally taste as good as those bush rabbits but the men didn''t want to waste their hunt either. Until they got the hang of the land and the various lives it housed, they must have to live off whatever they got their hands on.


    Besides, the animals and other predators must learn that the land was taken, that it was no longer theirs. But that would take a while - for beasts to get used to their existence, to let them be and move to the deepest parts of the woods. Until then, the women and children might need protection from the wild.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he had admitted finally. ¡°You¡¯re right. They are but skeletons of their former selves.¡± He paused, his gaze hardening. ¡°Very well. Then I¡¯ll take twenty-eight of the strongest men. The rest will stay here to farm, fish, and protect the women and children. This land is fertile, and the lake will sustain you.¡±


    ¡°But my lord¡­¡± Rosa had begun, only for his sharp glare to silence her.


    ¡°Send for the priest,¡± Nelius had commanded. ¡°We must prepare for the farewell ritual. This will be the grandest Traveler¡¯s Tomb in Tuscanian history, for this is the noblest cause we have ever undertaken.¡± His voice had roared above the laughters of the children and crackles of the burning fire wood.


    ¡ª¨C


    Chief Nelius Tuscan reemerged from the water, gasping for air. One more dip, and the sacred bath would be complete. Yet his thoughts remained elsewhere.


    The witches¡­


    Fire had been the only thing that worked against them.


    Hanging, slashing, drowning¡ªall had failed to kill the witches. They healed too quickly, their wounds mending at an unnatural speed. Humans were able to hurt but not kill them. As if they had consumed an elixir. They must have been in pain the entire time, Nelius believed, for they had screamed and cursed and threatened to end the human race. Or perhaps their suffering was a ruse, a trick to manipulate the humans.


    But fire¡­


    That finally did it.


    Back then, they had burned those witches. Although fire had trapped them, it had failed to destroy their bodies, doing little damage to their skin and flesh, at first. Tuscanians had watched in horror and fascination as the flames danced around them, seemingly alive. The witches'' screams of pain and curses of rage had grown louder, each day and every night, taunting the Tuscanians. It took almost a year. Every day, the Tuscanian Chief had ordered more and more wood to be added to the pyre, the flames never to die out. His obsession with their destruction had consumed the village''s resources, but the firewood kept coming - from the distant lands of the Elysian Empire, the Yadoran Kingdom, and the Devatonka Dynasty. They had sent it not only to fuel the pyre but to fuel their own greed.


    The Elysians sent fragrant woods that burned slow and smoked the skies, the Yadorans sent the dense oak that crackled and roared, and the Devatonkans sent the ancient, resinous logs that bellowed fiercely when ignited.


    Tuscanvalle was merely a spot chosen for the execution of those witches. The Elysians had brought the idea forth, the Yadorans had provided the strategy, their military minds calculating the most effective way to eliminate the perceived threat. The Devatonkans had offered the might, their warriors eager to prove themselves against the supposedly invincible sorceresses. But it was Tuscanvalle that suffered the consequences of their collective folly.


    Even now, as the ritual started ceremoniously, Nelius wondered¡ªhad the witches truly suffered, or had they only pretended?


    He emerged from the water a final time, his body trembling. The sun now kissed the horizon. ¡°Light the farewell fire,¡± he ordered.


    Before him, the logs crackled to life. The priest started to recite the ritual incantations.


    Would this journey lift the curse? Or were they doomed to repeat their mistakes?

 Prelude (Pt 2)

    <hr>


    "Your ancestors have worshipped us as Gods, Nelius!" She had said. "Their spirits are ashamed of your deeds today. I have watched over you for eons, blessing you and your people with the most priceless gifts. I can take back what I gave - and I will. When I do, you''ll be mindless monsters roaming the land - even less than the beasts that you rear. And that''s all you are worth."


    <hr>


    The lake water stayed eerily still, reflecting the fiery hues of the sunrise. Chief Nelius Tuscan had his eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun peeked over the heights of Maverielle mountains. The cold water washed over his body washing away the burn of regret from his chest. He took his last dip of the Sacred bath and when he emerged back out of the water, gasping for air, he felt his burden lightening already.


    I''ll find a way to save my people. I won''t let them succumb to the witches'' curse, he thought with rejuvenated confidence.


    Each of his men took their turn to dip into the lake, scrubbing their skin vigorously with handfuls of crushed jungle orchids and mint leaves. These herbs and their fragrances were said to cleanse their known and unknown sins before entering the sacred clearing where the ritual was about to take place.


    Cheif Nelius Tuscan emerged out of the lake, his skin tingling from the herbal mix. Once on the land, he changed into his Eshara, a soft white garment reserved for rituals like purification and mourning.


    Today''s ritual is going to be both, Nelius thought, tying the Eshara around his waist securely.


    They were going to build the Traveller''s Tomb not only as an honour to those leaving their new-found land this evening but also as a memorial to those who had lost their lives during the witch hunt.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan forced the persistent memory to the back of his mind and moved inland, stepping over the rocky terrain. His men have made a narrow path by clearing the small bushes and thin, woody tress for the entire tribe to pass through to attend the farewell ritual. Monkeys danced on the branches of the highest trees, screeching and chattering, announcing the trespassing of humans into their terrain. Parrots and cuckoos flapped their wings overhead. A deer that had been spying on him from an uncut part of the woods, loped away as he approached the clearing where the ritual was about to take place.


    The priest was ordering unmarried, young lads to arrange the firewood properly for the Holy fire, his arms moving in jerky motions as he described the procedures and the intrinsic symbolism they conveyed in greater depth. The young lads were more than eager to learn the traditions, scuttling around the clearing, bringing logs for the Holy fire and assisting the priest. Older men of the tribe carried the large, uncut stones they had brought from the other side of the lake into the clearing, their bodies beaded with sweat from the exertion of their task. It would have been easier for them to simply gather stones and boulders from the immediate surroundings of the clearing. But as per Tuscanian traditions, its imperative that they only use the materials and offerings they had gathered from the protected territory of their homeland.


    The young, unmarried ladies stood along the perimeter of the clearing, entertaining the children while their mothers, were busy preparing the oblation materials meant to be casted into the Holy fire as offerings to Gods.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan scanned the selection of offerings those women had found from the other side of the lake. From Tuscanvalle, he forced himself to believe that this was their new homeland. The new Tuscanvalle!


    As he watched, the women placed three large banana leaves on the land, in front of the logs that had been set in place for the Holy fire. Over those leaves, they arranged the washed arrowhead tubers, the papayas and wild bananas they had found growing in abundance near the lake shores and cracked coconuts on a carefully scattered layer of wild rice. Nelius hadn''t noticed the wild rice growing in this region before but probably because he was preoccupied with the preparations for his journey. But it made sense, given the enormity of the lake and the abundance of water supply in and around their new homeland. Now he thought, the women must have found the wild rice near the shallow areas of the lake and must have saved the grains particularly for the ritual because burning it in the Holy Fire after the ritual was complete represented fertility and protection of their tribe. Besides, he was certain that they did not use it to cook during the past month.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Finally the Chief''s wife, Rosa, adorned the oblation materials with large blooms of lotus flowers she had plucked from one of the several freshwater ponds scattered across their new homeland.


    When the offerings were ready, she straightened her back and scanned their handiwork with a tinge of satisfaction in her eyes, before her attention flickered to the edge of the clearing where Nelius stood overseeing his people who were striving to undo their past.


    Another pang of regret tugged at his heart suffocating his very being.


    As he watched, Rosa whispered something to the woman who stood near her. The woman hurried to edge of the clearing, and disappeared behind the crowd of ladies and children. Moments later, she returned with a large salver covered in thin silk fabric they had brought from their old homeland. Over that lay his Zharvan and Thalrek.


    A Zarvan was a headdress worn by tribal leaders or elders, symbolizing their connection to ancestors and the divine. From where he stood, Chief Nelius Tuscan could not make out the elaborate carvings and animal motifs on it but he could visualize the ginormous elephant fighting with a blood-soaked lion carved into it. The memory had been etched into his mind. He had seen his elder brother and former chief of Tuscanvalle, Kalius Tuscan, wear it during every ceremony and celebration back when he was alive. But the witch hunt¡­ The witch hunt had robbed him of his brother. The witches have robbed Tuscanians of a great Chief.


    "My Lord!" Rosa''s exuberant voice interrupted his reverie.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan glanced at his wife. Her eyes darted around the clearing in an attempt to hide how flustered she felt at the moment.


    "The priest says it''s time to light the Holy Fire. Please do wear these and¡­" her voice wavered. She lowered her eyes to the ground. A single drop of tear rolled down her cheek.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan caught the teardrop before it landed over her raised bosom and wiped the remaining wetness off her face. "There''s no need to be concerned, Rosa. I know you''re worried we might never get to see each other again." He paused at the sight of Rosa jerking her head to look at him with pleading eyes but then continued anyway. "I''m doing this for our people. We are doing this for our people." He lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger, knowing no amount of reassurance would put her heart at ease.


    Rosa sighed, blinking her tears away. "I understand, My Lord. And I will spend every second of the rest of my life waiting for your arrival, praying for your wellbeing," she said, her voice wavering with unspeakable sorrow.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan offered her a measured smile to convey his satisfaction with her reply and started wearing his Zarvan and Thalrek. While Zarvan was an intricately carved headdress adorned with bells and feathers, Thalrek was a long ceremonial sash worn by both men and women during rituals.


    When he was done, he stepped into the clearing. The priest noticed his approach and he nodded his approval. The priest turned around to light the logs placed in the ceremonial ground. The women and men gathered around the clearing started beating and blowing their makeshift drums and flutes cheerfully, announcing the commencing of the ritual. Beyond the priest, the logs caught fire almost immediately, the flames reaching up to the sky.


    The sight and sounds reminded Nelius of a dreadful memory - one associated with fire.


    The witch hunt!


    Back then, they had captured three witches, two females and one male. The females, Chief Nelius Tuscan believed, were sisters. The male seemed like he was the partner to one of them. The couple had been loud and threatening all the while, taunting them with curses since day one. But no one paid any heed, dismissing their taunts as meaningless blabberings. Until¡­


    Until, one day, their curses became true.


    That morning, his brother, Kalius Tuscan had been busy receiving delivery of firewood from the three giant empires and stacking them in roofed sheds to protect them from unexpected rain when he noticed the pyre was about to extinguish itself. The four men appointed to watch over the pyre were missing and the witches were getting restless inside in circle of fire. So he had ordered a few other men to add wood to the pyre and had approached the clearing to inspect the state of the witches.


    Something had happened.


    Nelius could not understand what it could be. But something had happened that day. Because when Kalius had arrived home that afternoon, he was¡­


    Cheif Nelius Tuscan sighed, trying to block the memory from creeping over his consciousness. But it stuck to his mind like an iguana. The people continued to make ceremonial nioses. The priest has started to recite the Holy incantations. The powdery smell of burnt wood and the sweet caramelized smell of the oblation materials being burnt in the holy fire filled the air with a sense of sacredness. But Chief Nelius Tuscan''s mind obsessively drifted back to the memory.


    That afternoon, when Kalius had arrived home, he was rotting¡­ like a corpse left unburnt.


    He was alive¡­ Kalius was alive.


    There was breath in him, there was pulse in him.


    But he was rotting.

 Prelude (Pt 3)

    "Remember Nelius! There will always exist a being more formidable than the most formidable," she had warned. "And you have wronged one such. I gave you the liberty to choose; and choose you did. But you chose wrong, Nelius!


    "Now I realise. A monkey cannot fathom the value of a precious garland. Nor will you. Hence when I return ¡ª and I will, as all seasons do¡ª I will undo my misreckonings. I will take back my precious garland. And when I do¡­ Your sins¡­ your recklessness¡­ will echo in the suffering of your children."


    ¡ª¨C


    The ceremonial noises reached its peak, indicating the ritual is at its climax. The priest offered him a handful of the wild rice and gestured him to scatter it into and around the Holy Fire. Chief Nelius Tuscan did as he was instructed. When the ritual was over, the people around the clearing grew quite, anticipating the most important event of the day.


    The anointment ceremony!


    Everyone knew that their beloved Chief and the twenty-eight men who were about to accompany him in the journey might never return home. And so, Chief Nelius Tuscan had already chosen his younger sibling, Ibarius Tuscan, as the new Chief of the tribe.


    Ibarius Tuscan was a lean, agile man with eyes that gleamed with a cunning intelligence. He watched his brother with a hidden smile, knowing that his time was near. The priest gestured him and his wife, Freesia, to come closer. Chief Nelius Tuscan was already standing with his wife, Rosa.


    Ibarius Tuscan''s wife, Freesia, stepped ahead of the crowd to join him, her fingers shivering with excitement. After all, her husband was about to be anointed as the new Chief. But as she moved closer, Ibarius shot her a pointed, icy glance. Freesia froze mid-step, then retreated into the crowd, her head bowed. She prayed no one noticed the tear sliding down her cheek.


    Once she was gone, Ibarius Tuscan squared his shoulders and approached his brother with pride and arrogance, now, unable to keep his lips from curving into a cunning smile.


    The priest, noticing the silent exchange between Ibarius and his wife, probed him for an explanation: "Ibarius, Where''s Freesia? Call her." He searched the crowd as if he didn''t know exactly where in the crowd had the poor woman disappeared moments ago. "Both partners must be present for the anointment."


    Ibarius feigned ignorance, casting a casual glance around the gathering. ¡°Freesia?¡± He smirked, his tone laced with disdain. ¡°She won¡¯t be joining us.¡±


    The priest paled, his eyes darting nervously between Ibarius and Nelius. ¡°But the gods require her presence. Her role is as important as yours. The ritual cannot¡ª¡±


    Ibarius cut him off with a dismissive wave. ¡°The gods don¡¯t need Freesia for this. I am more than enough.¡±


    But the priest''s face shrunk in disapproval at Ibarius'' dismissal of tradition. His skin was sweating profusely, either from the intsnse hea and smoke of the Holy Fire or from his own nervousness of breaking the tradition. "You underestimate the gods, Ibarius. They demand balance. The anointment will not¡ªcannot¡ªbe complete without her¡­" He paused, staggering to find his footing as Ibarius pushed through the priest to stand in front of Chief Nelius Tuscan.


    A collective gasp and a wave of murmur rippled through the crowd as Ibarius Tuscan stepped past the priest, his gaze locked onto Chief Nelius Tuscan. The priest stumbled, his mouth hanging agape as he watched the blatant disregard for tradition unfold. Ibarius was the future chief after all. If the one who''s supposed to lead the people doesn''t respect his elders, their traditions or even the women of his own family, then what would be the fate of the tribe at his hands?


    The Holy Fire crackled, sending sparks into the air. The sky was a bright white with just a tinge of orange as the sun began to rise above the horizon.


    "You speak of gods as though you¡¯ve conversed with them personally. Let me assure you, priest. They won¡¯t mind. Why don¡¯t we move on? Or shall we keep the tribe waiting for the whims of a woman?¡± His smirk broadened as he approached his brother.


    The priest''s face grew grim, his eyes darkening. The crowd watched, frozen in concern.


    "Shall we, brother?" he asked.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡ª¨C


    Meanwhile, Rosa''s mind was preoccupied with the impending departure of her husband. They might never see each other again. She remembered him saying that he would only return when he had found a way to save his people. Something in her gut told her that there was nothing any mortal could do to undo the inevitable future. Yet she kept her opinions to herself just because she didn¡¯t want to come across as a negative influence over the tribe¡ªher husband won''t be happy with her if she were.


    But that also meant¡­ her husband would never¡­


    She sighed, blinking the tears back into her eyes. That was when she noticed her brother-in-law approaching them to get anointed as the new Chief. She didn¡¯t have a good feeling about him being responsible for their people''s future either. He wasn''t as kind and caring and shrewd as her husband, not even with his own wife and children, let alone the tribe. But then no one is as good as her husband in her eyes. Her perception would always be biased when it concerned her husband. So maybe¡­ accepting his judgement would always be better than hers would be the right thing to do as a proper wife, she thought.


    But then she saw Ibarius pushing past the priest. Rosa clenched her fists, her heart pounding with dread and rage. How dare Ibarius mock tradition? Worse, how could Nelius remain silent in the face of such audacity?


    She tried to remember what was happening earlier but couldn''t. The memories remained foggy. She had missed the conversation between the priest and her brother-in-law, having immersed in her own world of worries.


    Yet, pushing past a priest?


    That''s unforgivable!


    She wanted to correct him. She wanted to punish him for ruining the ceremony. After all, this might be the last ceremony she and her husband would get to attend together¡ªas a couple. Besides, what if Ibarius'' misbehaviour had angered the Gods and then her husband had to suffer for it? He was supposed to leave the protection of their homeland today.


    She wanted to yell at Ibarius. She wanted to make him apologise to the priest, to undo his mistakes, to save her husband from any potential misfortunes it might cause. She wanted to.


    But words caught in her throat, a tornado of emotions blocking her vocal chord.


    "You speak of gods as though you¡¯ve conversed with them personally. Let me assure you, priest. They won¡¯t mind. Why don¡¯t we move on? Or shall we keep the tribe waiting for the whims of a woman?¡± She noticed Ibarius smirking and the priest''s demeanor deflating with shame. Everyone around them murmured in anxiety. As she watched, Ibarius took another step forward, completely ignoring her presence and stood in front of her husband. "Shall we, brother?" he asked.


    Before she could think better of it, Rosa stepped forward. Her voice cutting through the murmurs like the crack of a whip. ¡°That¡¯s enough, Ibarius.¡±


    Ibarius turned to her, his smirk faltering for a moment. Then, as if recovering his footing, he straightened and faced her with exaggerated calm. ¡°Ah, Rosa! My dear sister-in-law. Shouldn¡¯t you be bidding your husband farewell instead of meddling in matters beyond your station?¡±


    Rosa¡¯s eyes narrowed, her voice cold as steel. ¡°Beyond my station? You forget your place, Ibarius. This ceremony isn¡¯t yours to ruin. Apologize to the priest and summon Freesia. Now.¡±


    Ibarius chuckled, a low, mocking sound that set her teeth on edge. ¡°Apologize? For what? Sparing this tribe the theatrics of a trembling woman who can barely keep her composure? You should be thanking me.¡±


    ¡°You think this is about Freesia¡¯s nerves?¡± Rosa shot back. Her voice rose, unwavering. ¡°It¡¯s about respect. For the priest. For tradition. For the Gods who watch us even now.¡±


    ¡°Respect?¡± Ibarius repeated, his tone dripping with disdain. ¡°Respect isn¡¯t what feeds the tribe or wards off enemies. Men do. Tradition is a crutch for the weak. And gods? If they cared so much, they wouldn¡¯t have left us to fend for ourselves.¡±


    Rosa stepped closer, her gaze piercing. ¡°If you think strength lies in tearing down what our ancestors built, then you are not fit to lead. A Chief protects his people, his family, his traditions¡ªnot tramples them underfoot.¡±


    Ibarius leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her. ¡°And yet here I stand, about to be anointed. Where does that leave you, Rosa? Perhaps you should reflect on your husband¡¯s silence before lecturing me.¡±


    Rosa¡¯s breath hitched. She glanced at Nelius, hoping for support, but his face was blank, his eyes distant. Her heart sank.


    ¡°The gods will not forgive this,¡± she warned, her voice trembling with suppressed fury. ¡°And neither will I.¡±


    Ibarius straightened, spreading his arms in a mock display of grandeur. ¡°Then let the Gods strike me down,¡± he declared, his voice booming over the clearing with a flicker of mockery. ¡°But¡­ alas! The Gods never punish the worthy. So, Rosa, step aside. You have no power here.¡±


    The crowd shifted uneasily, torn between their loyalty to tradition and their deference to the future Chief. Rosa stood her ground, her nails biting into her palms.


    Then, to her utter shock, Nelius moved. Slowly, methodically, he untied his Thalrek and handed it to her. ¡°Hold this,¡± he said, his tone devoid of emotion.


    Rosa froze, the folded cloth heavy in her trembling hands. Her husband, the man she had always seen as just and strong, had chosen to stand idle. Ibarius smirked triumphantly and turned back to the priest, who looked on with visible despair.


    As Ibarius reached for the Zarvan, Rosa felt a cold wave of helplessness wash over her. She stared at Nelius, searching his face for answers, for even a flicker of regret. But his eyes remained glazed, his expression unreadable.


    In that moment, Rosa realized. The tribe¡¯s future was no longer in the hands of the man she loved. It lay with Ibarius¡ªa man who saw tradition as weakness and arrogance as strength. A man who would lead their people not with wisdom but with scorn. A man who wouldn''t think twice before stepping over the powerless just for sport.


    And the Gods, Rosa thought bitterly, would not be forgiving.

 Prelude (Pt 4)

    "Your kind hunted me, Nelius, for they feared my ability to create life without a man''s touch," she had said. "Let me remind you of what your fragile minds have cast aside: my form is beyond mortal comprehension.


    "You drove my first born in oblivion and squandered my unborn in the womb. For that, I curse you. You feared what you could not control and sought to destroy that which was never yours to destroy. For that I curse you. You feared my kind will wreck havoc on yours¡ªso mark my words, Nelius: when I return, I will be the Havoc you fear."


    ¡ª¨C


    ¡°The gods will not forgive this,¡± Rosa had warned Ibarius, her voice trembling with suppressed fury. ¡°And neither will I.¡±


    Ibarius had straightened, spreading his arms like that of an eagle. ¡°Then let the Gods strike me down,¡± he had declared, his voice booming over the clearing. ¡°¡°But¡­ alas! The Gods never punish the worthy. So, Rosa, step aside. You have no power here.¡±


    Chief Nelius Tuscan''s eyes remained glazed from the smoke of the Hole Fire and from his bloody mind obsessively drifting back to the grim memories of his past.


    The anointment¡­ his anointment¡­ had happened over the rotting body of his brother.


    He was alive¡­ Kalius was alive. But far from being functional.


    Kalius had kept blabbering something in a language that no one understood. Something malicious. His entire being had turned malicious. The pus from his wounds and rotting skin had scorched anyone who had dared to touch him, infecting them with the same sickness that was eating him alive. The priest had to use a stick to remove the Zarvan from his head to complete the ritual and release him from Chiefdom. The tribe had never seen such a disrespectful anointment. But no one dared to voice their concerns. The curse¡ªthey thought¡ªwas already in motion.


    What they didn''t know was that it was only the beginning.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan forced the memories to the back of his mind and moved closer to Rosa. Slowly, methodically, he untied his Thalrek and handed it to his wife. "Hold this," he said, his voice alien even to him.


    Rosa stared at him, her tear-filled eyes pleading for answers¡ªfor clarity, the hope in her draining by the moment. She looked beautiful in the rising sun light. A wave of sadness washed over him. He would never get to see her lovely face again.


    This wasn''t the time to let his heart falter. His responsibilities here, in Tuscanvalle, weren''t complete. He removed his Zarvan and placed it over the Thalrek Rosa was holding. He shifted his attention towards Ibarius. His lips curved into the caring smile, reserved only for his family.


    Ibarius cast him a triumphant one, his eyes drawn to the Zarvan a thousand times in a second. Chief Nelius Tuscan could see Ibarius visibly inflating with pride and excitement. Ibarius took one more step forward and reached to claim the Zarvan, to claim sole ownership of the people around them as if they were mere beasts to him.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan grabbed his hand with a cold smile, his steely grip cutting off his blood supply.


    "You were right, brother!" He clapped Ibarius''s shoulder affectionately, steering him around to the center of the clearing. "The Gods only answer the worthy. But are you?"


    Ibarius''s perception was clouded enough by his fleeting victory and the appreciative gesture from his brother that it took a moment more for him to realise that his brother was challenging him. The muscles on his face grew rigid. He shrugged off his brother''s arm in defiance. "You''re siding with that low life?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Ah¡­ I see! You''re under that siren''s spell, aren''t you?"


    The crowd gasped again.


    "Ibarius!" Rosa stepped forward.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan gestured for her to stop. "Careful, Ibarius. You''re talking about The Woman of the Tribe." He reminded, for that''s how Tuscanians call the wife of their chief and the title called for respect and honour.


    "She''s still a woman." Ibarius smirked.


    "That''s enough, Ibarius!" Nelius roared over the cackling fire. "You will kneel before the tribe and apologize. To Rosa. To the priest. To the Gods. And to the people for disrupting the ritual."


    Ibarius''s eyes narrowed. "You dare to challenge me, Nelius? For a woman?"Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    "For justice. For tradition. For the future of our people," Chief Nelius Tuscan replied. "And of course, for the woman who surrendered her very being for my legacy."


    Ibarius straightened his back and squared his shoulders. "And if I don''t?"


    "I might have to reconsider your position as my successor."


    Ibarius''s eyes grew wide, his lips curving into an insulting smile. "You can''t do that in the middle of the ritual."


    "Middle of the ritual? The anointment hasn''t started yet." With a swift motion, Chief Nelius Tuscan pulled Ibarius''s hand to his side, twisting it behind his back, and shoved him to his knees. The crowd watched in shock as the man who was meant to be the next leader of Tuscanvalle was brought down by his own brother. Ibarius''s knees hit the hard ground with a thud, his pride bruised as much as his dignity. The crowd, initially shocked into silence, began to murmur. Chief Nelius Tuscan stepped away from his struggling brother, his gaze unwavering. "That''s for insulting my wife." He announced.


    He circled around him, his gaze cold and detached.


    "You have disrespected our priest, insulted my wife, and tried to rip away Freesia''s right to be honoured as the future Woman of the Tribe. I''ve already come to regret my decision of choosing you as my successor. I doubt you could lead our people in the path of righteousness and justice. There isn''t much time for me to lecture you on fairness in Chiefdom¡ªI must leave soon.


    "But, brother," Chief Nelius Tuscan said, "You have two choices. Apologize. Right your wrongs as a true leader should and get anointed as planned. Or walk away with nothing but the shame of this day hanging over your legacy, I''ll better find someone else to lead in my absence. You''re free to do as you please."


    Ibarius looked around, the people waiting for his answer. His pride was bruised, but his ambition was a ravenous beast, demanding to be fed. He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving his brother''s. With a jerk of his head, he bent over and whispered something to the ground, his voice too low for anyone to hear.


    The priest was tense, his eyes flicking from one brother to the other. Rosa held her breath, the Thalrek and Zarvan shaking slightly in her grasp. With a grumble of anger, Ibarius lifted his gaze to meet Chief Nelius Tuscan''s. "Fine," Ibarius spat, the word thick with venom. "I apologize."


    The crowd remained silent, waiting for the customary words to be spoken. The priest stepped forward, his hand hovering over the Hole Fire, ready to begin the anointment. Chief Nelius Tuscan nodded curtly. "To Rosa," he prompted. "To the priest. To the gods. To the people."


    Ibarius clenched his teeth, the words burning his throat as he forced them out. "I apologize to the priest, to The Woman of my Tribe, to the gods, and to the people of Tuscanvalle," he recited.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan offered his hand to help Ibarius stand. Ibarius took it, his eyes never leaving the ground as he hauled himself up, his pride in shambles.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan''s eyes searched the crowd, finally resting on Freesia''s figure shrinking away from the gathering. "Freesia!" He called out with the authority of a man who had been the Chief for over a decade. "Freesia, come forth and join your husband."


    Freesia emerged from the sea of bodies, her head still bowed, her eyes swollen from the tears she had been fighting to hold back. The priest nodded to her with a gentle smile, acknowledging her presence as if she were the most important person in the clearing.


    Ibarius glared at Freesia as she approached, her steps tentative and her gaze downcast until she stood beside her husband. She knew what was coming¡ªhis wrath was a familiar storm she had weathered before.


    The priest hesitated, his gaze nerveously flitting between the brothers. "Freesia," he said, "you must hold the Thalrek and the Zarvan for your husband."


    Freesia took the sacred items from Rosa and the priest began to chant, his voice echoing through the clearing.


    "Ibarius Tuscan," the priest intoned, his eyes closed in concentration, "you have been chosen by your brother, Chief Nelius Tuscan, to bear the burden of leadership. May the gods look upon you with favor and guide your hand in the protection and prosperity of Tuscanvalle." He drew an intricate pattern on Ibarius''s forehead with the sacred ash, the symbol of the Tuscanian Chiefdom.


    Murmurs of awe and uncertainty rippled through the gathering. They have completely forgotten to sound the drums or the horns of victory. This was not how it was meant to be. But here they were, watching the anointment of a Chief who had just been humiliated a moment ago.


    Ibarius''s face remained stoic throughout the process, his eyes never leaving the Holy Fire as if he were trying to burn a hole through it. He didn''t bother to look at Freesia, nor did he acknowledge the presence of his brother and sister-in-law. As the priest stepped back, Ibarius took the Thalrek and the Zarvan from his trembling wife. He wrapped the cloth around his waist and tied the sash, then crowned himself with the headdress without waiting for the priest¡¯s instruction.


    The priest¡¯s eyes flickered between the brothers, his mouth tightening in disapproval at Ibarius''s haste. But the moment the Zarvan touched Ibarius''s head, he acquired the authority and the priest knew better than to challenge the new Chief. With a deep breath, he continued the incantation, praying that the gods would indeed guide Ibarius¡¯s hand.


    With that, the ceremony concluded. The crowd remained silent, the only sound the crackling of the Holy Fire. Chief Nelius Tuscan turned to his men, the same twenty-eight who he had chosen to accompany him on his journey. "We have much to do. Let us begin the construction of the Traveller''s Tomb," he said, gesturing for them to follow.


    The men started to work on the construction of the Tomb as fast as they can. When the tomb was complete, they would have their final meal in the land they once called home, before setting off into the void in search of something that might not even exist¡ªsomething that might have never existed.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan sighed. Only he understood the true horror of the curse¡ªits depth, its finality. What awaited him in the journey, no one could guess. Not even the twenty-eight chosen men.


    If they did, the strength would drain from their limbs. The will to carry on would vanish.


    No. He cannot let the world crumble with the name of his race written in its blood.


    He must do something before it was too late.


    And he will!

 Prelude (Pt 5)

    "You know I''m immortal, Nelius," she had said. "Flames did not destroy me, nor will this cage. Every second, every minute, every hour that you cage me there, you are only strengthening the wrath that I will one day unleash upon your people. And when I return, I shall be the end of you.


    When that day arrives, sky will darken with the shadows of what you have forgotten. Seas will rise, drowning the lies you have lived by. Land will tremble underfoot as you try to grasp the last remnants of your false power. Nothing you have built will stand. There will be no refuge, no hiding, no escape. No weapon you wield will save you. Earth will swallow you whole. And I will rise from your ashes, not as your savior, but as your reckoning."


    ¡ª¨C


    The anointment had ended on a sour note, but the work of the day had only just begun. Chief Nelius Tuscan''s voice echoed through the clearing. "We have much to do," he said to his men. "Let us begin the construction."


    The twenty-eight men followed him, to the spot in the clearing where they''ve already gathered materials for the Traveller¡¯s Tomb. The air was humid, making them sweat profusely even before they lifted the first stone. Women had marked the ground with sacred symbols to ward off malevolent spirits, and the trees around had been felled, their trunks stripped bare. The scent of freshly cut wood mingled with the lingering smell of the Holy Fire.


    As the men set to work, their wives and children gathered in small groups, setting up cooking fires and laying out food. The sound of laughter and chatter filled the air, warding off the solemn silence that had hung over the anointment ceremony. The aroma of tubers, bulrushes, and boiled rice wafted through the clearing, mingling with the scent of the earth and the faint smell of the Holy Fire''s embers. The women worked swiftly, their eyes darting to the construction site often.


    "Why would he do that?" one of the women whispered to another as they watched their husbands and sons follow Nelius Tuscan, now no longer the Chief of Tuscanvalle, but a mere Traveller with a grim destiny.


    "Who? Ibarius?" another woman scoffed, her eyes narrowing as she stirred a pot of bubbling stew.


    The first woman hushed her, casting a quick glance at Freesia, who hovered on the outskirts of the gathering, her eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. "Shush, Rumana! Keep your voice down or you''ll get us in trouble," she warned. "I speak of our Chief, our old Chief. Why would he give up his position so easily? For what?"


    Rumana, paused in her work thoughtfully. "For what, indeed?" she murmured. "But perhaps he knows something we do not. After all, the prophecy was clear¡ªwe are doomed. Perhaps he seeks to save us all in some way."


    Hasana, the woman beside her nodded. "Or perhaps he is as lost as we are," she said. "Maybe he has accepted the fate, and this is his penance."


    They fell silent as Freesia approached, her steps unsteady. They watched her, their whispers dying away as she neared. Freesia avoided their eyes, focusing instead on the ground beneath her feet. She must have known they were judging her, thinking of her as the cause of the discord between the brothers. Or perhaps her worthiness to be the Woman of the Tribe during such a tumultuous time. She dared not face them, fearful of what she might see reflected in their gazes¡ªpity, anger, or perhaps something worse. Instead she kept her eyes on the task at hand, carrying a pot of water towards the men.


    When Freesia was out of earshot, Hasana leaned in closer to her sister. "You know, when Ibarius shoved the priest like that, I thought for a moment that Chief will cancel the anointment," she said, "But he¡­ gave in."


    Rumana glared at her sister.


    "What?" Hasana demanded defensively. "You don''t think I''m right?"


    Rumana''s silence was her answer. She took the pot off the fire, her movements sharp and chiding. "Cancel the anointment and abandon us without a leader?" she hissed, "You know he''s leaving soon."


    "That''s far better than leaving us at the mercy of that¡­ " Hasana''s voice trailed off as she searched for a suitable insult, but none seemed to capture her feelings towards Ibarius.


    Rumana gawked at her sister, her eyes pleading her to lower her voice. "You''re too loud," she hissed. "You never know who''s listening."


    Hasana rolled her eyes, unconcerned. "It''s just us, sister. Besides, what does it matter? The damage is done." She glanced over her shoulder, ensuring no one was close enough to overhear them anyway.


    Rumana sighed, her hand pausing mid-stir. "You''re right," she conceded. "Ibarius will not lead with the wisdom we''ve come to expect from our old Chief." She glanced around at the bustling camp, the children playing and the men toiling in the heat. "Our daughters and granddaughters will know a different Tuscanvalle."


    "A different Tuscanvalle?" A child''s voice interrupted their hushed conversation. It was Calla, Rumana''s youngest, her curiosity piqued by the secretive tones of her mother and aunt. "Are we travelling again, mama? But I like it here."


    Rumana forced a smile, gently pulling the little girl into her lap. "No, sweetling," she said, stroking Calla''s hair. "We''re not leaving. We''re just¡­ preparing for our Chief''s journey."


    Calla looked up at her mother with a furrowed brow. "Which Chief uncle is leaving, mama? The Good one or the Bad one?"


    Hasana stifled a laugh with a pretend cough. Rumana silenced her with a glare. "Hush, Calla. The Chiefs are not good or bad, they are just¡­ different." She hoped the child would not press further, but Calla''s curiosity was insatiable.


    "But mama, why are they building that big rock place?" Calla pointed at the Traveller''s Tomb.


    "It''s for the Chief to rest when he comes back from his journey," Rumana replied with fake cheerfulness, trying not to think of the posibility that Nelius Tuscan might not return. "Now, go play with your friends. I''ll call you when they are done building the rock place and then we can have fun placing tiny rocks inside."If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Calla nodded and skipped away, her laughter drowning in the sounds of the men grunting and shouting as they worked.


    ¡ª¨C


    Constructing the Traveller''s Tomb was an intricate task. The stones used for the tomb must not be cut, chiseled or even touched by metal, yet had to stay perfectly in place for centuries to come. And so building a Traveller¡¯s Tomb required precision and patience.


    When the sun was right above their heads and the shadows a splach of blackness below their feet, the last stone of the Traveller¡¯s Tomb was set in place with a resounding thud. The men panted, sweat pouring down their faces and soaking their cloths. The structure was grand with several sections like that of the houses they had built back in their old homeland.


    As if on cue, the women''s chatter grew louder, the smell of cooked food filling the air. They had finished preparing the feast for the men''s return. The timing was almost supernatural.


    The clearing buzzed with excitement. Men wiped their brows, some even cheering as they stepped back to admire their work.


    Women and children of Tuscanvalle gathered around the newly constructed Traveller''s Tomb, each carrying a small stone, selected from within the boundaries of their new homeland. This tomb was not for the dead, but for the living. The stones they held represented their hope and prayers for the safe return of those who would venture into the unknown.


    Calla tugged at her mother''s skirt. "Mama, why are we putting these in there?" she asked, holding up a smooth, round stone, the size of an egg.


    "It''s a special ceremony, darling," Rumana explained. "We put the stones in to wish Uncle Nelius luck on his journey. Each stone represents a thread connecting him to us. The more stones, the stronger the connection."


    Calla nodded. She took her stone and walked over to Chief Nelius Tuscan, who was standing by the tomb, overseeing the final ceremony as one by one, the women and children placed their stones within the tomb''s chambers.


    "Uncle Nelius," she hollered to make herself heard over the murmur of the crowd.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan crouched down to her level, his face lined with fatigue. "What is it, little one?" he asked, stroking her hair with fondness.


    Calla held out her stone. "It''s for you, Uncle," she said. "So you don''t get lost."


    Chief Nelius Tuscan took the stone from her small hand, his eyes misting over. "Thank you, Calla," he murmured. He placed the stone in one of the smaller compartments of the tomb, designed to hold such offerings. "This stone will guide me home," he assured her.


    Calla beamed up at him.


    "You''re welcome, Uncle," she exclaimed.


    Nelius couldn''t help but smile. He ruffled her hair with fondness. "Run along now," he said, his eyes lingering on her retreating figure as she joined the other children.


    ¡ª¨C


    "Sister!" Hasana nudged Rumana. "Did you see that?"


    Rumana followed her sister''s gaze to where Chief Nelius Tuscan was still kneeling beside Calla. She nodded. "What of it?"


    "It''s just¡­ he''s recently become quite fond of her, hasn''t he?" Hasana murmured, watching as Chief Nelius Tuscan ruffled Calla''s hair with affection.


    Rumana followed her sister''s gaze. "It''s because she''s young," she offered in a matter-of-fact tone.


    "Or perhaps," Hasana said further lowering her voice, "it''s because she looks just like Poppy."


    "Poppy?"


    Hasana tsked and leaned closer to her sister. "Poppy, the one the witches devoured when they were first brought into Tuscanvalle."


    No one dared to talk about Poppy anymore.


    Poppy was barely a child when the witches were first dragged into Tuscanvalle for their execution. Tuscanians had been warned to keep their distance from the creatures, and adviced to not even look at them. But Poppy had been drawn to the commotion. Alas, no one noticed her curiosity growing to dangerous extents until it was too late.


    Back then, the witches were chained like beasts, brought forth by the Yadoran guards. Tuscanvalle was their chosen arena for the gruesome execution. The villagers had gathered fearfully, watching the procession from either sides of the streets. The witches'' eyes were sleepy, their skin smeared with ashes and their clothes in tatters. They looked nothing like the myths and stories they had heard of. They looked¡­ human.


    The guards had warned everyone to keep a safe distance. The witches were said to be able to curse with a mere glance. Yet, there was something about them that didn''t quite match the horrors attributed to them. They moved with a grace that seemed to suggest a deeper understanding of the world than the villagers could never dream to comprehend.


    Yet what frightened them more was the invisible shield that surrounded the witches. It wasn¡¯t something they could see, but rather feel¡ªa palpable force that seemed to push back against anyone who dared to come too close. Tuscanian warriors who had tried to lay hands on the witches had frozen in place.


    It was a shield¡ªmaybe a frozen bubble, some thought¡ªthat kept them at bay. A force that was not visible, but oh, so present. When the late Chief Kalius Tuscan and his men had approached the witches, they had frozen the moment their feet had crossed the invisible line that separated the villagers from the condemned. No matter what they tried, they couldn¡¯t move an inch closer to the witches. It was as if the ground beneath them had turned to ice.


    Nobody could approach the witches.


    Nobody except Poppy!


    The little girl had slipped through the crowd. She had seen the witches before, of course, in the stories of the village elders and the paintings on the walls of the Great Hall, but never in person. And as she approached the invisible barrier, she had found that she was the only one who could pass through it unscathed.


    Her father, the late Chief Kalius Tuscan, had watched in horror as his daughter fearlessly approached the witches. His hand had clenched around the hilt of his sword, ready to charge forward and save her. But as she stepped closer, something strange had happened. The witches didn''t cower or hiss like the beasts everyone thought them to be. Instead, they looked at her with¡­ what? Longing? Curiosity?


    Kalius had waited, his heart hammering in his chest, expecting the worst. But the worst never came.


    Poppy had reached out a tiny hand and touched the nearest witch''s arm. The crowd had gasped as the witch leaned down, whispering something into Poppy''s ear. But before Kalius could act, the witch drew back, a smile dancing on her lips. Poppy turned and skipped away, her innocence untouched by the evil of the witch.


    Kalius had watched her go, his thoughts racing. Perhaps, his own blood held the key to their salvation.


    "Take this, Poppy," he had said to Poppy, that night, handing her a small dagger. It was sharp but not too heavy for her tiny hands. "You''re the only one who can do this."


    He had shown her how to hold it, how to wield it and how to plunge it into the heart of the witches. He had made her practice on straw dolls, stabbing them over and over again.


    Much to everyone''s shock and contempt, Chief Kalius Tuscan had sent Poppy to perform the grisly task of killing the witches. Despite the protests of his wife and the others, he had known she was the only one who could pass through the invisible shield untouched by its malevolent power.


    Poppy, too, had crept near the witches, her tiny hand clutching the dagger with trembling resolve. She had paused just before the invisible barrier, looking back at her father. He had nodded at her with pride.


    His blood. His legacy. His child was going to save the world from evil!


    And then Poppy had crossed the barrier.


    Everyone had held their breath.


    Nothing happened, not until she was close enough. Not until she raised the dagger.


    But the moment the little girl raised the weapon to strike.


    Bam!


    A strange explosion of light had filled the clearing, knocking everyone off their feet. When the villagers of Tuscanvalle looked up again, Poppy was gone.


    What remained of her was a handful of her torn cloths, chunks of raw, pulsating flesh, a few strands of her bloodied hair and a crimson puddle on the dirt floor where Poppy stood moments ago.


    The witches were still chained.


    But Poppy was gone and so was the invisible force that had protected the witches from their assaulters.


    Poppy had sacrificed herself to break the shield.

 Prelude (Pt 6)

    Waters rise, and the skies do groan,


    Cursed are the paths my feet have known.


    The winds that howl, the storms that tear,


    Were sewn by hands too proud to care.


    The world may crumble, the trees may fall,


    The stars may flicker, their light too small.


    O¡¯er jagged waves, I steer my way,


    For the sins of the past, I pay today.


    The song was mournful, yet the children sang it with an oddly upbeat rhythm. It turned something haunting into a strangely fitting, almost uplifting melody. The contrast grated on Ibarius¡¯s nerves. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to shout at them, to tell them to stop and run far from his sight. Instead, he sighed and forced himself to stay patient.


    The humiliation from earlier replayed in his mind, gnawing at his pride. How dare they? How dare his brother shame him in front of everyone? And all for a woman? Had Nelius lost his mind?


    Ibarius had never understood why his brother, Nelius Tuscan, wanted to keep searching for a better land when they had already found this paradise. Here, they were safe¡ªfree from bullies, thieves, and the constant threats that had chased them for so long. After the witch hunt and the subsequent curse, their people had no place left in the world. To outsiders, Tuscanians were little more than a disease, a blight to be eradicated.


    The Tuscanians had fought, resisting their enemies with everything they had. But their numbers had been too small, too few to stand against the armies of the Yadoran, Devatonkan, and Elysian empires. The witch hunt had drained their resources, leaving their homeland barren and defenseless. Starving and weakened, they became easy targets for the stronger empires, who crushed their resistance like dried leaves underfoot.


    In the end, they had no choice but to abandon their land if they hoped to save those who still lived. So, they fled¡ªthrough forests, deserts, and across treacherous waters. Always moving, always huddled together like exiles. When exhaustion claimed them, they set up temporary camps to recover or replenish what little they could.


    It was a journey of endless trials. They fought armies that barred them from crossing borders, terrified the curse would spread if they let Tuscanians in. They endured the relentless heat of the deserts, the predators lurking in the woods, and the raging storms at sea. They battled desert raiders and fled from serpents so massive and fearsome that meeting their gaze meant certain death.


    Everywhere they went, they were unwelcome, chased like a plague. Their numbers dwindled, not one by one, but in clusters¡ªentire families lost to the elements, to violence, or to despair.


    In truth, they were like a flower plucked from its stem, its petals wilting and falling one by one. Chased from their home, stripped of their place in the world, they had become wanderers¡ªalways searching, never belonging.


    The world had been cruel to them. So why, after all they had endured, would Nelius want to return to it? After all the pain and humiliation, after losing everything they once had, why risk it again?Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Ibarius couldn¡¯t understand it. Ambitious as Ibarius was, even he despised the circumstances under which he had been anointed. He would have preferred for his brother to stay here, in the safety of their new homeland, and pass the mantle of leadership to him in peace. Even after Nelius had publicly humiliated him, Ibarius didn¡¯t wish for his brother to face the same horrors they had once fled¡ªthe endless running, the starvation, the battles for survival. The thought stirred an uncomfortable flicker of pity in his heart, though he buried it quickly.


    ¡°Brother!¡±


    The call broke Ibarius from his thoughts. He turned to see Nelius resting under the shadows of the bordering trees with his wife, Rosa, and the twenty-eight men who would accompany him on his journey. Nelius¡¯s eyes met Ibarius¡¯s, and with a nod, he motioned for him to come closer.


    Ibarius took a step forward, but before he could reach him, Nelius rose and began walking toward him instead. Ibarius stopped, waiting, observing his brother¡¯s purposeful stride. Without a word, Nelius gestured for him to follow, leading him away from the gathering and into the shadow of a tree farther out.


    Once there, Nelius hesitated, his expression conflicted. He seemed to swallow hard, as though whatever he was about to say carried a burden too heavy to bear alone.


    Ibarius frowned slightly, realizing this wasn¡¯t going to be one of Nelius¡¯s long-winded lectures on leadership or the responsibilities of a ruler. This was different. Nelius looked as though he was about to reveal a secret, one that no one¡ªnot even Ibarius¡ªwas meant to know.


    Ibarius waited, his impatience simmering beneath a facade of calm. Whatever it was, it had better be important.


    Finally, after an internal struggle that played out visibly on his face, Nelius began to speak.


    ¡°Ibarius,¡± he said, his voice low, ¡°you must be wondering¡ªas would everyone else¡ªwhy I chose to anoint you, even after what happened earlier.¡±


    He hesitated, his words trailing off.


    Ibarius suppressed a smirk. Wondering? Why would he wonder about that? He hadn¡¯t even entertained the idea that his brother might find a last-minute replacement to take his place. The anointment was inevitable. The only thing Ibarius truly wondered about was why Nelius, a man otherwise so pragmatic, had such a soft heart¡ªsoft enough to treat a weaker species like women as equals to mighty men.


    It was baffling.


    Nelius exhaled heavily, his gaze distant. ¡°As you know, it¡¯s the duty of the leader stepping down to choose his successor wisely¡ªto select someone who can serve the people in the way they need most at that moment. Someone who possesses the qualities required to uplift them in the face of their challenges.¡± He paused, his eyes never meeting Ibarius¡¯s. ¡°I chose you because you have certain¡­ rigid qualities. Qualities that they need desperately right now. You¡¯re the kind of authority who can keep them in line, herding them into a disciplined path with no room for compromise. Rude, yes, but effective.¡±


    He glanced toward the group gathered beneath the trees, watching the people as they exchanged farewells with the warriors who would soon depart with him. Their laughter and camaraderie felt heavy with the knowledge that this might be the last time they would share such a moment.


    Ibarius frowned, his brows knitting in concentration. After a moment, he shook his head. ¡°Brother, you know me¡ªI¡¯m a simple man, bound by stubborn values. I don¡¯t like riddles, and I certainly can¡¯t make sense of your roundabout words. I ask you plainly: simplify this for me.¡±


    Nelius turned from the people and fixed his gaze on Ibarius, his expression solemn. ¡°There are things in this world that we do not, cannot, and should not understand,¡± he said.


    ¡°Like those witches?¡± Ibarius asked, seeking clarification.


    Nelius hesitated, his eyes darting toward the group as if ensuring no one could overhear them. ¡°I¡¯m not so sure anymore,¡± he said softly. ¡°I don¡¯t know if they¡¯re witches at all.¡±


    Ibarius¡¯s mouth fell open in shock. ¡°That¡¯s absurd,¡± he snapped, his voice rising before he caught himself. He stomped the ground, raising a hand as if to grab his brother¡¯s shoulder but stopped short, choosing restraint. ¡°You know what they¡¯ve done to us. You know what happened to our people. It was the witch hunt that drove us to this¡ªhave you forgotten?¡± His voice trembled with suppressed anger.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t forgotten,¡± Nelius interjected sharply, his glare silencing Ibarius. ¡°But listen to yourself. It wasn¡¯t the witches who pushed us to this brink¡ªit was the hunt itself.¡±


    Ibarius rubbed his temples, frustration building. ¡°I don¡¯t understand, brother. How can you separate the two? Aren¡¯t they the same?¡±


    Nelius¡¯s gaze turned distant, his voice low and heavy with uncertainty. ¡°I don¡¯t think so. I believe we tampered with forces far darker than mere witches or black magic.¡±

 Prelude (Pt 7)

    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">But the waters will know, and the winds will hear,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">The strength of a soul that refuses fear.


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">My feet are banished, my hands are bare,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">My children will carry what I cannot bear.


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">Yet in their eyes, the dawn may rise,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">A future unseen by cursed skies.


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">If I am lost, let this be true¡ª


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">Fear can¡¯t consume what¡¯s in you.


    Nelius turned his gaze toward the gathering. The men began to rise one by one, brushing the dirt from their clothes and bidding their families goodbye. Fathers embraced their children, wives clung to their husbands, and farewells were exchanged with a quiet finality. Nearby, the children unaffected by this day¡¯s parting played with carefree abandon, their laughter and songs drifting through the air like a defiant melody against the somber atmosphere.


    Nelius shifted back to Ibarius, his voice sharp with urgency. ¡°I don¡¯t have much time to explain. I¡¯ve wasted too many precious hours debating whether it was safer to keep you in the dark or arm you with knowledge. But now¡­¡± His voice faltered. ¡°Now, my time has run out.¡±


    Ibarius frowned, his confusion deepening. ¡°I¡¯m still in the dark, brother. I have no idea what you¡¯re talking about.¡±


    Nelius began pacing, his movements restless, his thoughts seemingly tangled. ¡°Do you remember the day Calla drowned in the lake?¡± he asked abruptly, ignoring Ibarius¡¯s question.


    The shift in topic was jarring, but Ibarius nodded, the humiliation and tension from earlier forgotten in the face of his brother¡¯s intensity. ¡°The little girl?¡± he asked, gesturing toward the group of children playing and singing nearby. His eyes landed on a dark-haired child, her laughter rising above the others¡¯. ¡°Her?¡±


    Nelius followed his gaze briefly, confirming with a nod. ¡°Yes, her."


    Ibarius¡¯s brows furrowed as memories stirred. ¡°I thought she was dead that day. She looked like a corpse, still and lifeless for half the day¡­ until she just sat up. Alive. Unharmed. Everyone thought it was a miracle.¡±


    And it had been. Calla had fallen into the lake and been submerged for too long. When the men finally pulled her from the water, her small body was cold, breathless, and without a pulse. Her parents wept over her lifeless form, and so did the entire village.


    As Tuscanian tradition dictated, a body could not be cremated after sunset. Since Calla¡¯s death occurred in the evening, her family had decided to wait until dawn for the ceremony. They laid her on the pyre, her mother adorning her with flowers for her final journey. The men began preparing for the morning rites, their movements heavy with sorrow.


    But at midnight, Calla stirred.


    Without warning, the girl sat upright, her eyes wide open. The villagers froze in horror, unsure if they were witnessing a miracle or something far darker. Some whispered that it wasn¡¯t Calla at all, but something unnatural that had taken possession of her body.


    Nelius had acted swiftly. He brought the girl to his home, where he checked her pulse himself and enlisted the priest to perform rites of protection. For hours, they watched her closely, looking for any sign of evil influence.


    By sunrise, the priest declared her free of any possession, alive and well. The village erupted in celebration, cheering Calla¡¯s impossible return from death. What had begun as a day of mourning ended as a day of awe and relief.


    Nelius nodded, his brow furrowed with worry. ¡°She saw something that day,¡± he said quietly, his voice laden with an unease that made Ibarius stiffen. ¡°Something no living human has ever seen. That day, Calla returned from a place no one is meant to return from.¡±Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Ibarius wanted to laugh, to dismiss his brother¡¯s words as absurd. But the seriousness in Nelius¡¯s expression held him back. This was no jest. ¡°And where, exactly, is that?¡± Ibarius asked cautiously.


    ¡°The world of the dead and shadows,¡± Nelius whispered.


    Ibarius¡¯s jaw dropped, his mind scrambling to comprehend. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish gasping for air. Could such a thing be possible? His instincts rejected it, but then again, if witches and their curses were real, why not this?


    ¡°And¡­¡± Nelius hesitated, choosing his next words with care. ¡°I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s just a child¡¯s imagination or the truth, but she brought us a warning.¡± He stopped pacing and turned to Ibarius, gripping his hand tightly, as though his very life depended on being understood. ¡°A warning,¡± he continued, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, ¡°from Death itself.¡±


    Ibarius¡¯s eyes widened in disbelief, but before he could respond, Nelius leaned in closer. ¡°There¡¯s a way to lift the curse,¡± he said, his voice tinged with breathless urgency.


    Ibarius felt a spark of hope ignite within him, his heart racing. He opened his mouth to speak, but Nelius raised a hand, cutting him off.


    ¡°Or, in Calla¡¯s exact words,¡± Nelius clarified, his tone grave, ¡°there¡¯s a way to contain the damage, the evil, when the curse takes hold.¡±


    Nelius¡¯s grip on Ibarius¡¯s hand tightened, his knuckles white. ¡°Those who chased us, the ones who hunted us down¡ªthey¡¯re blind to what¡¯s truly stirring beneath the surface. It¡¯s not just us who are in danger, brother. The entire world is at risk. And that¡¯s why I must leave. To find the way. To stop this before it¡¯s too late.¡±


    He paused, his expression conflicted. ¡°The nuances, the details of the process¡ªthose will stay with me for now. Me and Calla. I won¡¯t burden you with them, not yet.¡± His voice softened, as though speaking more to himself than to Ibarius. ¡°Calla has a role to play, a task I¡¯ve given her. She¡¯ll carry it out for as long as she lives or until we return. I only hope she understands the weight of it.¡± He shook his head, his worry momentarily shifting to doubt. ¡°Can a child truly grasp the seriousness of such a task?¡±


    Nelius dismissed the thought with a shake of his head and looked Ibarius in the eye. ¡°But I need something from you,¡± he said, pressing Ibarius¡¯s palm firmly.


    Ibarius nodded, his confusion mingling with curiosity. Whatever his brother needed, he would do his best to deliver.


    ¡°Do not let them leave this paradise.¡±


    Nelius¡¯s voice carried an urgency that made Ibarius¡¯s spine straighten. His gaze followed his brother¡¯s, settling on the villagers. The men were preparing for the farewell, dusting off their clothes and hugging their families one last time. The children, oblivious to the weight of the moment, played and sang with cheerful abandon. Their carefree melodies drifted through the air, jarringly at odds with the gravity of Nelius¡¯s words.


    ¡°When we leave,¡± Nelius continued, his tone unyielding, ¡°me and my twenty-eight warriors, you must take them back to the other side of the lake. And under no circumstances should you ever let them set foot outside our new boundaries again. Not a single soul, Ibarius. Not now. Not ever. Not until we find a way.¡±


    He grabbed Ibarius by the shoulders, his grip firm, his eyes piercing. The intensity of his touch seemed meant to imprint his words deep into Ibarius¡¯s mind. ¡°The Tuscanian bloodline is more important than we¡¯ve ever realized. It always has been. It¡¯s your responsibility now. You must preserve them. You must make them thrive until we return.¡±


    Ibarius nodded, his brother¡¯s command settling heavily in his heart. He didn¡¯t fully understand, but the resolve in Nelius¡¯s voice left no room for doubt.


    Nelius gave one final nod before turning away, his steps purposeful yet heavy as he left the clearing. Ibarius stood there, rooted to the spot, a storm of dread and confusion swirling within him. The children¡¯s songs still hung in the air, their light-hearted tunes carried by the wind as though mocking the seriousness of the moment.


    The children sang their final verse:


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">Though death may come, though light may fade,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">The soul¡¯s resolve cannot be swayed.


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">Row, row, row across the tide,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">Through cursed waves where fears reside.


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">The stones may cut, the sky may cry,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">But hope will live, though I may die.


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">And if the end is all I find,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">I leave my strength for those behind.

 [Arc 1] 0.01 - Calla and her stories

    0.01


    "Tell us, Calla¡ªhow did it really end?" Koko''s voice broke the silence.


    The flicker of the lamp cast a creepy glow on Calla''s weathered face, her eye sockets sunken and her skin wrinkled. She sat on a wooden cot, covered with soft beaver fur blanket that smelled faintly of age and earth. The walls of the hut were made of ancient, thick logs¡ªthe spaces between them filled with mud that had dried to a dark brown over the years. The floor was packed dirt, swept clean of any debris. Yet a few stray twigs and leaves had found their way in through the cracked wooden planks that served as a door. The only other piece of furniture was a small table carved by hand from a single piece of wood. On it sat a few weathered wooden bowls, a palm-sized cup and a small clay pot filled with water.


    The lamp itself hung from a wooden beam that stretched across the ceiling, swaying gently as the rainy wind that slipped in through the cracks in the roof. It was a simple contraption, a metal frame holding a lotus stem wick dipped in virgin palm oil extracted from the Oil Palms that were found abundant near the lake beds. The light it cast was dim, but it was enough to throw scary shadows on the walls of the small space.


    The children sat in a semi-circle around Calla, their eyes wide and their breaths held as if they could inhale the story.


    Normally, the room could house no more than a couple of adults comfortably. But children, as tiny as they were, could squeeze into spaces where adults couldn¡¯t. They sat there, cross-legged, huddled and leaned forward, eagerly waiting for Calla to continue her story.


    Baabi slapped Koko right on the back of his neck, causing him to yelp. "Shush, Koko!" she mumbled. "You know, Calla never finishes her stories."


    "But why? How could you tell a story and not finish it?" Koko whined, rubbing his stinging neck.


    Calla took a deep, shaky breath, the skin around her mouth folding into dangerously saggy creases as she did so. "Because it didn''t end. Not yet."


    Koko scorned at Calla''s words. "But Calla," he protested, "Stories should have endings!"


    Calla pointed a boney finger at Koko. "Right," she nodded, her aged arms trembling. "Stories have endings. But this isn''t a story. It''s¡­" she trailed off, her sunken eyes narrowing as she searched for the right word. "It''s¡­ history."


    The children looked at each other, a scowl etched in their faces. Sisi summoned the courage to speak up. "But Calla, what''s his¡­ his¡­ histy?"


    Baabi slapped Sisi''s thigh, making her jump. "Don''t you know? It means something that''s not a story."


    Sisi pushed Baabi''s hand away with a squeal. "Would you stop slapping people?"


    "What? I''m just happy." Baabi pouted.


    "But I''m not. Ah¡­ it hurts!" Sisi rubbed her thigh, glaring at Baabi.


    "Sorry, I didn''t mean to hurt you." Baabi''s cheeks reddened. "I''m always happy whenever Calla starts a story, even if she never finishes them."


    Koko rolled his eyes, annoyed with their banter. "But Calla, what happened to The Great Hero? Did he ever come back from his journey?"


    Calla''s gaze drifted to the flickering shadows on the wall. "The Great Hero," she murmured.


    That evening, several years ago, before Chief Nelius Tuscan left, his wife Rosa had said with tear filled eyes. "I''ll spend every second of the rest of my life, praying for your well being, awaiting your return."


    "And I will find a way to undo the curse, to defeat the witches, and restore peace to our land," Chief Nelius Tuscan had vowed. "And then I will return to you, my love."Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    When Chief Nelius Tuscan left Tuscanvalle that evening, after the ritual, after the feast, after he and his twenty eight men had bonded with their wives and children, the people had watched him go.


    Days, months and years went by. But Chief Nelius Tuscan had never returned from his journey. The years had stretched into decades, and the hope for his return had morphed into legends, and then¡­ then the legends had evolved, evoking a strong, widespread dread of the outside world.


    "The Great Hero never returned," Calla said finally, her voice solemn. The children''s face shrunk in disappointment, some of them pouting, some of them moaning. But Calla wasn''t done. "But the story isn''t over." She cheered them.


    The children leaned in closer, their breaths bated with renewed interest. Calla stretched her stiff twig-like limbs, lifting them onto the cot with a painful groan. She took a sip of water from the clay pot with her shaking hands. Lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating the room. Rain picked up, turning the gentle patter into a deafening downpour.


    "You see," she began, her voice weaker than before, "The Great Hero is not someone who gives up on his people. He''s out there, fighting battles you can never imagine, facing dangers you won''t dare to dream of."


    The children listened, their mouths open like fish gulping for air.


    "He must be¡­" Calla''s memory drifted back to that fateful day when Chief Nelius Tuscan had left. She was a child when it happened. She had seen him off with her mother and her aunt, Hasana as did all the people of Tuscanvalle. Everything had changed after he left. The new Chief was such an arrogant prick in the ass. He didn''t care about them. He didn''t care about the curse or the witches. All he cared about was his dominance and masculine ego. By the time Calla attained marriage age, she had understood what her mother and her aunt had meant when they said that their daughters and granddaughters would see a different Tuscanvalle. Under Ibarius¡¯s rule, the village had grown rigid and colourless. "¡­out there," Calla continued. "For he''s the only one who knew how to contain the evil." She remembered her mother, Rumana, wondering if Chief Nelius Tuscan had known something they hadn''t. Why else would he be so persistent in continuing his journey even after finding this paradise of a land?


    "Evil?" Sisi cocked her head, eyes wide with fear. "What evil, Calla?"


    Calla took another deep, rattling breath. The children these days seemed more intellectual than she remembered being at their age. She remembered her children and their children and their children''s children, all of them asking less and playing more. But these little ones, they had so many questions. "The evil," she began, "Is something that¡­"


    She stopped abruptly. Should she tell them about the witches? The way her childhood friend, Poppy had burst into a soup of blood and bones, right before her eyes? Do they deserve that kind of gore staining their innocent minds?


    Calla had seen so much. Yet the memories weren''t that haunting when she was still young. But the trauma had grown stronger as she had gotten older. At times, when she closed her eyes at night, and she could see the scene replaying in her mind, she had wondered if children have some kind of defense mechanism that protected them from the horrors of the world until they were ready to face them.


    "Calla," Koko prodded, shifting and squirming in his spot on the floor, "what kind of evil is it?"


    Calla''s gaze remained fixed on the shadows. "The kind that lives within us. Like when you want something so badly, it makes you do things that aren''t nice. That''s greed," she said, looking at each of the children in turn. "Or when you''re so jealous of someone else''s toys, you''d rather break them than share."


    Koko''s cheeks reddened as he remembered the time he had snuck into Sisi''s hut and snapped her favorite wooden horse in two because she wouldn''t let him play with it.


    "But Calla," he stuttered, "is that all?"


    Calla''s eyes searched the room, her gaze lingering on each child''s face. "No, my precious" she said with a sigh. "There''s more."


    "Imagine," she began, her voice dropping to a whisper, "someone so hungry, they would eat until there''s no food left for anyone else."


    The children nodded, some of them remembering the last winter when food had been scarce.


    "That''s gluttony," Calla said, her eyes drifting to the flickering light. "It''s when you want so much, you forget about everyone else."


    The children stared at her unblinking. Calla knew she had their attention, so she took a moment to gather her thoughts before continuing. "Then there''s injustice. Now tell me, little ones! Have you ever seen someone treat others unfairly, just because they think they''re not as worthy?"


    The kids looked at each other, and then at Calla. Slowly, their heads bobbed in unison. "Yes, Calla," Sisi said, her tiny eyebrows furrowed in thought. "Mama always chases Samora away when she stands too close to our house, asking for food. She says Samora is evil." The little girl looked down at her clenched fingers. "But I don''t think she''s evil, just hungry."


    "Isn''t there a li¡­ttle baby in her stomach?" Baabi squealed. "Will it come out before we go to sleep? Will it be a boy or a girl?"


    "But DaDa said they''re going to hurt Samora and the baby," Koko murmured, his voice wavering with uncertainity. "Is that true, Calla?"


    Calla took a deep breath, realising something suddenly. Sometimes, what might be injustice to some, might be survival to others. And sometimes, its important to weed out the evil lurking silently among us.

 0.02 - Under the great Banyan

    0.02


    Time would tell if evil would be weeded out or if evil was there to weed them out.


    But for now¡­


    A large pitch-black banyan tree stood with its numerous branches spread for about a metaphorical mile blocking the view of the sky. Its uninterrupted canopy of leaves and trunks seemed like an entire forest, darkening the ground beneath. The five-hundred year old giant had several prop trunks that twisted and wound around the main trunk like vines, some of them thick enough to be mistaken as individual trees; but they all belonged to the same colossal entity. The prop trunks were so dense and abundant that you would easily get lost in the maze of growth. The ground below was uneven, roots protruding from the dirt like jagged rocks, forcing anyone to watch their step.


    The tree was more than just a landmark, it was a living monument that shaped the very land it stood on.


    It was their Holy Tree.


    An unyeilding fortress that marked the northern edge of Tuscanian boundary.


    In the space between the tangle of roots, a bonfire crackled in the wind, piercing the silence of the night. An anxious group of elderly and middle-aged men sat around the fire, their cloaks pulled tightly around their bodies and huddled for warmth, sheltered from the showering rain. The dim light of the bonfire cast shadows over their already worried faces giving them an old and creepy appearance.


    Behind the circle of men, closer to the raised base of the main trunk, a mob of lads stood leaning over the trunks, some scratching their heads and others, the wood of the giant with the edge of their spear heads in borebom. A couple of them were hoping from one root to another and swinging from the arial roots like monkeys.


    Drops of rainwater that had somehow managed to escape the mattress of leaves above dripped from the arial roots of The Great Banyan, splattered over the hard, exposed roots and drenched the ground below. The downpour had been unrelenting for the past two days, turning the already soggy earth into a squelchy mess.


    One of the men shielded his face from the dripping water droplets with one hand. "Seems like Lavalthon might break her banks tonight," he murmured to the one next to him. His name was Phyto, a farmer whose crops grew near the lake''s edge, just ahead of their cremation ground.


    The Great Banyan Tree stood tall and unyielding in the north, guarding over Tuscanvalle. It had been there for as long as anyone could remember, its roots digging deep into the earth, stretching and growing with each passing year. But the south and east were different. The Lavalthon Lake was a force unto itself, vast and mysterious. As much as she supported their livelihoods with her abundant aquatic life and fertile banks for farming, she was also a fickle mistress.


    The lake was known to swell and recede with the seasons, but lately, something felt¡­ off. Rains had been unnaturally heavy, and the water levels had been steadily rising. The banks of the Lavalthon, which had been stable for generations, now looked ready to burst at any moment. Last winter, when the water had reached dangerously high levels, the crops had flooded, and the tribe had barely made it through the harsh months that followed. This time, the villagers feared that if the banks didn''t hold, the water would flood into Tuscanvalle itself. Because winter had just started, the ground was already saturated, and the excess water had nowhere to go but into their homes.


    Marnoell, the chief of the village, nodded solemnly. "Aye, it does. We''ve not seen the likes of this rain in years. And with the banks already swollen from the last flood¡­" His voice trailed off as he glanced over his shoulder at the youths, their laughter felt like rubbing salt into the wound of his worry.


    "They don''t understand," said Kaius, the tribal medic, with resignation. "We''re being attacked from all sides. God only knows what else is out there, waiting for us to let our guard down."


    Marnoell''s eyes narrowed as he watched the young lads swinging from the roots, their laughter almost drowning the sound of their conversation. The noise grated on his nerves like a stone on a sharpening stone. He stood, the firelight flickering across his face, making his furrowed brows look even more scary.


    "ENOUGH!" he roared, his voice booming over their chatter. The boys froze mid-swing, their laughter choking off.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Marnoell stomped over to the bonfire and grabbed a burning stick, the embers hissing as the rain hit it. He pointed it at the youths. "You think this is a game?!" His face was red with anger, his beard swaying threateningly with every word. "Our village is in peril, and you''re acting like a pack of wild dogs!"


    The boys'' laughter died immediately. Marnoell wouldn¡¯t raise his voice often, and when he did, it was serious.


    The rain seemed to hold its breath too. Even the droplets that had been relentlessly bombarding the leaves above paused for a moment. The bonfire crackled louder in the sudden stillness. The boys looked down at their muddy feet, shuffling awkwardly. They hadn''t realized how loud they had been.


    Marnoell took a deep breath, letting the stick fall to the ground. His eyes searched the tree, finding a root that looked strong enough to bear the weight of his weary body. With a grunt, he sat down, the wood groaning slightly under his weight. The boys watched him with fear and respect before one by one, they took their place around him, sitting on the roots that jetted out from the base of the Great Banyan. The rain had soaked through their clothes, leaving them shivering.


    Soon enough, the boys couldn''t help but let their restlessness slip through. They began to whisper and giggle, their eyes darting around the group to make sure they weren''t caught. A hand shot out and slapped a thigh, another smacked the back of a neck, and before long, the tension around the bonfire had transformed into a game of muffled laughter and sneaky jabs.


    One of the youths, Turo, let out a yawn. The yawn was contagious and spread around the group, prompting a few of them to shift their position. Turo leaned over to one of the roots, the rainwater dripping right into his nose. Turo snorted. A fellow lad, Nox, snickered at his plight, and Turo responded with a scowl while wiping the water off his nose with the back of his hand. "How long will she take to pop the baby?" He raved in general.


    "Probably until dawn," Nox replied, doodling on a relatively dry patch of soil with a twig. "I''ve heard that sometimes delivery takes ages."


    Turo huffed a frustrated breath. "Then why don''t these oldsters let us sleep?"


    Marnoell''s gaze snapped to Turo, his expression stern. "Because this is the most important day of your life, son!" His voice boomed through the night, cutting off any further complaints. "Today, you become men. And men do not cower from their responsibilities, no matter how uncomfortable they might be."


    The boys fell silent, their eyes darting around the circle.


    Marnoell was right.


    A baby was about to be born. It wasn''t just any baby. It was the one, most awaited by every living soul of Tuscanvalle. For months, the villagers had talked about nothing but the impending birth.


    "Ahwww!" A woman howled in pain followed by the distant noise of metal tumbling and some commotion from the house nearest to the Great Banyan.


    The men straightened their backs. Their heads turned in the direction of the commotion as if they expected to see straight through the wall of trunks.


    "What''s that?"


    "Is that the baby?"


    They rumbled in anxiety, getting ready to run down to the rescue. Manroell made his way to the middle where the roots of the tree had protruded so much that it made for a nice raised platform. Once in position, he gestured the crowd to calm down. Men were forbidden to enter the place and Marnoell had a responsibility to remind his men.


    "Silence," he boomed. "Stay down." He slammed his hand onto a prop trunk that twisted like a giant, dangerous serpant. "Birth is sacred, and it is the purview of the womenfolk alone. We, men, are not to gaze upon it, or we will be forever cursed by the sight of it."


    "But Marnoell," Phyto objected, "If it truly is the baby, then wouldn''t someone have to check? You remember the prophecy, right? We don''t want to risk anything bad happening."


    Marnoell glared at him, his eyes flashing dangerously in the dim glow of the bonfire. A lightning flashed, rendering the shadowed part of his face visible. "All the more reason to stay put!" he bellowed. "Do you want to invite more trouble than what we''re already dealing with?" His voice was stern, leaving no room for debate.


    Kaius, the medic, was having none of it. He stood up, brushing off his wet cloak with an agitated hand. "Someone has to check!" he insisted, the quiver in his voice rising to match Marnoell''s authority. "If that prophecy holds water, we might need to be there to contain the situation!"


    Marnoell''s jaw tightened as he contemplated. The prophecy was clear: At the start of this winter a new life would arrive with a curse that will destroy Tuscanvalle. Yet, his niece''s baby was about to be born, and he couldn''t decide what he should do now. The rain''s intensity was increasing, turning the ground into a quagmire, and the air was charged with anticipation and fear.


    "Kaius," he said finally, his voice measured, "You''re right. We must ensure the prophecy doesn''t come true. But we can''t risk tainting our men with the curse of witnessing a woman''s sacred affair." His gaze swept over the group, and he made a decision. "Turo, Nox, you two are the quickest. Go, check on them and report back to me, but do not enter the chamber. Understood?"


    The two young men looked at each other, then nodded. They took off at a sprint, their feet sliding in the mud as they navigated the slippery roots, their cloaks slapping damply against their legs. Turo''s hand hovered near his waist, feeling the cold steel of his dagger. He had never felt such power before, such control over fate.


    The moment was almost here. The moment when he would take the fate of Tuscanvalle into his own hands. He had always felt like he was meant for something more than tilling the soil and herding cattle. Now was his chance to prove it.


    A vicious smile danced on his lips.


    When the baby finally arrived, he would be the one to slit its tender throat.

 0.03 - Turos resentment

    0.03


    The hunt was on.


    It was Turo''s first hunt¡ªor so he believed.


    First Hunt was a sacred Tuscanian custom, marking the transition from boyhood to manhood. At eighteen, a boy was expected to kill a beast worthy of his ability, fashion a trophy from its bones or teeth, and wear it as a symbol of his newfound status. Only then could he marry or ascend to leadership.


    But Turo was only fifteen.


    This hunt was not his right, nor his time. Yet it was his only chance. This hunt wasn¡¯t about tradition; it was his only chance to secure a future. If he waited for eighteen, Nox would take everything. His future as Tuscanvalle¡¯s next chief would slip away, forever out of reach.


    The reason? Marnoell.


    Turo''s father, Marnoell was Tuscanvalle¡¯s chief, a leader who upheld ancestral traditions with unwavering devotion. He was respected, wise, and just¡ªbut his life had been marked by one gnawing sorrow: years of marriage had yielded him no living child. For years, he and his wife had prayed for a child to carry on his legacy, only for their prayers to end in heartbreak¡ªstillbirth after stillbirth.


    It wasn''t just them. Across Tuscanvalle, fewer children were born with each passing year. The women of Tuscanvalle had begun to face unexplained infertility. Pregnancies ended in stillbirths, miscarriages, or the births of frail, short-lived children. Healthy births became rare, and those born alive were often sickly, with few surviving past their first fragile years.


    Perhaps the Gods were angry. Perhaps it was the doomsday, foretold by their ancestors in prophecy, was near.


    It was a time of despair.


    When Marnoell¡¯s prayers for a child went unanswered, he turned to his younger brother, Baltinone. If his own bloodline could not continue, perhaps his brother¡¯s children would inherit the mantle of leadership.


    But Baltinone¡¯s first son, Malok,, who seemed like a hopeful candidate at first turned out to be a disappointment¡ªselfish and arrogant; inherently unfit to lead. Worse, every child Baltinone¡¯s wife bore after Malok died in the womb or shortly after birth. Marnoell''s hope died once again. The tribe resigned itself to a bleak future under an unworthy leader.


    Until the miracle.


    After countless rituals and prayers, Baltinone¡¯s wife defied the odds and gave birth to a healthy son one last time. Marnoell named him Noxsol¡ª"Night Sun" or "the light in their darkness"¡ªand celebrated him as a miracle. Noxsol, or Nox, became their beacon of hope. He was everything his brother, Malok was not: kind, just, and deeply loved. Nox quickly captured the hearts of the village, his every small achievement celebrated as if it were a festival. He had the heart of a leader, and the people celebrated him like the savior he was to them. Marnoell began to see in him the perfect successor.


    Then another miracle happened.


    Three years after Nox¡¯s birth, Marnoell¡¯s wife bore a healthy child¡ªa boy named Turo. Once again, the tribe celebrated. Yet, by the time Turo arrived, Nox had already captured the hearts of Tuscanvalle.


    Nox was three years old when Marnoell''s wife conceived again. The couple were hopeless, almost believing that it wasn''t in their fate to be blessed with a child of their own and had grown content with raising Nox. But this time, Marnoell''s wife gave birth to a healthy child, Turo. The streets of Tuscanvalle lit up once again to celebrate this birth just as they did Nox''s.


    Baltinone feared that the attention might shift to Turo now that Marnoell finally had a rightful successor; that Marnoell would favour his own son more than Nox. He feared that the scales would tip in Turo''s favour leaving his son, Nox, as the nobody he was born to.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    But even though Marnoell loved Turo dearly, his faith in Nox¡¯s leadership abilities remained unshaken. He still believed that Nox would be a better suit to be declared as his successor.


    Turo, as a toddler, responded to his father''s affection towards his cousin by following Nox everywhere he went like an ardent devotee. He adored Nox for his charm and effortless charisma that held people''s heart close to him¡ªalways. He loved the way Nox held everyone''s attention so effortlessly. Nox was everything he wasn''t, yet wanted to be¡ªadmired, respected and beloved. They had played together as children and Turo had tagged along with Nox for long as he could remember. It was as if Nox''s charm was contagious, as if he had believed, even as a toddler, that the mere proximity would let him brush up some of Nox''s allure.


    But as he grew older, Turo realised something he shouldn''t have. Admiration turned to resentment as Turo began to understand the implications of Nox''s presence.


    That leadership was his birthright, not Nox''s.


    He was the Chief''s son. Yet Nox was stealing it from him¡ªthe tribe¡¯s favor, his father¡¯s pride, and his future. He''s been doing so for years and would do so without hesitation forever. After all, Nox was the one who got everything he wanted without the need to ask for it.


    Until¡­ something changed the dynamic.


    A resentment.


    That resentment festered, fed by every praise and cheer directed at Nox. Turo¡¯s attempts to emulate his cousin, to gain the people''s favor, fell short every time. No matter how hard he tried, Nox always did it better.


    Then came the oracle¡¯s prophecy and with it, a way for him to prove himself worthy.


    ¡°The child born at the start of winter will bring ruin to Tuscanvalle.¡± the oracle had said.


    The elders looked to Samora¡¯s unborn child as the harbinger of doom. Turo didn¡¯t fully understand their reasoning, but he didn¡¯t need to. The prophecy gave him just the opportunity he had been waiting for¡ªhis chance to prove himself. If he could eliminate the threat, he would not only save the tribe but cement his place as its hero. He would finally be the son Marnoell could not deny.


    The sky flashed threateningly, the rain receeding to a drizzle. Turo''s feet slid through the wet mud, navigating through the complex tangle of roots that has become sparce as he reached the edge of banyan grove. The house were Samora was labouring loomed before him. His beaver fur cloak has become heavy with wetness, making his strides shorter and slower. He could hear the shuffle of Nox''s footsteps behind him. It grated on his nerves the wrong way.


    Turo¡¯s thoughts churned bitterly. He remembered the days he had trailed after Nox, admiring his ease, believing in his goodness. Now, the memory left a bitter taste in his tongue. Nox had used him. Nox had stolen what was his by right. Turo still longed to go back to those blissful days of ignorance when he trusted Nox more than his own heart and mind. He did. But unfortunately ¡ªor perhaps fortunately¡ªthose days were gone.


    Don''t they say, you can always learn new things but never unlearn what you already know? Turo had learned of Nox''s deception and now he can''t unlearn it. And the knowledge of it was eating him alive from the inside.


    ''I trusted him,'' Turo thought. ''But all he wanted was for me to serve as his footrest. Nothing more.''


    The sound of shuffling and clattering inside the house drew them to a stop. Turo reached for the door


    "Wait." Nox stopped him with a stubborn arm over his shoulder. "We aren''t supposed to go inside. Father said¡ª"


    "I don''t care!" Turo snapped, shrugging off Nox''s hand with a scorn.


    Turo touched his waistband feeling the bulge of his fish bone dagger tucked inside. Turo would enter the chamber and plunge his dagger into the monsters chest. He knew Nox would never break Marnoell¡¯s command. His cousin clung to the rules like vines to a tree, even when they strangled him. That was Nox¡¯s flaw, Turo thought: his obedience.


    This was his chance. While Nox hesitated, he would act. He would strike.


    Will his father be angry that he entered the birth chamber against his orders? Sure. But once he gets to know how his mighty son had hunted the most feared monster in Tuscanian history while their beloved Nox had abandoned them to their fate, he would be over the moon. Marnoell might even ask him to wish for something, anything in return for this good deed. And that''s when Turo would execute his ultimate plan. He would request Marnoell to declare him, not Nox, as his heir, his successor.


    He might even request for the monster''s rib or spine bone to be preserved until he reaches eighteen and get a weapon made out of it for himself. Probably adorn his own Zarvan with pieces of its bones when he''s finally anointed one day.


    For this would be his first hunt.


    "No,¡± Nox insisted, stepping forward. ¡°You¡¯ll be cursed like the women if you enter. Don¡¯t be foolish. I¡¯ll call the midwife.¡±


    "No one can curse me,¡± Turo said coldly. ¡°Watch my back.¡±


    Without waiting for a response, he shoved the door open and stepped inside.


    Hot air packed with the smell of sweat, urine and tang of blood and something else rushed out, making him gag in disgust. Turo¡¯s heart pounded in his chest, his grip tightening on the dagger.


    He had imagined this moment countless times¡ªthe triumph, the glory, the respect he would finally earn.


    But little did he know, he was walking right into his death trap.

 0.04 - Samoras grief

    It was the most important day in the history of Tuscanvalle.


    A baby was about to be born.


    A baby destined to change everything.


    The rain had softened to a drizzle, but the sky flickered dangerously, casting fleeting shadows over the village. The Holy Tree stood majestically, its sprawling branches swaying in the storm. Beneath it, the bonfire crackled, its flames licking the damp air, as though defying the rain.


    All else was quiet. Too quiet.


    The silence wrapped itself around the village, haunting and oppressive, broken only by the muffled whimpers of a girl in labor. The noise seeped from the house closest to the Holy Tree¡ªa modest structure dimly lit on the outside but the interior was bright and clean. Multiple lotus wick lanterns hung from the ceiling, rendering the room bright as day. A palm leaf winnowing tray hung on the wall at the far side of the room.


    Inside, the air was thick with heat and a mild, sweet and nutty aroma of toasted coconut. A young girl lay on the swan-feather bedding spread at the center of the room, her face pale and glistening with sweat. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her trembling hands clutching at the fabric beneath her. Around her, three women moved¡ªor didn¡¯t.


    The midwife, Daya, weathered but deft, worked with a grim focus. She dampened a cloth made from softened plant fibers in warm water, wiping the girl¡¯s forehead and neck, then set it aside to check the baby¡¯s position. Her hands were steady, but her eyes betrayed her unease.


    ¡°It might take longer,¡± she said softly, squeezing the girl¡¯s hand in reassurance. ¡°Stay strong, Samora. You¡¯ll make it.¡±


    Samora¡¯s lips quivered, but she said nothing.


    The other two women lingered in the corners of the room. They weren¡¯t here for Samora''s comfort; they were watchers, custodians in a place where men weren''t allowed. They were tasked to serve as eyes and ears for the men; seasoned gossipers.


    One of them, a heavyset woman, leaned against the far wall, her arms crossed over her chest. Her bulk filled the small space, and her expression was one of irritation rather than concern. ¡°If this takes till dawn, I''ll end up sleeping on my feet,¡± she muttered, shifting into a more reclined position. She rolled her eyes mockingly. "Should''ve been over by now."


    The second woman, visibly pregnant herself, traced absent circles over the slight swell of her belly. She kept her distance from the bedding, as though the labor pains might be contagious. ¡°Why is it taking so long?¡± she asked, her voice sharp with impatience. "This isn''t normal, is it? Do births go on for ages or is it because of¡ª" she chocked on her words, staring at Samora''s bump in fear.


    Daya didn¡¯t look up. ¡°It¡¯s her first, dear. They¡¯re always the hardest, especially for someone her age. You remember your first, don''t you?"Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    The pregnant woman frowned, her hand faltering mid-stroke. ¡°First births are curses,¡± she muttered.


    Daya gave a humorless chuckle. ¡°A curse, indeed. But once it¡¯s over, the worst is behind her.¡± She pitched the stone bowl full of cooling water out the window, refilled it, and returned to her work. ¡°Besides,¡± she added, ¡°she¡¯s far too young.¡±


    ¡°How young is she?¡± The bulky woman¡¯s voice cut through the room, loud and grating.


    ¡°Sixteen,¡± Daya replied curtly.


    The bulky woman snorted, an ugly sound that made Samora flinch. ¡°Sixteen? I had my first at fifteen. Girls these days don''t know hardship.¡±


    ¡°At least you got to keep yours,¡± the pregnant woman snapped, her voice low but venomous.


    ¡°At least my womb didn''t curse this village,¡± the bulky woman shot back with a scorn. She gestured vaguely toward the pregnant woman¡¯s stomach. ¡°Look, some women bring life into this world. Others bring ruin. This is for the good of all of us¡ªincluding that brat of yours, if you even care about it.¡±


    The pregnant woman¡¯s hand trembled as she resumed stroking her belly, her lips pressed into a thin, defiant line.


    Samora squeezed her eyes shut, letting her tears flow unchecked. She¡¯d stopped trying to wipe them away hours ago. What was the point? Tears wouldn¡¯t soften their resolve.


    People were monsters¡ªselfish, heartless monsters who would destroy anything, anyone, that threatened their peace. Even an innocent child.


    She let out a choked sob, her body wracked with pain. Not just the pain of labor, though it was excruciating, but the pain of knowing. Knowing that the child she¡¯d carried for nine months, the child she¡¯d felt kick and stir and grow inside her, was already condemned.


    Daya leaned closer. ¡°Shush now, Samora. You¡¯re going to be okay. Everything will be fine.¡± She stroked her hair with fondness.


    Samora turned her head away from the midwife. ¡°Nothing will be fine. Not for me.¡±


    ¡ª¨C


    From the moment Thedosia, the village oracle, had declared Samora¡¯s unborn child a demon, her life had turned upside down.


    Her husband, Malok, was the first to turn on her. He¡¯d accused her of infidelity, convinced that no child of his could ever be marked as cursed. He¡¯d left her without hesitation, casting her out like refuse.


    The village followed suit.


    Samora had spent the rest of her pregnancy on the streets of Tuscanvalle, surviving on scraps and the pity of the apparantly kind-hearted. The villagers avoided her like a plague, their fear and disgust evident in their averted eyes and hurried steps whenever she was around. But they never let her stray too far.


    Her child¡¯s fate was sealed the moment Thedosia spoke. The villagers wouldn¡¯t allow her to escape. When her time came, they brought her into this house¡ªnot out of kindness, but necessity. Food, water, clean clothes, and a midwife¡ªthey provided, but to Samora, everthing reeked of condemnation. These weren¡¯t gifts. They were preparations for a sacrifice.


    Samora¡¯s only solace in those long, lonely months of pregnancy was the child itself.


    Her pregnancy, cursed though it was, felt no different from any other. She suffered the same nausea and exhaustion, the same aches and cravings. She felt the baby¡¯s kicks and flutters, each one filling her with a bittersweet joy. No part of it felt wicked or unnatural.


    If anything, it felt achingly normal.


    And that was the cruelest part of all.


    She¡¯d grown to love the child, fiercely and desperately, even as she knew it was doomed. She dreamed of its face, its laugh, its first steps. She imagined holding it, protecting it, teaching it to navigate a world that had already rejected it.


    But dreams were fragile things, easily shattered by the harshness of reality.


    The villagers called her insane when she begged for her child¡¯s life. They laughed when she argued that the oracle might be wrong. They didn¡¯t understand. They couldn¡¯t.


    How could they, when they weren¡¯t the ones who¡¯d felt the tiny heartbeat beneath their skin?

 0.05 - Conflict inside the hut

    0.05


    Birthing was like tearing off one''s arm or foot¡ªand yet, it was so much more.


    Babies weren''t individuals while they resided in a mother''s womb. They were part of the woman, sharing her body and soul. They felt what she felt, fed on what she fed on, until they took their first breath and became separate beings. That was why birth was so excruciating¡ªbecause what was once a part of her had to be torn away, leaving behind a bloody, painful mess of flesh and blood.


    At least, that was what Samora believed happened during labor.


    It wasn''t the story her traditions demanded her to follow.


    Her elders had taught her that women were sinful, born as witches¡ªbeings of evil. Men, on the other hand, were pure and strong from birth, their bodies and minds untainted. The blood a girl shed during her Monthly Mourning was a reminder of the sin at the core of her being. It was only when a man¡¯s seed cleansed her womb and she birthed the fruit of his purity that a woman could be freed from her wickedness.


    That was why men were forbidden from entering the birthing chamber. To witness a woman being "purified" would stain a man with the same evil that tainted her.


    That was the doctrine her elders had instilled in her.


    But Samora no longer believed it.


    Nor did she believe that she¡ªfighting to save her child¡ªwas evil, while her husband, Malok, who had callously abandoned his wife and offspring, was pure. There had been a time when the injustice of it had torn at her heart. She had wept, thinking of the moments of unity she had shared with him, the moments that had led to the child growing within her. But not anymore.


    She had come to accept a bitter truth.


    Her son would be better off without a heartless monster for a father.


    Her insides squeezed painfully, cutting off the breath from her lungs. Her hip bones throbbed as though they were shattering from within. She closed her eyes and focused on the faint, sporadic movements of the baby¡ªtiny feet shifting restlessly, searching for purchase before breaking free into this cruel world. A low moan escaped her throat, despite her attempts to stifle it, quickly rising into a guttural wail.


    The room seemed to close in around her. Every sound, no matter how small, grated on her nerves, stoking a furry in her chest¡ªan anger so sharp it was unlike anything she''d ever felt before. For a moment, she wondered if it was the influence of the evil growing inside her, but quickly banished the thought.


    It was her baby, even if it were a monster.


    "Deep breaths, dear," Daya murmured, gently caressing Samora¡¯s belly, as though the motion could somehow ease the storm raging inside her. "Breathe in through your mouth."


    Samora''s eyes brimmed with tears again. All this pain and suffering¡ªfor what? Nothing?


    "They could''ve killed me." She gripped Daya¡¯s palm with trembling hands, desperation leaking from her voice. "Why didn''t they kill me? Why wait for so long and then¡­" Her words caught in her throat, too jagged, too painful to force out.


    The bulky woman suddenly jerked upright, as though struck by a sudden revelation "That''s what I thought too!" She snapped. "Why keep her alive? That thing growing inside her is already poisoning the very air we breathe."


    "Tessa¡­!" Daya¡¯s voice dropped dangerously low, her glare sharp enough to cut through stone.


    The pregnant woman flinched at Tessa¡¯s words, her face pale with disbelief "You''re cruel."


    "Cruel?¡± Tessa scoffed, her lips curling into a mocking smirk. ¡°Whose side are you on, Mika? If your husband heard you talking like this¡­¡± She waited for the threat to sink in. Tessa was no longer just angry. She was desperate. Too desperate to protect her own¡ªand terrified of the repercussions.


    Mika, the pregnant woman''s eyes dated to the door in fear as though expecting it to burst open. "When did I take sides? You''re¡­ you''re impossible." She crossed her arms, resting them protectively over her bump, and turned her back on Tessa.


    Tessa shook her head with a dry chuckle, her eyes narrowing on Samora. ¡°Let me tell you why. We thought this thing would die inside you.¡±


    Daya shoved a cloth aside and turned sharply toward her. ¡°You¡¯re not helping, Tessa. Shut your mouth!¡± she barked.


    But Tessa was not one to be silenced easily. ¡°I¡¯ve lost three myself," she said, her voice flat, as though each word carried a lifetime of grief. She tilted her head with a mocking smirk. "But yours survived. There¡¯s still hope. Let¡¯s see if it comes out dead.¡±


    Mika¡¯s face contorted with disapproval, but she stayed quiet, masking her unease.


    Samora, on the other hand, stared at Tessa in disbelief, her hand instinctively covering her swollen belly as though shielding her child from Tessa¡¯s venomous gaze. ¡°How could you say that? You have children, don¡¯t you, Tessa? Think about them before¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare speak about my kids, you witch!¡± Tessa bellowed, leaping to her feet. She snatched a winnowing tray hanging from the wall and charged at Samora. ¡°I¡¯ll kill you! I¡¯ll kill you myself, do you hear me?¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Before she could reach her, Daya lunged forward, locking Tessa in a bear hug. ¡°Have you lost your mind?¡± she spat, struggling against Tessa¡¯s weight as the two teetered precariously, nearly toppling to the floor. ¡°She¡¯s in labor!¡± Daya hissed, jerking her head toward Mika. ¡°Help me, now!¡±


    Mika who was frozen in wide-eyed shock, finally scrambled to her feet. Together, they dragged Tessa away from the bedding, wrestling her into a corner of the room and pinning her down.


    ¡°Let me go!¡± Tessa screamed, thrashing against their grip. ¡°She''s asking for it! That witch!¡± She hurled the winnowing tray across the room in one last act of fury.


    The tray flew fast¡ªtoo fast. Samora, still stunned and dazed, had no chance to react. It struck her face with a sharp crack, just above her eyelids. One of the rough palm strands scratched her forehead, splitting the skin. Warm blood dripped down, stinging as it seeped into her eye.


    A fresh wave of sobs wracked Samora¡¯s fragile body. Why? Why would they want her and her child dead? She had never wronged anyone. Neither had her unborn baby. So why this cruel fate? Her tear-filled eyes darted to the chaotic scene before her¡ªthe two women struggling to restrain Tessa¡¯s blazing fury. These people were her kin, the ones she had grown up among. Had they always been like this? So cruel, so heartless?


    "Look, Tessa, get a grip on yourself," Daya snapped with authority. "You¡¯re here to watch, nothing more. I¡¯ve got work to do. If you interrupt me like this again¡ª" She cut herself off, her gaze sliding to Mika instead. "Never mind. Mika, go tell the men what''s happening here. Let¡¯s see if they¡¯re inclined to grant Tessa''s wishes."


    Tessa¡¯s wild struggles ceased abruptly. Fear flickered across her face.


    "Right!" Daya sneered, her lips curling in triumph. "That¡¯s what I thought." She gestured pointedly at Tessa¡¯s trembling hands. "You know they won¡¯t touch Samora. It¡¯s only the baby they¡¯re after."


    Daya turned, as if dismissing the matter entirely, but paused mid-step. She glanced back with narrowed eyes. "Oh, and I trust you haven¡¯t forgotten who you¡¯re talking about." She let the meaning of her words settle in Tessa''s. "Samora is the Chief¡¯s niece. Remember that."


    Tessa fell silent, though defiance still lingered in the hard set of her jaw. Mika sat huddled against the far wall, as far from Tessa as the cramped room would allow. Daya quietly resumed her work, wringing out the damp cloth in the stone basin. She wiped Samora¡¯s trembling body, the motions steady and detached as if she could block out the grief that radiated from the woman beneath her hands.


    Samora¡¯s shivers grew more profound with each muffled sob that escaped her lips. Only the occasional splatter of water and Samora¡¯s whimpers punctuated the haunting silence.


    When Daya finished, Samora reached out, her trembling fingers clutching at Daya¡¯s hand like it was her last lifeline. Her tear-filled eyes bore into Daya¡¯s with raw desperation. "Don¡¯t do this, Daya," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "You¡¯ve helped so many lives come into this world. Don¡¯t let them take mine."


    Daya hesitated, guilt flickering in her gaze. But she gently pulled her hand away with an apologetic grimace. "It¡¯s not in my hands, dear. I¡¯m sorry, but I can¡¯t help you."


    "No!" Samora gasped, catching Daya¡¯s wrist again before it slipped away. Her nails dug into the older woman¡¯s skin as though her grip alone could save her. "You¡¯re a mother too. Don¡¯t you know my pain? Please, Daya. Please don¡¯t do this."


    Daya¡¯s resolve softened for a briefest moment before she shook her head with regret. "This isn¡¯t about me, Samora. You heard Theodosia¡¯s words." Her voice wavered slightly as she uttered the oracle¡¯s name. "It¡¯s one life, or a hundred."


    "But it¡¯s my baby!" Samora wailed, her hands cradling her swollen belly as if shielding her child from their judgment. Her sobs came harder now, her words frantic and barely coherent. "He won¡¯t hurt a fly, Daya, I swear it. I¡¯ll raise him right. Ain¡¯t I his mother? He¡¯ll listen to me! I¡¯ll make sure of it. Please¡­ please let him live!"


    Daya stayed silent, her eyes welling up as she took in Samora¡¯s anguish. What mother would willingly give up her child to be sacrificed? Forget the village. Even if the world itself were crumbling, a mother would always, always choose her child over everything else. Daya understood what Samora was feeling.


    Yet understanding someone''s suffering didn¡¯t mean you could fix it.


    Some things were simply unfixable.


    And this? There was no saving Samora¡¯s child.


    Samora¡¯s gaze flitted aimlessly to the walls, her eyes unfocused, as though she were losing herself to despair. ¡°They¡¯ll be here any moment now,¡± she whispered to herself. ¡°They¡¯ll take my baby, and then¡­¡± Her words dissolved into sobs, racking her fragile body. She turned to Daya again, her hand reaching out, grasping the midwife¡¯s palm with desperate strength.


    ¡°Let us go, Daya.¡± Her voice was raw and pleading. ¡°I¡¯ll take my baby beyond Lavalthon. I¡¯ll never come back. I swear¡ªhe¡¯ll never even know this place exists. Please, help me. Let us leave.¡±


    Daya flinched as though Samora¡¯s touch had burned her. She yanked her hand away and stumbled back, her breath hitching. Her heart raced with fear¡ªnot of Samora, but of her request. She glanced nervously towards the door.


    Beyond Lavalthon? No one dared speak of that place, much less enter it.


    Mika gasped audibly, her hands flying to her mouth in horror.


    Lavalthon?¡± Tessa¡¯s voice cut through the tension. Her massive body staggered upright, her breaths still laboured from their earlier struggle. Fear flashed in her eyes, but it quickly morphed into anger. ¡°Are you mad?¡± she snapped. ¡°Beyond Lavalthon? That place is cursed. You¡¯ve already brought enough ruin to us, Samora! And now you want to drag us into even greater disaster? How selfish can you be?"


    Samora didn¡¯t flinch. She turned her gaze to Mika instead, her voice quieter now, but still brimming with urgency. The contraction had ebbed, giving her a moment¡¯s reprieve. ¡°Mika¡­¡± she began. ¡°You don¡¯t want to see an innocent child die, do you?¡±


    Mika froze, her eyes darting to the floor as her hands instinctively shielded her own swollen belly.


    "You don¡¯t want to hear his cries haunt your dreams. You don¡¯t want to remember his tiny, lifeless body¡­" Samora''s voice broke, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Please, think of me. How will I live without my baby? How could you live, knowing you didn¡¯t stop it when you could have?"


    Mika¡¯s lips parted, but no words came.


    Tessa scoffed, shaking her head. ¡°Don¡¯t listen to her,¡± she spat, getting agitated by the minute. ¡°She¡¯s trying to drag you into her madness. Think of your baby, Mika. Think of your family! Helping her would make you her accomplice, a traitor¡ªand you know what the punishment for that is.¡±


    Samora leaned forward, pressing her hands together in a gesture of surrender and prayer. Her forehead touched her clasped hands as her sobs wracked her body. "Please¡­ please help us leave. I¡¯ll do anything. Just don¡¯t let them take him. Please, Mika. Please."


    Mika¡¯s gaze darted to Daya, then to Tessa, before returning to Samora.


    In that moment, no one could truly understand the disaster Samora¡¯s choice might bring to their tribe. But they could feel it, a growing unease in their chests, a sense that something worse was just waiting to happen. The danger wasn¡¯t a matter of if, but when¡ªwhen Samora stepped into the forbidden lands, destruction would follow.

 0.06 - The deadly decision

    0.06


    What can be more tragic than giving birth to a child, knowing it was doomed to die?


    That was why Samora had a plan¡ªa desperate, fragile plan to escape these monsters before they could lay a hand on her baby.


    Tuskenvalle was a village cloistered by the Mavrielle Mountains, their crescent-shaped peaks stretching from the east to the south, beyond the vast expanse of Lavalthon Lake. The village¡¯s farmlands and cremation grounds lay to the west, an open stretch offering no cover for someone trying to flee. The northern boundary was dense with miles of wild, overgrown thickets, only passable if one dared navigate the maze of The Great Banyan.


    Samora knew the conventional northern trail would offer little chance of survival, what with the men guarding it day and night. The farmlands and cremation grounds to the west would leave her exposed. The men would find her eventually. So, in the final months of her pregnancy, she came up with a plan. She would escape south while the men watched the north, and cross the Mavrielle Mountains. Even if she couldn¡¯t make it beyond them, she would reach the other side of the forbidden territory, where these monsters would never dare follow. There, she could live with her child¡ªhappily, far from their reach.


    It was a distant hope, a risk she had no choice but to take. But it was better than staying here, waiting to die.


    But the plan wasn¡¯t foolproof. A huge obstacle loomed before her¡ªthe delivery itself. How do you give birth to a child? Is the process instinctive? Is there a technique to learn beforehand? Is there a skill involved? How would she care for the baby once it was born?


    In the months of her pregnancy, spent living on the streets, Samora visited the homes where women gave birth. She stood near doors or windows, peeking through cracks in the walls to observe how birth took place. She did this each time, until someone caught her spying and chased her off, accusing her of casting an evil eye on newborns. The first time she saw a live birth, she was shaken for days, knowing that the same agony awaited her. But then she realized: if she wanted to ensure her baby survived all she had endured, she couldn¡¯t allow the fear of labor to overwhelm her.


    And so, she kept watching, learning and memorizing every detail of the delivery process, even if it meant being sneaky around the birthing houses.


    Still, she wasn¡¯t sure she could handle it alone. As her due date approached, the thought of making a mistake, of something going horribly wrong, gnawed at her. What if all this¡ªher suffering, her sacrifice¡ªwas for nothing? What if she failed her baby in the worst possible way? What if it didn''t survive? The fear of losing everything she¡¯d fought for threatened to consume her, paralyzing her. No. She couldn¡¯t let that happen. And so, there was no other choice but to rely on Tuscanvalle¡¯s midwife, Daya, for the birth¡ªand somehow, somehow, escape with the baby afterward.


    It seemed like the perfect plan, but also a gamble. What if she couldn¡¯t escape at the last moment, just before they got hold of her baby? What if she was too weak to carry out her plan on her own?


    It was something she should have considered more carefully. It had never fully dawned on Samora until it was too late¡ªuntil she was already halfway through the labor. The magnitude of the risk had been buried beneath the haze of fear and instinct. She had never thought it through clearly, never realized just how fragile her plan truly was. And now¡­ now it was too late to turn back.


    She knew it would be painful. But this excruciating?


    As much as she thought she was ready to handle the moment, nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. By the time Daya removed the cloth sash tied around her breast, allowing her to breathe freely through the contractions and started cleaning the blood between her thighs with warm water, Samora already knew she needed someone¡¯s help to escape this hellish place.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    But with everything happening inside and around her, it hit her: she had made the gravest mistake of all. She shouldn¡¯t have said a word about fleeing beyond Lavalthon Lake.


    Everyone in the room was bound by terror.


    Samora had pressed her hands together in a gesture of surrender and prayer, her forehead touching her clasped hands as sobs wracked her body. "Please¡­ please help us leave. I¡¯ll do anything. Just don¡¯t let them take him. Please, Mika. Please."


    Desperation clawed at Samora¡¯s chest. She had to save her child, no matter the cost. The fear of failure loomed over her, sharp and suffocating. Could she do it? Could she really pull this off after all she had endured? She couldn¡¯t afford to think of what might happen if she failed, not now. But the thought of losing the only thing that mattered¡­ that terror was worse than death. She had already wasted precious time, paralyzed by fear and hesitation when she should have fled long ago. This was her final chance. If she didn''t act now, she never would.


    Daya quickly composed herself, stepping across the threshold and gently caressing Samora''s head with unexpected tenderness. "Look at me, Samora. I can only imagine the pain you''re going through. You''re a mother. A good one. That''s why you''re so fierce and desperate to protect him." She placed her hand on Samora¡¯s swollen belly. The baby shifted inside, its tiny feet moving beneath her touch as if it could recognize her presence. Daya recoiled, her hand jerking back as though burned. "But trust me¡ªyou don¡¯t want this child."


    Samora jerked away, her body trembling, eyes wide with disbelief, as though she couldn¡¯t quite grasp the reality of what Daya was saying. She felt utterly alone in that moment, trapped between fear and the overwhelming consequences of the decision she had to make. Everyone she had once trusted had turned against her. No one else could help her. It was only her, with the child growing inside her, and the unbearable thought of losing it all.


    "He¡¯s not a baby," Daya continued, her voice cold and steady. "He¡¯s evil. Look at what he¡¯s making you do, what he¡¯s pushing you toward, just to survive. This desperate need to protect him at any cost, at everyone¡¯s expense? That¡¯s not love, Samora. It¡¯s the evil inside you manipulating your instincts. You¡¯ll understand once it¡¯s out of you. You''re nothing more than a host to it. If it can turn you into this¡­ imagine what it¡¯ll do to everyone else. It''s good you told us, before you did something foolish on your own."


    Samora¡¯s jaw went slack, her heart sinking. "Host? I¡¯m a mother."


    "No. You''re not." Daya chided, her voice sharp, like a mother warning her daughter to stay away from something dangerous. She pulled back, distancing herself from Samora. "Not yet. That¡¯s not a baby, Samora." Her teeth clenched as she pointed at Samora¡¯s swollen belly. "It¡¯s a monster."


    She softened, wiping Samora¡¯s tears away, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ears. "Look, you¡¯ll have more children. Okay?" She spoke with a strange kind of calm, as if trying to soothe a hurt that went deeper than Samora¡¯s body. "As many as you want. Don¡¯t think it¡¯s impossible just because your husband left you. He¡¯ll come around. We¡¯ll make him see reason. Do you think we¡¯d abandon you like that? No. You¡¯re like a daughter to me. You were born here. You grew up before our eyes. We won¡¯t let anyone or anything hurt you. Once this is over, you¡¯ll give this¡­ this thing¡­ to the men, like a good girl, and you can start your life again. Do you hear me?"


    She hesitated, biting her lip before continuing, her eyes hardening. "Let them decide the fate of this¡­ this¡­ Nevermind. Promise me you¡¯ll never think of doing something as foolish as this again. Will you? Not even for a second. Everything you said here stays between us. Understand?" She glanced at Tessa and Mika, making sure they got the message.


    Tessa had already slouched against the wall, looking uninterested, her eyelids heavy with sleep. The long conversation and monotonous advice had lulled her into a sleepy indifference; she couldn¡¯t care less about Samora or the baby.


    Mika, on the other hand, was wide-eyed, her gaze darting between Samora and Daya, as if struggling to keep up with the tension. She nodded earnestly, making it clear she understood the intensity of Daya¡¯s words.


    Daya turned back to Samora, grabbing her hand and pressing it with urgency. "You won¡¯t tell anyone what you just said. Not today. Not ever. Promise?" Her pleading gaze was almost unbearable


    The room seemed to hold its breath. Tessa had already drifted back to sleep, the energy from earlier completely drained from her. A soft snore broke the silence. Mika and Daya waited, their eyes on Samora, waiting for her response. Samora remained silent, her gaze fixed on Daya, as if searching for something¡ªanything¡ªthrough her eyes.


    Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Samora nodded. It was slow, hesitant, but it was a nod nonetheless. The tears that had once threatened to fall now dried on her cheeks, absorbed by the stiffling heat of the room.


    For a moment, she thought there was no hope left¡ªfor her or her baby. But only for a moment.

 0.07 - Breath Of Freedom

    <b>0.07</b>


    Sometimes, when all else fails, persistence is the only choice left.


    Samora had relied on her husband, only to be discarded like trash. She had trusted her intellect to guide her to safety, but fear and reluctance had paralyzed her. When she turned to her kin for help, what did they do? They manipulated her into believing she carried a monster. They convinced her that her love for her child¡ªthe one thing anchoring her sanity¡ªwas nothing more than the influence of evil.


    Good God! She had even given in, if only for a moment. She had agreed to hand over her beloved child, the single, precious life that gave hers meaning.


    The lanterns hanging from the ceiling flickered, their dim glow smearing soot onto the walls and ceiling, a sign they had used up nearly all their oil. Daya moved methodically, her movements precise as she refilled each lantern with coconut oil. She adjusted the burnt wicks, pulling them out just enough for the flames to burn steady, reducing the smoke. One by one, the room grew brighter, but to Samora, the air only grew heavier.


    From the corner of her eye, Samora watched Daya. She refused to meet her gaze. The moment she had realized the extent of their manipulation, the way they were twisting her love into something vile, she had shut her mouth. Every word she spoke was a weapon in their hands¡ªa tool to tighten their grip on her, to control her, to subdue her, to strip her of her child with her own compliance.


    How low could they stoop? How cruel could they be?


    What had Daya said?


    They would talk sense into her husband, convince him to take her back? Who would want to crawl back to a man who had heartlessly discarded her the moment she and her unborn child no longer served his ambitions to rule Tuscanvalle? The very thought of being his footrest again¡ªof bearing more children for him¡ªfilled her with revulsion. Would he even be a good father to them if she did? He hadn¡¯t hesitated to offer their firstborn as a sacrificial lamb to appease the village¡¯s fears.


    But Samora dared not voice these thoughts aloud. She knew they would never be tolerated. Even now, despite everything he had done to her and everything she was enduring, guilt twisted her heart whenever she let herself think ill of him. It was insidious, creeping into her conscience like a shadow. Was it the baby, like Daya claimed, putting these ¡°sinful¡± thoughts in her mind? She didn¡¯t know, and she didn¡¯t care. She only knew that if she blocked out any memory of him¡ªhis voice, his face, the false promises he¡¯d made before everything chaged for the worst¡ªthe guilt would retreat, leaving her with a clarity she would need to get her baby to safety.


    Another contraction surged through her body. It was like a tide building in strength, a steady rhythm Samora was beginning to recognize. The pain came slowly at first, light and bearable, then grew in intensity, as if mimicking the rise of Lavalthon Lake during the rainy season.


    Day by day, the water would climb, inching toward its banks, until it seemed ready to spill over in a devastating flood¡ªonly to recede when the rains finally ended. Except in recent years, Lavalthon hadn¡¯t receded. Each year, it had broken its banks, spilling into their farmlands, forcing its way into their homes. Samora remembered Mika¡¯s father-in-law, Phyto, grumbling endlessly about the rising waters. ¡°This time,¡± he¡¯d said, ¡°it¡¯ll take everything. Even the houses. Even us.¡±


    Samora couldn¡¯t help but wonder: would the pain of childbirth be the same? Would it reach a point where it overwhelmed her entirely, where there was no reprieve, no break between one contraction and the next? She didn¡¯t know¡ªthis was her first time¡ªbut she had come to understand far more than anyone had ever taught her.


    If her prediction was right, she needed to get as far away from Tuscanvalle as possible before the contractions became relentless, leaving her no room to move, let alone escape. She had realized one critical truth: the baby was only safe as long as it remained inside her. Once it was born, she would lose control of everything. After that¡­ she couldn¡¯t let herself imagine the horrors that would follow.Stolen story; please report.


    Samora glanced around. The lantern flickered brightly, its flame dancing, casting long, wavering shadows across the room. The bulky woman and the younger pregnant one had begun to drift into an uncomfortable slumber, their heads bobbing as their breathing deepened.


    But the midwife was still awake.


    Samora¡¯s gaze fell on the bowl of warm water nearby. It was hewn from solid stone, its edges smoothed from years of use. One decisive blow to the head with that could knock the midwife unconscious¡ªor worse. The thought chilled her, but desperation left her no choice.


    She waited for the current surge of pain to subside, clutching the edges of her bedding as the contraction passed. Her breathing steadied, but she noticed something troubling: the intervals between the waves of pain were shrinking. Each respite was shorter than the last. If she didn¡¯t act soon, her body would betray her, leaving her powerless to escape.


    She had to reach the other side of Lavalthon Lake before it was too late. There, she would find a place¡ªany place¡ªto bring her son into the world. It would be dangerous, yes, but it would always be better than staying here.


    Samora turned to the midwife, her voice feeble. "Help me sit, will you?"


    Daya helped Samora shift into a more comfortable sitting position. The movement triggered an intense contraction, sending sharp waves of pain shooting into her spine. She gasped, her hands clutching at the fabric beneath her. It felt as if there was a heavy pressure¡ªa ball of something, likely the baby¡¯s head¡ªbearing down in her pelvic area. Or was she imagining it?


    Wait, she pleaded silently, her thoughts aimed at the child as if it could somehow hear her. Wait, baby. Wait for Mommy to find a safe place for you.


    Samora squeezed her eyes shut, breathing heavily through her mouth as she rode out the agony. She felt Daya¡¯s hand on her back, stroking in soothing circles. The touch was meant to comfort, but it only fueled her resolve. When the contraction finally passed, she opened her eyes, steeling herself for what she was about to do.


    "Water," Samora whispered, hoarse and breathless from the strain. "I need water."


    Daya nodded with concern. She rose quickly, shuffling to the interior room to fetch a cup.


    The moment Daya was out of sight, Samora seized the stone bowl from beside the bedding. Her hands trembled from exhaustion, but she tightened her grip, moving to hide behind the wall. Her heart pounded in her chest as she waited, the sound loud enough to drown her thoughts.


    When Daya returned, Samora acted without hesitation. Summoning every ounce of strength, she heaved the heavy bowl above her head and brought it crashing down on the midwife¡¯s skull.


    The sickening crunch of bone echoed through the small room, and blood splattered in every direction. Daya staggered, her eyes wide with shock, before collapsing to the ground with a guttural howl.


    For the first time, Samora¡¯s earlier mistake¡ªagreeing to give up her child¡ªworked in her favor. Daya hadn¡¯t expected this. Not from the woman who had seemed so compliant, so broken.


    The commotion jolted the other two women awake. Their groggy confusion gave Samora just enough time to dart into the interior room, her bare feet slapping against the cold floor as she disappeared from sight.


    Thankfully, it was Chief Marnoell¡¯s house. Samora had grown up here, spending countless hours exploring its corridors and rooms as a child. She knew every creak of the floorboards, every hidden corner, every path to the outside. Her instincts guided her quickly to the back door.


    The freezing night air hit her like a wall, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. It carried the sharp scent of rain, mingled with something sweeter¡ªfreedom.


    But there was no time to savor it. Already, another contraction began to build, tightening like a vise around her lower abdomen. Samora clenched her teeth against the pain. She had to reach the banks of Lavalthon before the contractions grew so relentless that her body betrayed her. If she faltered now, it would all be over.


    Relief tempted her, teasing the edges of her thoughts. But she shoved it aside. Not yet. Not until you¡¯re far enough away. There were still too many steps between her and true freedom.


    She had barely taken a few strides into the cold night when a voice cut through the silence behind her.


    ¡°What the¡­?¡±


    It was a boy¡¯s voice¡ªsharp, alarmed, and filled with confusion.


    Samora froze, her breath catching in her throat. She turned her head just enough to see the movement out of the corner of her eye. Turo.


    The chief¡¯s son stood in the doorway, his face twisted with fury. His eyes, blazing with wrath, locked onto hers. In his hand, the gleam of a white dagger flashed like lightning in the gloom.


    Before she could react, he lunged at her like a predator.

 0.08 - Unpleasant Surprises

    0.08


    Life has a peculiar way of throwing surprises when one least expects them.


    For Turo, it came as resistance from the most unlikely source. He had braced himself for reluctance from his father, Marnoell, who might hesitate to name him the next chief. He had even braced himself for Nox¡¯s fury¡ªthe outrage of being outmaneuvered in a way he could never have foreseen. But that was supposed to happen after Turo had slain Samora¡¯s monster. By then, with the beast''s bones as proof of his triumph, Turo would force his father and the village to see reason. They¡¯d see the justice in his actions and the naivety of placing their faith in Nox.


    What he hadn¡¯t expected¡ªwhat he could never have imagined¡ªwas that Samora would flee in the eleventh hour.


    The women inside the house were huddled in shock when Turo burst through the doorway. His eyes darted around, catching sight of Daya slumped on the floor, her forehead drenched in blood. The sharp, metallic smell of it stung his nostrils. The stone bowl, smeared with crimson, rolled lazily on its side, spinning on the cold, hard floor. The cot where Samora should have been lay empty, the bedding crumpled and damp with sweat and blood.


    Turo didn¡¯t need more than a second to piece it together.


    What else?


    His one hope in life was slipping away, running out the back door, forever beyond his reach.


    Turo''s fist clenched at the sight of the two women still sitting on the floor, dazed, their heavy eyelids betraying the drowsiness that clung to them. His disgust flared. He wanted to spit on their faces. Useless. Helpless. These women.


    He remembered the one time his father had spoken of women as sinful creatures, unlike men. Weak. Defenseless. Lacking the intellect that men possessed. They suffered physically, their pain a god-given punishment for their inherent sinfulness. In that moment, Turo had found himself agreeing. These women¡ªsinful creatures¡ªhad failed at the one job they were assigned. And now, they were putting his bright future in jeopardy, ruining everything he had worked for. How much had they cost the tribe? Resources, time, energy¡ªall squandered for what? This! Even the cattle they tended were more useful than these women.


    "Foolish woman,¡± he spat.


    His hand tightened around the hilt of the white dagger at his side. The firelight gleamed on its polished surface, casting thin streaks of light across the room. His eyes flicked to Daya, who groaned weakly, her body slumping further onto the floor. The other women huddled together, their faces pale and their eyes wide, too afraid to speak.


    ¡°Where did she go?¡± Turo demanded.


    The women exchanged glances, but none dared to answer. Daya stirred slightly, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came out.


    Turo¡¯s patience was thin. He stepped closer, looming over her. ¡°Where?¡± he barked.


    Daya¡¯s trembling hand rose feebly, gesturing toward the back door. Her eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, locking onto his. She whispered something inaudible, her voice too faint to carry.


    Turo didn¡¯t hesitate. He turned sharply on his heel, striding toward the door Daya had indicated. This was his house, after all. If Samora was familiar with it, then he knew it even better¡ªlike the back of his hand.


    The night air slapped him as he stepped outside, cold and damp. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring at the pungent stench of cow dung from the manure pit in the backyard, clogged with rainwater. His eyes locked on a figure shuffling awkwardly past the cow shed¡ªa woman, her stomach swollen with the load she carried.


    A trail of bloody footprints mingled with the wet mud in her path.


    ¡°What the¡­¡± he muttered, momentarily stunned by the sight. Was she bleeding? How could she walk in that condition? Women weren¡¯t supposed to be that strong.


    The women inside had crumbled from exhaustion and a mere blow to the head. Yet here was Samora, striding through the rain as if pain and injury were trivial, everyday occurrences. It didn¡¯t make sense. Could the monster inside her be giving her this unnatural strength?


    These thoughts flashed through Turo¡¯s mind in a split second, but they didn¡¯t matter. Why would they? Why should they? Samora¡¯s child was doomed to die anyway. This was simply an opportunity¡ªhis opportunity¡ªto deliver justice. To prove himself.


    As he watched, Samora turned slightly, just enough to glance over her shoulder and spot him. Her pace quickened.


    But Turo was a teenager, his long, slender limbs built for speed. The wind seemed to carry him forward effortlessly. Samora, on the other hand, was a pregnant woman carrying the weight of two lives, teetering on the brink of labor.


    It didn¡¯t take much. Turo closed the gap in a few swift strides. His hand shot out, gripping her shoulder tightly. With a sharp tug, he spun her around to face him.


    Samora spun around in surprise, her eyes wide with shock and fear. Her back collided with the fence of the neighboring house''s cattle shed, and she flinched in pain. Instinctively, her hands moved to cradle her belly protectively.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Turo¡¯s gaze flicked between her trembling hands and her face, contorted with pain. Why? Why would she do this to herself? Why not simply hand over the child and rest safely in his house as planned? Why push herself like this, through such suffering, when it wasn¡¯t in her nature¡ªor her place¡ªto endure? Persistence. Strength. Those were traits meant for men, not women.


    For a fleeting moment, a pang of pity struck him. She was his cousin, after all. They had played together as children, back when life was simpler, their bonds untarnished by duty and ambition.


    Her face, streaked with dirt and tears, was speckled with droplets of Daya''s blood. How could a woman summon the courage to attack her captors? How could she be so brave, so cunning? Samora defied every belief he held about her kind. She was everything the women inside his house weren¡¯t¡ªstrong, determined, and relentless.


    If her defiance didn¡¯t threaten his future, he might have admired her bravery. Perhaps even respected her. But admiration had no place here, not when her actions jeopardized everything he was meant to become. His grip tightened on the dagger, and he shifted into a defensive stance.


    ¡°Are you out of your mind?¡± he barked. ¡°Where do you think you can go?¡±


    Samora sniffled, tears streaking down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, her other hand gripping the fence behind her as though it were her last anchor.


    ¡°Anywhere but here,¡± she said feebly.


    Turo sighed, shaking his head slowly as her words lingered in the air. ¡°And where would that be? No matter where you go, we¡¯ll find you.¡± His voice softened as he added, ¡°Look, just come back inside.¡±


    He slid the dagger back into its sheath, his gesture deliberate, meant to reassure. ¡°Just get in and give me the baby. No one wants to hurt you. It¡¯s only the child. You don¡¯t have to be afraid.¡± He extended his hand toward her and took a cautious step forward.


    But Samora tensed, her wide eyes flickering with panic. ¡°Stay put!¡± she commanded, sharp and resolute, as though scolding a younger sibling. Turo froze, caught off guard by her authority.


    ¡°I thought you¡¯d understand,¡± she said, her voice trembling. ¡°But you too, Turo? He¡¯s your nephew.¡± She stroked her belly tenderly, her hand moving with a protective instinct, her words laced with both love and anguish.


    Turo hesitated. ¡°I know, Samora,¡± he admitted quietly. ¡°I would love nothing more than to hold him in my arms, to keep him on my lap and play with him all day.¡± His eyes glimmered momentarily with the warmth of that imagined reality. But then his expression darkened, and his voice hardened with desperation. ¡°But I have to. I don¡¯t have a choice.¡±


    Samora¡¯s gaze softened, a fleeting tenderness in her eyes. She could see the conflict tearing through him, and for a moment, she imagined the joy her child might have brought to her cousin. But that moment was one she could not let him have¡ªnot now, not like this.


    ¡°I know, Turo,¡± she murmured with resignation. ¡°They wouldn¡¯t forgive you if they thought you were on my side.¡± She wiped away a tear, mingled with the rain still trickling down her face.


    The storm had faded to a light drizzle.


    Turo mulled over her words for a moment. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ the thing, you know. I¡¯ve found a way to please them, to get what¡¯s rightfully mine.¡± He placed a hand on his chest, his gaze lingering on Samora¡¯s swollen belly. Samora, visibly shivering¡ªwhether from the cold or something else, Turo couldn¡¯t be sure¡ªwatched him in silence.


    ¡°Nox has been deceiving them all,¡± Turo continued bitterly. ¡°He¡¯s been gathering their favor, setting himself up to take my place¡ªmy rightful place¡ªas my father¡¯s successor.¡±


    Samora winced as she took a step forward, biting back the pain that flared up inside her. She reached out and gently cupped his cheek, her touch filled with concern. ¡°Why are you talking like this?¡± she asked, her voice trembling slightly. ¡°Who put these thoughts in your head? Who told you that Nox has been using you, using everyone else?¡±


    Turo leaned into her touch, feeling the warmth and affection radiating from her skin, his heart momentarily easing in her presence.


    ¡°Who?¡± Samora repeated, urgency creeping into her voice. She didn¡¯t have much time. She had to get away¡ªfar away¡ªfrom here.


    Turo blinked, his mind briefly traveling back to a long-forgotten conversation. ¡°Your husband did.¡±


    Samora¡¯s eyes widened in disbelief and horror. ¡°And you believed him?¡±


    Turo nodded innocently, his gaze unwavering. ¡°He¡¯s your husband. My cousin.¡±


    ¡°So is Nox,¡± Samora retorted, her voice rising with frustration. ¡°Turo, everyone knows about my husband. How could you possibly trust him over Nox?¡± She grabbed him by the shoulders, her tone urgent. ¡°Look, forget whatever he told you. He doesn¡¯t have your best interests at heart. He doesn¡¯t care about anyone but himself.¡±


    Turo¡¯s mouth fell open in disbelief. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be talking bad about your husband, right? Isn¡¯t that a sin?¡±


    Samora¡¯s words became more frantic, her urgency escalating. ¡°I don¡¯t have much time. I need to leave. But don¡¯t trust my husband. He¡¯s not good for you.¡± She took a few steps back, her hand resting protectively on her belly. ¡°Stick with Nox. Trust your father, and stick with Nox. Stay as far away from my husband.¡±


    But Turo, still fixated on his own goal, focused on something else entirely. ¡°Wait. You can¡¯t leave. What about me?¡±


    Samora¡¯s brows furrowed in confusion, her features etched with worry. ¡°What about you?¡± By now, the tightening sensation in her lower abdomen had grown stronger, and she wasn¡¯t sure if she could even make it to Lavalthon before it was too late.


    Turo¡¯s voice grew desperate. ¡°I need the baby. I need to hunt that monster to prove I¡¯m worthy of the title.¡±


    Samora staggered backward, the pain intensifying with every movement. ¡°You¡¯re here to kill my baby because you¡¯re power-hungry,¡± she spat defiantly.


    ¡°Samora, listen. Your baby, my nephew, he¡¯s doomed to die either way. Let him serve a greater purpose before he does.¡± Turo unsheathed the dagger, its cold gleam catching the dim light.


    Samora staggered further back, her breath coming in shallow gasps. ¡°No,¡± she mouthed, but no sound escaped her lips.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to hurt you. But that baby is my last hope,¡± Turo pleaded, his voice growing more desperate. ¡°Don¡¯t ruin my life, Samora. Get inside.¡± He gestured toward the house, his tone a warning.


    Ignoring the tightening pain in her lower abdomen, which was growing more intense with every passing moment, Samora turned on her heel and began to walk away.


    ¡°Stop!¡± Turo shouted from behind. But Samora was already moving, faster than he expected.


    With two long strides, Turo reached her again and spun her around to face him. Samora struggled in his grip, fear flashing in her eyes. Suddenly, something hot and wet dripped between them. Samora glanced down in horror to find the dagger buried deep in her belly, blood dripping from the gaping wound. Her eyes widened, panic and disbelief seizing her.


    Turo¡¯s face paled in shock. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to hurt you. It¡¯s just the baby,¡± he stuttered, his voice trembling with regret.


    Summoning every ounce of strength she had left, Samora shoved Turo with all her might. He flew backward, over the fence of the neighboring house, and landed with a wet splash into the manure pit.


    Samora staggered away into the night, clutching her bleeding abdomen, the dagger still lodged deep inside her.

 O.09 - Just Keep Walking, Just Keep Crawling!

    0.09


    Taking life had never seemed as difficult as giving birth.


    Yet the men of her tribe always boasted of their hunting prowess, parading their scars as symbols of their strength. They claimed to endure the worst of pain, while calling women the weaker, sinful ones¡ªdependent on their protection, their grace, just to survive. But how? How could someone who endures so much pain and still lives be considered weak? How could the power to create life be deemed sinful?


    Samora had often watched the men return from their hunts, proudly displaying the cuts and bruises they earned. They made their wounds sound like badges of honor, testaments to their endurance. Their muscles would glisten with sweat and blood, moving with a purpose she and the other women admired in secret. To her, they had always seemed invincible, their strength unattainable. Like everyone else in Tuscanvalle, she had believed that if she were in their place, she would surely perish from the pain.


    But today, everything was different.


    When Turo plunged the dagger into her belly, the sensation barely registered. It wasn¡¯t the blade that consumed her attention, but the crushing, unrelenting pressure deep inside her¡ªlike her hip bones were being forced apart, shattered from within. Compared to that, the sting of the dagger seemed almost trivial. Only when warm blood began to drip onto her feet, pooling around her toes, did she even notice the wound.


    Even now, as she crouched in the shadow of a house, leaning against its wooden walls to ride out the contraction, the sting of the dagger barely registered. Instead, all she could think about was the baby. Had the blade hurt her child? The ache in her heart was far heavier than anything else she had ever felt. She needed to do something¡ªanything¡ªto ensure her baby was alive and healthy. But how? Until the baby was out of her broken, bleeding body, there was no way to know. For that to happen, she had to make it to the other bank of the Lavalthon.


    As the contraction ebbed, another pain took its place. Slowly, yet persistently, the sting of the dagger began to gnaw at her awareness. It was an unwelcome, foreign thing¡ªlike a sharp stick embedded deep in her flesh, moving with every slight shift of her body. Or maybe it didn¡¯t move at all; perhaps her mind conjured the sensation. The blood around the wound was drying in tacky streaks, but the gash was too deep to fully clot. Fresh blood seeped out in fits and starts, slicking her palms as she pressed them against the wound.


    She closed her eyes, trying to will herself to forgive Turo. He was naive, a boy shaped by the evil of her husband. But the silence within her womb made forgiveness feel impossible.


    Her lips trembled, caught between pain, fear, cold, and anger. Anger. At who? Her husband? Turo? The people who stood by? Herself? She couldn¡¯t say. But one thing was clear: she was stronger. Stronger than they had ever made her believe. Stronger than she had thought herself to be. Stronger than she had ever been. She wasn¡¯t dead yet, was she?


    Despite everything¡ªdespite the blood, the blade, and the agony ripping through her¡ªshe tried to stand. Her legs wobbled, and her breath came out in a pained gasp. Still, she rose, tears spilling freely down her cheeks.


    Screaming might give her a tiny relief. But it would also give her hiding place away. She could her Nox''s voice calling for Turo, his footsteps slapping against the wet, muddy roads of Tuscanvalle.


    The sound told her two important things. First, that Turo hadn¡¯t given up. He was still out there, prowling through the night like a predator, searching for her with a determination that matched her desperation. He had every advantage she didn¡¯t¡ªunscathed, unhindered by pain or labor. And second, that Nox had sensed something was wrong. It wouldn¡¯t be long before he abandoned his search for Turo and went to the elders for help. When that happened, the village would be alight with torches, its people combing every shadow, every corner. She wouldn¡¯t stand a chance then. She had to make it to the Lavalthon first.


    Gripping the wooden wall of the house behind her, she slowly dragged herself to her feet. A sharp jolt of pain radiated from the wound in her belly, nearly buckling her knees. She pressed a blood-slick hand against the gash, stifling a groan. Rain. She needed the rain to return¡ªheavier this time, to drown her trail of blood and footprints in the mud.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    As if in answer, the sky flashed with lightning, illuminating the jagged outlines of the houses around her. The ominous crackle echoed in her chest like a cruel promise.


    She staggered forward, every step an effort to stay upright, each movement a battle against exhaustion and agony. Her bare feet sank into the muck, cold and wet, but quieter than they might have been. She moved from shadow to shadow, clinging to the darkness beyond the lantern light, her breaths shallow and controlled.


    Turo wasn¡¯t far. She could hear the slap of his gaiters¡ªa dull, wet sound as the animal hide flopped with each stride he took. His careless movements betrayed his position. Samora held onto that small mercy, using it to guide her through the night. Her body screamed in protest with every step, the wound pulsing like a cruel reminder of her frailty.


    She clenched her teeth, swallowing her pain, forcing her legs to move. The Lavalthon wasn¡¯t far now. It couldn¡¯t be.


    As she crossed the threshold where the last of the houses gave way to the wide expanse of Lavalthon¡¯s coastal stretch, Samora froze. Her eyes darted in every direction, scanning for any sign of movement. The land before her was a stretch of sodden earth, soft and uneven underfoot, dotted with tufts of short, toe-high grass that clung stubbornly to the damp ground. Scattered palm trees swayed in the wind, their spindly trunks and fronds silhouetted against the storm-lit sky.


    There was nowhere to hide. Not anymore. The empty expanse offered no shelter, only open vulnerability. Her pain had dulled slightly, but the contractions were coming closer together now, each one stealing her breath and warning her that time was slipping away. She had to move quickly¡ªbefore the next wave of pain struck, before Turo or anyone else spotted her making her escape toward the shore.


    Samora placed a trembling hand on her belly, stroking it with a mother¡¯s desperate affection. ¡°Just a few more steps to freedom, baby,¡± she whispered, her voice weak and quivering. ¡°Mommy won¡¯t let you die.¡±


    With a deep, steadying breath, she stepped out of the shadows and into the open. The uneven terrain sucked at her feet, each step a struggle through mud. She stumbled forward, clutching her wound as she moved, her other hand instinctively cradling her belly. The sound of Turo¡¯s gaiters slapping against the muddy ground had faded, distant enough to offer a glimmer of hope.


    Maybe, just maybe, she had a chance.


    But then the sky erupted with light. A searing bolt of lightning carved through the heavens, illuminating the clearing in a stark, blinding flash. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, the entire expanse was laid bare¡ªher small, struggling figure caught in the merciless spotlight. Then, just as quickly, darkness reclaimed the world, plunging her into an even deeper abyss.


    Samora squeezed her eyes shut, then blinked rapidly, trying to readjust to the oppressive blackness. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest. Lightning wasn¡¯t just her enemy now¡ªit was her betrayer, a traitorous burst of brilliance that could expose her to anyone watching. If someone had seen her in that flash, it wouldn¡¯t take long for them to follow.


    The thought sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She couldn¡¯t afford to hesitate. Pain and exhaustion be damned¡ªshe had to keep moving, faster than ever before.


    Samora shuffled through the endless stretch of sodden earth, her breaths ragged and labored. Each step sent a fresh wave of agony rippling through her body, the knife lodged in her side a cruel passenger, shifting with every movement. It felt as though the blade was alive, twisting deeper each time her foot touched the ground.


    When another contraction gripped her, she staggered to the nearest palm tree, clutching its rough trunk for support, or dropped to the ground, crouching low like a wounded animal. Her trembling fingers tore at fistfuls of wet grass, as though holding onto them might anchor her to life itself. The pain was unbearable, but when it receded, she forced herself upright again. She shuffled forward, one agonizing step at a time, driven by a will that defied the limits of her shattered body. When she could no longer stand upright, she crawled on all fours¡ª slowly with determination.


    Every movement was torment, every step a small death. And yet, Samora kept moving, dying and rising again, clawing her way closer to the shoreline. By the time she was mere feet away, it felt as though she had lived through countless deaths, each one leaving her more hollow and broken than the last.


    She pressed southward, away from the Great Banyan, away from her homeland, away from her tormenters towards the towering Maverielle Mountains and the still waters of the lake. A jagged streak of lightning tore through the sky, flooding the world with a harsh, white brilliance. Squinting against the glare, Samora turned slightly to her left. There, outlined against the storm-lit horizon, she spotted her salvation: the cluster of three palm trees marking the shoreline.


    Her heart surged. That was her destination. If she could reach it, she would be safe.


    But just as she prepared to take another step, a voice cut through the night like a blade.


    ¡°Samora!¡±


    Turo¡¯s voice.


    It came from behind her, closer than she had feared.


    Samora froze, her breath catching in her throat. She didn¡¯t dare turn around. Instead, she pivoted sharply, changing her course to head directly eastward toward the cluster of palms. Her feet stumbled over the uneven ground, but she forced herself forward, clutching her belly as if the act could shield her child from the chaos closing in around her.


    Behind her, Turo¡¯s footsteps splashed against the muddy earth, faster now, growing louder with each passing second.


    He was closing in.

 0.10 - Go Hide... But Seek!

    0.10


    Shame devoured every inch of Turo¡¯s conscience.


    Samora was gone, and he was smeared in cow dung. Wet, stinking, humiliating cow dung. <i>How dare she? </i>How would he ever show his face to anyone in the village again? If word got out¡ªif anyone discovered that he had been shoved into a pit of muck by a woman¡ªit would be the end of him. Not just his pride, but his future as chief.


    His gut twisted at the thought, the stench clinging to him like a physical manifestation of his disgrace.


    And to make matters worse, he heard Nox calling out his name, the sound of his voice carrying through the rain-dampened streets. Nox was searching for him, no doubt wondering why he hadn¡¯t returned home. What if Nox saw him like this? What if his perfect cousin¡ªthe golden boy of Tuscanvalle¡ªfound him wallowing in filth? There would be no explaining it. No excuse would suffice.


    Turo clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He had tried to do the right thing. The dagger had struck Samora, yes¡ªbut it wasn¡¯t intentional. It wasn¡¯t supposed to happen like that. He had even tried to help her, to get her inside and treat the wound. But Samora? She had repaid him with cruelty. She had pushed him into the pit without hesitation, leaving him to wallow in shame while she escaped.


    And now she was gone. Along with her baby.


    Turo¡¯s anger bubbled beneath the surface, mixing with his humiliation. He had always considered Samora family¡ªalmost like an elder sister. But now, she had proven herself to be selfish and ungrateful, willing to ruin his future with one thoughtless, spiteful act.


    There was only one way to undo what she had done.


    He would find her. He would hunt her down, and the child too. He would bring them both to justice, and in doing so, restore his dignity. Only then would he prove that he was worthy of being the next leader of Tuscanvalle.


    Turo glanced around the backyards, careful to avoid the main street where Nox¡¯s footsteps echoed faintly. He kept to the shadows, his movements deliberate and silent. The rain had stopped. He cursed under his breath. If only the rain would pick up, maybe it could scrub away the shame along with the stench. Then, even if someone saw him, they wouldn¡¯t know the full extent of what had happened.


    A bolt of lightning split the sky, its white-hot brilliance illuminating the village for a brief moment. Turo froze, heart pounding, as if the storm had turned its gaze on him. But the clouds above remained stubbornly silent, withholding the downpour he so desperately needed.


    Turo gritted his teeth and pushed forward, every step reminding him of the humiliation he carried. The rain couldn¡¯t save him now. Only his resolve could.


    Turo¡¯s gaiters slumped and splashed in the wet mud as he leapt from backyard to backyard, each step announcing his position with a dull, sloppy squelch. He winced at the sound, knowing it might betray him to Nox. Still, he was clever enough to stick to the shadows, weaving between houses to avoid being spotted.


    But as the minutes dragged on, the realization hit him like a slap. He wasn¡¯t chasing Samora anymore. He was hiding¡ªfrom Nox, from his shame, from the truth of what he had done.


    And what if Samora had escaped? What if¡­?


    No, she couldn¡¯t have gotten far.


    Turo forced himself to think. Where could she have gone?


    Not to the north¡ªthat much was certain. The men were still huddled beneath the Great Banyan, their watchful eyes ensuring no one passed unnoticed. She wouldn¡¯t dare risk it. The western side of the village was no better. Farmlands stretched across the flat plains there, leading to the cremation grounds. No woman in her condition would venture there without cause.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    That left the south and east.


    The Lavalthon.


    The thought seized him. The lake bordered the southern and eastern edges of the village, its shoreline fading into a wall of dense, untamed woods. If she made it that far, there would be no stopping her. Once inside the forest¡¯s shadowy expanse, she¡¯d vanish¡ªimpossible to track through unfamiliar terrain.


    But the woods were miles away.


    Samora wouldn¡¯t have gotten far, not with that stab wound.


    Turo exhaled sharply, his mind racing. He had to find her before she reached the Lavalthon. And he had to avoid Nox at all costs.


    The mere thought of Nox seeing him like this¡ªcovered in filth, reeking of humiliation¡ªsent a jolt of panic through him. Nox wouldn¡¯t just confront him. He¡¯d run straight to the elders, brandishing Turo¡¯s shame like a weapon.


    And what then? How could he ever command respect if the people of Tuscanvalle saw him as the chief who fell into cow dung?


    Turo gritted his teeth, his resolve hardening. He couldn¡¯t let that happen. Not now. Not ever.


    And so, Turo left the cover of the houses, stepping onto the threshold where the clustered homes gave way to the open expanse of the lakeshore plain. Darkness swallowed everything, a suffocating black that pressed against his senses. He strained his eyes but saw nothing.


    Taking off in a random direction crossed his mind, but he dismissed the idea as foolish. In this darkness, he might widen the distance between him and Samora instead of closing it. He stopped and listened, hoping for a clue, but the howling storm winds masked every sound.


    A sudden flash of lightning cut through the night, its brilliance stealing his vision for a heartbeat.


    Lightning!


    The thought struck him. He could use its fleeting glow to locate her.


    But before the idea fully formed, the flash was gone, plunging the terrain into even deeper blackness.


    His breathing hitched. Lightning would be his ally.


    Turo waited, muscles tense, holding his breath in anticipation of the next strike. It would only last a moment¡ªa second, maybe less¡ªbut it might be enough. Enough to scan the vast expanse for a single, fleeting figure. It felt impossible, like searching for a needle in a field of hay.


    He steeled himself, preparing for the task ahead.


    When the next lightning strike illuminated the plain, Turo¡¯s eyes darted across the landscape. He caught everything¡ªthe swaying grass, the stoic palm trees, the contours of the shore¡ªbut no sign of Samora.


    The light vanished, leaving the world in a deeper void. He almost cursed the darkness, but something caught his eye in that last fading moment.


    At first, he wasn¡¯t sure. Was it an animal? He squinted into the void, chasing the faint image burned into his mind. No. It wasn¡¯t an animal.


    It was a human.


    His pulse quickened as he pieced together the details: a woman with loose hair, her chest bare and uncovered, the lower part of her body draped in a familiar skirt.


    <i>Samora.</i>


    It was the same skirt she¡¯d worn before she pushed him into the manure pit. It had to be her.


    But what was she doing, heading straight for the lake?


    Drown herself and the baby? Was that her plan? Had she realized there was no escape?


    But what about me?


    At least give me the baby, his mind screamed in desperation. I need its bones to prove myself worthy.


    Before he could stop himself, the words tore from his throat.


    ¡°Samora!¡±


    The figure froze, her movements halting for just a moment. Then, without warning, she changed direction, veering eastward.


    What is she doing? And why is she crawling like that?


    The questions nagged at him, but he shoved them aside. They didn¡¯t matter. What mattered was catching her.


    He lunged forward, charging in the direction he assumed Samora was moving. Darkness enveloped everything, leaving him to navigate by instinct. The palm trees around him were barely distinguishable, little more than blurry black silhouettes against an even blacker sky.


    If only lightning would flash again! He needed that fleeting illumination to confirm he was heading in the right direction. What if he wasn¡¯t? What if he was losing her?


    But he didn¡¯t stop. He couldn¡¯t stop.


    The soft, uneven grass beneath his feet gave way to something wetter, muddier. The terrain grew treacherous, slick with swampy muck that clung to his gaiters. Each step sent him sliding slightly, but he pressed on, his breath ragged and heavy.


    He was nearing the lakeshore.


    Turo halted, panting, his ears straining for any hint of her presence. The wind wheezed through the night, carrying with it the slow patter of rain as it began to drizzle again, droplets rippling gently against the lake¡¯s surface.


    Then, beneath the storm¡¯s whispers, he heard it¡ªa faint, distinct sound. Water rippling.


    Someone was moving through the lake. Struggling.


    The noise came from his right.

 0.11 - On The Floating Basket

    0.11


    This ends here!


    Turo turned sharply to his right, just as another flash of lightning split the sky. In that brief moment of illumination, he saw her¡ªSamora, crawling through the shallow water near the shoreline. Her movements were deliberate, her body hunched low, as if she were struggling to head toward a destination only she could see or understand.


    Then his eyes caught something else, something strange.


    A rope.


    It rose out of the rippling water, taut and slick, glistening in the storm light. One end disappeared beneath the lake¡¯s dark surface, the other was tied securely to the base of a palm tree near the shoreline.


    What was it? A weapon? A tool? Some kind of escape mechanism?


    His thoughts raced, each possibility churning uneasily in his gut. Whatever it was, Turo knew one thing for certain¡ªSamora was slipping away. She was slipping away, and so was his future.


    No. He wouldn¡¯t let her.


    Fueled by desperation, Turo lunged forward. The wet ground squelched beneath his gaiters as he crossed the few strides separating them. The air reeked of damp earth and rotting vegetation, but all he could focus on was the figure just ahead of him.


    The terrain grew slicker the closer he got to the water¡¯s edge. He stumbled, catching himself once, then again, before his footing finally gave way. The ground seemed to pull him under as he slid into the lake, the cold water swallowing him whole.


    The shock of it hit him like a slap. The taste of mud and decay filled his mouth as he gasped instinctively, drawing in a mouthful of foul, silty water. He clawed his way back to the surface, coughing and spluttering, spitting out the murky liquid. The storm howled around him, but beneath it, he could hear Samora¡ªpanting, flailing just ahead.


    ¡°Where do you think you¡¯re going?¡± he rasped, his voice hoarse with fury and the strain of holding himself above the water.


    Without waiting for an answer, he lunged again, his hands finding her ankle. He tightened his grip and yanked her toward him, pulling her down into the water with a violent splash.


    Samora let out a strangled gasp, her body thrashing wildly. Her arms flailed, fingers clawing at the water, at anything she could reach, as she tried to fight her way back to the surface.


    The lake seemed alive around them, rippling and shifting as if it, too, wanted to drag them under. The air was thick with the smell of rain and mud, the faint tang of something metallic laced within it.


    Turo tightened his hold, his fingers digging into her skin.


    Turo jerked his hand back, the cold water dripping from his fingers as the reality of what he was doing struck him. His grip had been too tight. His actions too rough. Samora¡¯s gasps echoed in his ears, louder than the howling wind. He hadn¡¯t meant to hurt her. She was his cousin, almost like an elder sister to him. He loved her in some distant, tangled way.


    But the baby.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The baby was his only chance.


    He hesitated, his chest heaving as he watched her struggle to rise from the water. She was floundering, her movements sluggish, as though something unseen was pulling her down. For a moment, he felt a pang of guilt, a flicker of doubt. She was weak, bleeding, barely holding herself upright. She needed help.


    Against his better judgment, Turo stepped closer.


    ¡°Samora¡­¡± His voice was low with frustration but also something softer. ¡°Come on. You¡¯ll drown if you keep this up.¡±


    She didn¡¯t respond. Her head drooped forward, and her body tilted unsteadily against the waves. Turo hesitated again, then moved quickly. He slid his hands beneath the crook of her armpits, his fingers sinking into the cold, wet fabric of her skirt.


    ¡°Let me help you,¡± he muttered, more to himself than to her.


    The water seemed to fight him, the rippling waves tugging at her as he pulled. His arms strained, but the buoyancy of the water worked in his favor. With one final effort, he managed to drag her toward the shore. Palm stems and fronds floated by, torn from their trees and scattered across the water¡¯s surface. One brushed against his leg, startling him with its cold, slimy texture. He gritted his teeth and focused on his task, hauling Samora through the shallows until they were just a few feet from solid ground.


    When the water was shallow enough for her to stand, Turo released her. His arms fell limply to his sides, aching from the effort. He took a step back, his feet sinking into the slick mud beneath him.


    ¡°What are you doing, Samora?¡± he demanded, his voice rising above the storm. The frustration in his tone was unmistakable, but there was a rawness to it¡ªa desperation he couldn¡¯t hide. ¡°You¡¯re weak. You¡¯re bleeding. Just give me the baby and come with me. Let me take you back. We can treat your wounds.¡±


    But Samora only stared at him.


    Her eyes, gleaming with a strange emotional depth, locked onto his. Her expression was unreadable, but there was no fear in it. No submission. Instead, she looked at him as though he were the foolish one, as though he couldn¡¯t understand her situation even if she explained it.


    The storm raged on around them, the rain falling harder now. Somewhere in the distance, the rumble of thunder rolled across the sky.


    And still, Samora said nothing.


    Before Turo could comprehend her intent, Samora¡¯s hand shot out. She grabbed a palm stem drifting nearby, its jagged edges slick and glistening from the rain. In one swift motion, she swung it toward him.


    The blow struck his leg¡ªnot hard, but unexpected. The sharp slap of the stem against his soaked skin startled him more than it hurt. Turo toppled backward into the muddy water.


    He flailed, his hands searching for something solid to anchor himself. But the shoreline offered no mercy. His fingers slipped through slimy kelp and tangled weeds, their cold, sinewy texture making him recoil in disgust. Every attempt to push himself upright sent him sliding further into the muck.


    By the time he managed to rise, his body trembling from exertion and humiliation, a sight in front of him froze him in place.


    A large, wide basket bobbed in the water just beyond the shore, its woven sides glistening in the storm¡¯s intermittent flashes of lightning. It was unmistakable, yet his mind struggled to accept what his eyes were seeing.


    Samora, leaning on the palm stem to keep her balance, hauled herself onto the basket. Her movements were sluggish, her injury and exhaustion evident, but she pressed on, ignoring the strain.


    The palm stem became her oar. Instinctively, she pushed the basket further away from the shore, her silhouette blending with the dark water and stormy horizon.


    Turo stood frozen, watching in stunned disbelief as the impossible unfolded before him.


    She was crossing Lavalthon.


    The lake was untouched for generations, its waters shrouded in fear and superstition. Tuscanians believed Lavalthon and anything beyond its waters wera cursed domain, a place where the spirits of the past slumbered, vengeful and waiting. No one dared venture into its deepest waters, not even the bravest hunters or the most reckless children.


    And yet, there she was, sailing across its forbidden expanse.


    ¡°She¡¯s bringing a curse onto us,¡± Turo thought, his gut twisting with dread and anger. The rain pelted his face, running down his cheeks. His hands clenched into fists, slick with mud and trembling with frustration.


    The storm surged around him but the basket stayed afloat, gliding steadily away, widening the distance between them, and with it, Turo¡¯s chance at reclaiming his future.


    He stood there, helpless, as Samora disappeared into the dark, uncharted waters of Lavalthon.

 0.12 - Marnoells Despair

    0.12


    The bonfire flickered ominously.


    Its light barely pierced through the encroaching darkness. Each raindrop that hissed upon the flames sounded like the warning of an unseen predator. Phyto sat hunched near the fire, rubbing his calloused palms together for warmth. A yawn escaped his lips, though his body remained tense. He was a farmer¡ªa hard-working man who had spent the morning toiling in the fields and would need to do the same at first light. Yet here he was, bracing against the cold night, awaiting the birth of a monster¡ªor perhaps its death. He knew why he was there. If they faltered, even for a moment, there might not be a tomorrow to wake up to.


    Phyto''s mind drifted to his fields.


    Would Lavalthon hold this year?


    He shook his head grimly. The last two years had been disasters, with flooding that left the roots of his crops to rot. Severe famine swept through Tuscanvalle like never before. Some farmers had abandoned their ancestral lands for higher ground, but not Phyto. Those fields had been passed down from his father, and his father before him. They weren¡¯t just land; they were legacy. And so he stayed, praying for the lake to hold, for the weather to return to its nurturing ways, for his crops to thrive.


    He pulled his thick fur blanket tighter around his shoulders and scanned the gathering. Shadows cast by the dim fire danced across the Great Banyan, turning its sprawling roots into creepy, grotesque, writhing shapes. The men sat around the fire¡ªhunched, silent, and waiting. Even the younger lads, who had started the night with snickers and jests, had lapsed into a bored silence. The air smelled of mud and vegetation.


    Chief Marnoell paced at the centre of the grove, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His face, usually stoic and composed, struggled to barely conceal his anxiety. His eyes darted frequently toward the distant birthing chamber, hidden beyond the grove.


    "Why aren¡¯t the boys back yet?" the tribal medic, Kaius, muttered, his voice breaking the silence.


    Marnoell halted mid-step, his brow furrowing as though he had been pondering the same question. He nodded to himself before turning toward the fire.


    ¡°Maybe one of us should go check on them¡­ and the women,¡± Phyto offered hesitantly.


    The chief''s face darkened as he considered the suggestion. Risking his men in the birthing chamber was no small matter. With all that had been happening in Tuscanvalle, adding a potential curse to their burdens could tip the fragile balance. But he had no other option. Something must be done before it''s too late. What if the boys were in trouble. His gaze swept across the men, finally landing on Malok and Hiyan. He raised his hand, motioning for them to stand.


    The two men obeyed silently, stepping forward into the firelight.


    ¡°Malok, Hiyan,¡± Marnoell began, his voice low. ¡°Go and see what¡¯s keeping the boys. Take your weapons, but do not use them unless absolutely necessary. And under no circumstance are you to enter the birthing chamber.¡± He turned his attention fully to Malok, his expression hardening with concern. ¡°I know your wife and child are inside. You might feel tempted to check on them, to reassure yourself that they are safe. We¡¯ve all felt that temptation at some point in life, but you must resist. Do you understand? Never¡ªand I mean never¡ªlook inside.¡±The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Malok nodded stiffly, his face unreadable. He avoided looking directly into his uncle''s eyes, whether out of respect or something else, only he knew. Hiyan, however, allowed a smirk to curl his lips. He knew Malok wouldn¡¯t yield to sentiment. Malok had already cast aside Samora and the child she carried. Only Hiyan knew the truth: Malok had a plan, one that would flip around everything the tribe believed in and reshape it to his liking. One that no one else had dreamed off. Malok had bigger plans, dangerous ones.


    The two men turned and disappeared into the dark maze of prop roots and tangled vines, their figures swallowed by the night. They had barely gone a few paces when they stopped abruptly and stepped aside. A figure emerged from the shadows, drenched and shivering beneath a soaked cloak.


    It was Nox.


    A collective sigh of relief rippled through the gathered men. Kaius stood quickly, his skeletal frame trembling with exhaustion, age and a sudden burst of emotion. He stepped forward, reaching for Nox as if to embrace him.


    ¡°Thank the gods, you¡¯re back!¡± the old medic exclaimed, his voice cracking. ¡°We thought something had happened to you.¡±


    The elder grasped Nox¡¯s shoulders to steady himself, his bony fingers digging slightly into the younger man¡¯s rain-soaked cloak as he scanned him from head to toe. The rest of the men murmured softly among themselves, their earlier tension momentarily eased. The boys perked upright at the sight of him. Nox was their beacon¡ªof everything.


    Chief Marnoell was though visibly relieved to see Nox. But his scrunched forehead betrayed his tension and anxiety. His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, scrutinizing the young man. Something was wrong. Something no one else had noticed.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Turo?¡± Marnoell¡¯s voice cut through the silence, jolting everyone''s attention back to him.


    Nox didn¡¯t respond. His head hung low, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Rainwater dripped steadily from the edge of his hood.


    Marnoell crossed the fire, his gaiters crunching on the damp ground. Kaius stepped aside, allowing the chief to approach. The men around the bonfire fell silent, their unease returning tenfold. Their eyes darted from Marnoell to Nox and then back to Marnoell, anticipating Nox''s response.


    The chief placed a demanding hand on Nox¡¯s shoulder, giving it a slight shake. ¡°Nox,¡± he said, his voice softer but more urgent. ¡°Where is he? What happened?¡±


    Nox¡¯s lips trembled and his nose flared in frustration and regret. His shoulders rose and fell with each labored breath, but still, he said nothing.


    Frustration flared in Marnoell¡¯s eyes. He shook Nox harder, his voice rising. ¡°Tell me! Why isn¡¯t Turo with you? Did you check on the women? Was there trouble?¡± Each question wrapped in it a kind of urgency that only a father would understand.


    Nox nodded hesitantly, his movement barely perceptible.


    He looked so weak, so vulnerable. So unlike himself. No one in Tuscanvalle has ever seen Nox in such a broken state.


    Marnoell¡¯s heart sank. ¡°Is the baby born?¡± he asked, his voice cracking slightly.


    Nox shook his head. ¡°No,¡± he whispered.


    The chief¡¯s frustration turned to fear. His grip tightened on Nox¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Then what happened? Where is my son?¡±


    All eyes were on Nox. The silence was suffocating. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible over the crackle of the fire.


    ¡°He¡¯s sailing beyond Lavalthon.¡±


    A chill swept through the gathering. It took a moment more for the men to grasp weight of his words, the meaning, the consequences of it.


    Marnoell¡¯s hand fell from Nox¡¯s shoulder as he stumbled back onto a root the protruded from the ground, his butt heavily landing onto its hard structure. The wood creaked slightly. He looked up at Nox with a blend of confusion and dread. The bonfire hissed louder as the rain began to fall harder, as if nature itself was mourning the fate that was about to befall on them.


    Turo was sailing across Lavalthon.


    His son was sailing across Lavalthon.


    Over the cursed waters. Into the forbidden territory.


    Why?

 0.13 - Labour On The Lake

    0.13


    Finally, freedom.


    Samora thought she had finally attained it as the coracle drifted away from the shore, the gap between her and Tuscanvalle widening with each push on the lakebed with the palm stem. Turo stood rooted in disbelief like a vengeful ghost on the water¡¯s edge.


    She reached for her side, her trembling fingers brushing against the stab wound. They came away wet and slick with blood. The bleeding hadn¡¯t stopped; if anything, it seemed worse. The narrow gap between the dagger¡¯s handle and her body was gone¡ªduring their struggle at the lakeshore, the blade must have been driven deeper into her flesh.


    Her hand hovered near the hilt, caressing the cold, unyielding bone the dagger was made of. For a fleeting moment, she considered pulling it out, freeing herself from its cruel presence.


    But no.


    She remembered an incident years ago, when her husband, Malok, had been in a drunken scuffle with his mates. In the heat of the fight, he had stabbed one of them in the thigh. The injured man had been carried to the tribal medic, his face pale, his leg drenched in blood.


    Tuscanvalle was a small village, and news of the injury spread quickly. Concerned neighbors gathered at the medic¡¯s doorstep, murmuring among themselves as they waited for help. The medic was away, tending to another villager, and Nox had been sent to fetch him. In the meantime, someone in the crowd suggested removing the dagger to relieve the man¡¯s pain.


    They had acted on impulse, yanking the blade from the wound. The man¡¯s scream had cut through the village, blood pouring from the gash like water from a broken dam. The flow wouldn¡¯t stop. By the time the medic arrived, the poor man was barely conscious.


    Samora could still hear the medic¡¯s frustration as he tended to the wound. He scolded the onlookers for their recklessness, explaining that removing the blade without proper care had worsened the injury. The dagger, he said, had acted like a plug, sealing the wound and slowing the bleeding. Its removal had unleashed the full extent of the damage, nearly costing the man his life.


    That memory lingered in her mind. The medic had warned: Do not pull the blade out unless you are prepared to treat the wound immediately.


    Samora tightened her grip on the coracle¡¯s edge, her breathing labored. She could feel the dagger in her side. For now, it would stay where it was.


    Samora¡¯s fingers trembled as they stroked the flesh surrounding the wound. She thought: If I pull this out, I might bleed to death. No. Not yet. Not until my baby is safely out of this dying body.


    She glanced back toward the shore one last time. Turo¡¯s figure was shrinking, the more the coracle swayed away. The pain in her side flared with every movement.


    The coracle swayed in chaotic circles, the storm¡¯s fury dictating its course. The wind howled, pushing the tiny vessel wherever it pleased. It took Samora a moment to realize that she needed to row, to fight the storm''s whims, or she might drift endlessly across the lake, directionless and doomed.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    She chided herself. She knew nothing about rowing or oars¡ªyet here she was, gambling everything on this makeshift escape. Then she noticed the object clutched in her hand and remembered: the palm stem. She was still gripping it, the same jagged branch she¡¯d used to shove Turo into the water.


    She dipped the palm stem into the lake and began to paddle. She aimed for the faint silhouette of the Maverielle mountains under the stormy horizon.


    At first, her efforts were clumsy, the coracle spinning wildly in the water. She lacked the technique, her motions too erratic. But necessity was a harsh teacher, and soon she began to understand. With each stroke, she learned how to maneuver, how to steer the vessel toward her goal. It was exhausting. But it was progress nonetheless.


    The palm stem bit into her hands, its jagged edges scratching her palms and piercing her flesh. Blood mingled with rainwater, staining her grip. The stinging pain burned with every stroke, but Samora did not care.


    The contractions were far worse. Each one surged through her body, the pain radiating from her lower back and wrapping around her hips. It was nothing like the dull, familiar ache of her monthly pains¡ªthis was sharper, relentless, as if her very bones were being wrenched apart.


    She clenched her jaw, her breath hitching with each jolt of agony. She had never imagined childbirth could be this excruciating.


    Still, she was prepared for her escapade.


    For months, she had quietly built the coracle alone. She could still see Turo¡¯s face in her mind when he first saw it¡ªa satisfying blend of disbelief and fury.


    The men of Tuscanvalle would never, in a million years, imagine a woman crafting such a vessel. A coracle, sturdy enough to cross Lavalthon, built by her own two hands. They wouldn¡¯t believe it, even if they saw it with their own eyes.


    Samora had learned basket weaving from her mother, as had all the women in her family. It was a skill passed down through generations, and she had mastered it. She had also noticed how baskets floated on water as long as the load inside wasn¡¯t too heavy. This idea stayed with her, and when the time came to plan her escape, it became the foundation of her plan. To reach the other side of the lake and the forbidden land beyond, she needed a vessel.


    Her first thought was simple: build a basket large and strong enough to carry her. But her initial attempts fell apart. The structures collapsed under their own weight or couldn¡¯t hold their shape. Each failure forced her to rethink her approach, but she refused to give up. She worked tirelessly, weaving and reweaving until she found a solution. The answer was in the frame¡ªit needed more strength than palm leaves and reeds alone could provide. She used hollow bamboo trunks, bending and securing them into a stable frame, and then wove the body of the coracle with palm fronds and reeds.


    When people saw her weaving the oversized basket, they dismissed it as just an eccentric hobby of a crazy hag. No one in Tuscanvalle could imagine what she was building. The village ponds were shallow enough to cross on foot, and even the river flowing from Lavalthon to the coconut pond near the cremation grounds was easily navigable. The villagers had only ever built simple rafts for transporting coconuts. Rafts were practical for their needs, but no one ever used them for sailing.


    What Samora was building was nothing like the rafts her people knew.


    They might have figured out her intentions if they had cared enough to pay attention. But they didn¡¯t. They underestimated her, thinking, What could a pregnant woman, abandoned by her husband and family, and already living on the streets, possibly do?


    Samora had turned their indifference into her strength. Right under their noses, she prepared the vessel that would carry her to freedom. She kept it hidden beneath the water¡¯s surface, waiting for the day she could use it to escape to the other side¡ªafter her baby was born, after the ordeal of childbirth was behind her.


    But things hadn¡¯t gone as planned. She had been forced to elope before the childbirth, during labor itself.


    She had prepared for so much. She had thought of every possibility, every risk.


    She had been ready. Almost.


    But nothing had prepared her for the wicked stab wound.


    Nothing had prepared her for Turo¡¯s betrayal.

 0.14 - Beneath The Great Banyan Again

    0.14


    Nox felt like he was drowning in shame.


    ¡°What do you mean he¡¯s sailing across Lavalthon?¡± Phyto demanded, rising abruptly from his position. He crossed the distance between them in a few swift strides, roughly shoving aside the men in his way. He grabbed Nox by the shoulders. ¡°No one sails those cursed waters! Yes, we fish there. Our women fetch water, wash, and our kids play along the shore. But sail? Are you serious?¡±


    Nox didn¡¯t resist. He stood still, his head bowed. His body felt heavy, unmovable, like stone. But his insides churned. He said nothing.


    Phyto shook him roughly. ¡°Answer me. What do you mean by that?¡±


    Nox¡¯s thoughts spun back to the stories Calla had told him when he was a child. She had spoken of a hero and his twenty-eight followers who had crossed the lake in search of a way to destroy the evil that plagued the world. He had dismissed those tales long ago. Even as a toddler, he¡¯d thought they were just stories¡ªnothing more.


    He had never imagined anyone could or would truly cross Lavalthon.


    Growing up, the idea hadn¡¯t even occurred to him. Sure, they used rafts to transport coconuts from the groves to their village, but those were simple, practical trips, never meant for venturing out onto the deeper waters. The thought of using them to cross the lake had felt impossible, forbidden. Was it foolishness? Or was it something deeper¡ªa mental boundary instilled in them since childhood that kept them from even considering such a thing?


    It wasn¡¯t until now that the reality struck him. He had seen it with his own eyes: Turo, clinging to a palm trunk, drifting across the water.


    But it wasn¡¯t Turo that had shaken him most. It was what he saw when the lightning lit up the night¡ªa sight so strange it didn¡¯t seem real.


    An oversized basket.


    It was floating on the water, carrying Samora as if she were something otherworldly. Nox struggled to find the right word to describe what he had seen. A goddess. That was it. Samora had looked like a goddess in the flash of lightning, framed by the stormy sky. Her hair was loose, soaked with water¡ªor maybe blood. Her chest was bare, her hands resting protectively over her pregnant belly. But it was her eyes that struck him the most: they burned with a wrath unlike anything he had ever seen in any woman.


    The basket cradled her like a throne, swaying on the waves. She had looked both majestic and terrifying.


    ¡°Nox?¡± Phyto¡¯s voice cut through his thoughts. His hand gripped Nox¡¯s shoulder with a strength honed from years of labor in the fields. ¡°We don¡¯t understand.¡±


    Nox didn¡¯t either.


    Women in Samora¡¯s situation would usually break. They would cry, scream, or collapse in grief. They had even prepared themselves for the possibility that she might lose her mind entirely, crushed by the shock of everything.


    But this?


    Where did her wrath come from? How could she muster such strength?


    ¡°He¡¯s following Samora,¡± Nox said finally. He realized with a sick twist in his stomach that he needed to fix what Turo had unleashed. It was his responsibility to the village¡ªthe people who had placed their trust in him.


    Chief Marnoell¡¯s eyes snapped to him, confusion and disbelief written across his face. The space erupted in murmurs of shock and fear as everyone rose to their feet, one by one.


    Kaius, the village elder, stepped forward. He seized Nox by the shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze. His aged eyes glinted with anxiety and anger.


    ¡°What do you mean by that?¡± Kaius demanded. ¡°Samora is birthing¡ª¡± He gestured toward the direction of the birthing chamber but then stopped, his hand faltering mid-air. Doubt crept into his voice. ¡°She is, isn¡¯t she?¡±Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Nox sighed, summoning every ounce of courage he had left. This wasn¡¯t going to end well, and he knew it. Explaining it to them would be harder still.


    ¡°She was,¡± he said. ¡°She¡­ escaped.¡±


    A collective gasp rippled through the group of men. They looked at one another¡ªsome confused, some afraid, others in outright disbelief.


    Chief Marnoell struggled to stand. Phyto stepped forward to help him, gripping his arm and guiding him upright. Malok started to move, hesitating as if unsure whether to assist, but stopped a few steps behind. Hiyan mirrored Malok''s actions, before stepping back as well.


    ¡°She escaped?¡± Marnoell asked, his voice wavering with disbelief. ¡°In the middle of labor?¡± He shook his head, as though the words didn¡¯t make sense.


    Nox nodded.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ impossible.¡± Marnoell staggered backward. ¡°It¡¯s simply impossible.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s against nature,¡± Phyto agreed.


    ¡°It must be the monster in her taking over,¡± Kaius muttered. His knees buckled, and he collapsed. The boys who were sitting next to him, scrambled to catch him, pulling him back to his feet.


    Chaos erupted in the tight space beneath the Great Banyan, with its maze of protruding roots and massive trunks that it suddenly felt suffocating.


    Everyone rounded on Nox, their faces tight with worry and unease. Phyto stepped closer, and asked with urgency. ¡°What exactly happened, Nox? Tell us everything. You went there to check on the women, right?¡± He nodded, urging him to continue. ¡°Was Samora there when you¡ª¡±


    Nox cut him off with a weary shake of his head. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    The group fell silent, waiting for him to explain.


    Nox met Chief Marnoell¡¯s gaze directly. ¡°Uncle, you ordered us not to enter the birthing chamber. And I obeyed you. I didn¡¯t go inside the house.¡±


    Marnoell gave a small nod of approval.


    ¡°So I don¡¯t know what happened inside,¡± Nox confided. ¡°But Turo went in.¡±


    A collective gasp rippled through the group. Chief Marnoell¡¯s hand shot to his chest in shock. The poor man was recieving too many bad news in one day. ¡°He did what?¡± he murmured.


    Malok sprang to life for the first time in what felt like hours. He grabbed Nox by the neck, his eyes blazing with anger. ¡°You let Turo inside the birthing chamber? Do you know what you¡¯ve done? You¡¯ll bring the gods¡¯ curse upon him! How could you allow that?¡± He tightened his grip, his voice rising into a furious shout. ¡°Did you do this on purpose? Of course, you would!¡±


    Nox, startled by the sudden attack, struggled to free himself, clawing at Malok¡¯s hands. The others rushed in, Marnoell among them, pulling Malok away as he thrashed and shouted. It took several men to pull him away. Together, they pried Malok¡¯s hands off Nox, though he continued to thrash and shout.


    Nox stumbled back, coughing and rubbing his throat.


    ¡°I told him not to,¡± Nox choked. ¡°I insisted. But he wouldn¡¯t listen to me. He went in anyway.¡±


    Malok struggled against the men restraining him in fury. His eyes burned with rage, and it was clear he would have throttled Nox if given the chance.


    ¡°You should have forced him to stay out!¡± Malok shouted, his voice raw with anger. ¡°Even if it meant using violence, you should never have let him inside!¡± His hands curled into fists, itching to wrap around his brother¡¯s neck.


    ¡°Malok!¡± Marnoell¡¯s stern voice cut through the tension.


    The command worked. Malok fell silent, though he shrugged off the men holding him, his defiance visible as he glared daggers at Nox.


    Nox took a moment to collect himself before continuing. ¡°I stayed outside the hut, just like I was told. But Turo never came out. I heard voices¡ªangry, hurt, desperate¡ªfrom inside. I didn¡¯t know if it was okay to knock on the door of a birthing chamber, but I had no other choice. So, I knocked.¡±


    He paused to draw a deep breath. ¡°Aunt Daya came out. She was covered in blood. Her forehead was bleeding.¡±


    Nox glanced at Kaius, Daya¡¯s husband. As expected, the elder¡¯s face crumpled with worry.


    ¡°She said Samora had escaped,¡± Nox continued. ¡°She hit Aunt Daya with a stone bowl and ran. And Turo¡­ he went after her.¡±


    The gathered men exchanged uneasy glances.


    ¡°I searched for both of them, but I couldn¡¯t find them anywhere. I heard Turo moving around, though¡ªlike he was avoiding me on purpose. His footsteps, his voice¡­¡± He hesitated, the memory replaying vividly in his mind. ¡°Then I heard Turo call out for Samora. His voice came from the edge of the village. I ran there, but by the time I arrived, there was no one.¡±


    Nox swallowed hard. ¡°I thought, maybe, he went to the lake. I wasn¡¯t sure, but it seemed like the only place left to check. So I went to the shore.¡±


    He stopped, his words catching in his throat. The memory of what he had seen was too vivid, too raw.


    ¡°That¡¯s when I saw it,¡± he said.


    ¡°You saw what?¡± Hiyan pressed, unable to contain his growing curiosity. Chief Marnoell was panting, as if he¡¯d been the one running after Turo. The others stood frozen, their curiosity etched into their faces.


    ¡°I saw Turo and Samora,¡± Nox said bluntly. ¡°They were crossing Lavalthon.¡±


    ¡°Together?¡± Malok¡¯s voice turned venomous, suspicion dripping from every word.


    Nox frowned, irritation flickering across his face. ¡°No. I told you¡ªhe was chasing her. Samora was in a huge basket, floating. Turo was clinging to a single palm trunk, struggling to stay afloat in the storm. He said he wouldn¡¯t come back until he¡¯d hunted down ¡®the monster¡¯ in her womb.¡±


    The malice in Malok¡¯s eyes dimmed, replaced by grim satisfaction.


    Nox hesitated but then added, ¡°But I¡¯ll tell you this¡ªshe didn¡¯t look human. She looked like a goddess. A vengeful one.¡±