《The Ancient Era of Forgotten Magic - Epic Dark Fantasy Saga》 DISCLAIMER
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, religions, ideologies, and events depicted are purely the product of the author¡¯s imagination or used in a fictionalized manner for storytelling purposes. Any similarities to real-world religions, cultures, beliefs, or historical events are purely coincidental or subject to reader interpretation. This book explores dark themes, including the consequences of forbidden knowledge, morality, and the dangers of unchecked ambition. The inclusion of religious, philosophical, or spiritual elements does not imply any real-world associations or criticisms. The fictional religions in this story are not meant to represent or comment on any real faith, past or present.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Furthermore, this book does not endorse or condemn any belief system, nor does it reflect the personal views of the author. The actions of the characters, including their choices and moral struggles, are part of the fictional narrative and should not be interpreted as statements about real-world ideologies. This book is intended for mature readers. Reader discretion is advised.
[Book 1-The Cursed Child] 1.01 - Curse of the Burning Witches "Your kind shall bring about your own destruction¡­" She had said. "¡­Just as you did mine. Your young shall burn, as did mine!" ¡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 soon 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.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. 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.¡± ¡°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? 1.02 - The Day Tuscanvalle Fell
"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."
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.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. 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 noises. 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. 1.03 - The Future Chief Just Made a Deadly Mistake "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.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. ¡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. 1.04 - Kneel, Brother, or Be Forgotten "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 duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. "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! 1.05 - The Girl Who Walked Into Death "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 stolen. Please report the violation. 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. 1.06 - The Witch Hunt Never Ended 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?This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. 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.¡± 1.07- The Secret Brought Back from Afterlife But the waters will know, and the winds will hear, The strength of a soul that refuses fear. My feet are banished, my hands are bare, My children will carry what I cannot bear. Yet in their eyes, the dawn may rise, A future unseen by cursed skies. If I am lost, let this be true¡ª 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.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. 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.¡± 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: Though death may come, though light may fade, The soul¡¯s resolve cannot be swayed. Row, row, row across the tide, Through cursed waves where fears reside. The stones may cut, the sky may cry, But hope will live, though I may die. And if the end is all I find, I leave my strength for those behind. A Note Before We Continue... This book is shaped by the episodic dreams I¡¯ve been having since 2010. At first, they were scattered and incoherent, yet unmistakably vivid, like living through an alternate life. I¡¯d wake up either freezing or drenched in sweat, wondering where I am before realising that this is my true reality. But replaying them in my mind felt like stepping into my favorite movie¡ªexcept I¡¯d never wish for any of it to be real. For years, I dismissed them as just dreams. But then I started noticing patterns. They weren¡¯t random. They were the same story, told from different angles, through different lives. The more pieces I fit together, the more I questioned everything I thought I knew. It became too much. I needed an outlet. So I wrote them down. Some parts of this book might feel like an anthology. That¡¯s because this isn¡¯t just one story¡ªit¡¯s many, all spiraling toward the same fate. An epic stretched across time, across lives.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. And the dreams haven¡¯t stopped. Different faces, different moments, but always with the same undercurrent. For now, I''m following it to its end.
Catch-up Notes
Chief Nelius Tuscan and his 28 men have left Tuscanvalle and nothing spectacular happens for the next 218 years. So we skip forward and see Calla still alive and as a story teller and guide for her tribe two centuries later, when things start heating up once again. Chief Nelius Tuscan never came back as he promised. So we shift focus from him to the crisis at hand for now. But his character isn''t lost. Keep reading to know: 1. what happened to the Tuscanians, 2. Did Chief Nelius Tuscan find a way to undo the curse? 3. Why does Calla live unnaturally longer? And more...
1.08 - The Hero Who Never Returned 218 Years after Nelius Tuscan left Tuscanvalle... "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."Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. 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, later centuries, 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 and every other generation that came after, 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, lived through 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. 1.09 - A New Life, A New Curse 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 duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report 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. 1.10 - A Hunt for Glory… Or for Doom 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.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. 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. 1.11 - The Demon Inside Her Womb 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?"The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. 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? 1.12 - When Love Becomes a Death Sentence 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?¡±Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. 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. 1.13 - A Mother’s Last Gamble 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.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. 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. 1.14 - The Escape That Wasnt Meant to Be 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 from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. 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. 1.15 - A Dagger in the Dark 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 content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. 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. 1.16 - When the Light Becomes Your Enemy 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.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. 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. 1.17 - Drenched in Shame, Driven by Rage Shame devoured every inch of Turo¡¯s conscience. Samora was gone, and he was smeared in cow dung. Wet, stinking, humiliating cow dung. How dare she? 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.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. 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. Samora. 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. 1.18 - Into the Forbidden Waters 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.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. 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. 1.19 - A Fate Sealed in Darkness 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.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. 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? 1.20 - She Built Her Escape, But Not Her Freedom 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.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. 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. 1.21 - A Goddess of Vengeance 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?¡±This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. 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.¡± 1.22 - Songs of Solitude Turo, Samora thought bitterly. Her fingers brushed absently over the flesh surrounding the wound, her touch delicate despite the agony gnawing at her insides. She had tried to forgive him, even after he had driven the dagger into her side. She had tried to excuse his threats¡ªhis declaration that he would kill her child. She had convinced herself that he was just naive, young, influenced by her husband. But this? He had deliberately dragged her into the water, tried to drown her, and demanded her baby like it was some kind of trophy? No, there was no excuse for that. She wanted to scream, to spit in his face, to tell him what a fool he was. "He''s still inside me, you idiot! I can¡¯t just open my womb and hand him over to you like some prize!" Did he really think it was that simple? Did he think childbirth was as easy as picking a fruit from one pile and throwing it into another? How could he be so blind? How selfish, how thoughtless. She felt ashamed for ever loving him¡ªhow could she have been so foolish? How could she have let herself care for someone so broken, so twisted? Her hands trembled, her body racked with pain, a feeling of being torn apart from the inside out. How much longer? How much longer until the child inside her was born? She didn¡¯t know. All she knew was that she had to make it to the other side of the lake before the time ran out. The next contraction hit, stronger than before. A jagged burst of pain shot through her, seizing her body in its relentless grip. For the first time since she left Chief Marnoell¡¯s hut, a strangled groan escaped her lips. She moaned, the sound echoing across the storm-wracked lake. It felt almost freeing¡ªno one would dare follow her here, not in the forbidden waters. She was already beyond their reach, in a place where she could no longer be touched by their laws, their rules, their expectations. Here, she could feel. Here, she could break. When the contraction finally passed, Samora set the palm stem oar inside the coracle and leaned against the frame, allowing herself a brief moment of rest. She gazed upward at the rain-filled sky, though all she saw was darkness¡ªabove, below, around her. It was as if the world had become a blanket of heavy clouds, smothering everything, pressing down on her, making her feel small and invisible. At first, raindrops pelted her face, stinging her eyes and blurring her vision, but they stopped as quickly as they had started. Still, she kept her eyes closed, trying to shut out the world, retreating into herself for a moment. Her mind wandered back to the simpler days¡ªwhen life had been different. When she had been a child, and Calla had taught her and the other kids a song. A song she had sung a thousand times, but never really understood.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Now, in the silent chaos of her escape, it suddenly made sense. She hummed the tune softly at first. As the last of the pain from the contraction ebbed away, she took a breath and began to sing the words aloud, her voice the only sound in the otherwise silent night. The distant chirping of crickets was the only other noise to accompany her soft, fragile song. "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." Tears mingled with the rain on her cheeks, but she didn''t wipe them away. She wondered¡ªdesperately¡ªif she could make it across the lake, to the safety of the shore beyond. Would she survive the storm? Would her body hold out long enough for her to reach that distant land, or would the waters claim her? Something jolted against the coracle, its sudden force nearly tipping the vessel sideways and plunging it into the water. Samora''s heart raced. Panic flooded her chest as she gripped the frame, trying to steady herself. What had that been? Had she reached the shore? Was it a tree trunk, floating aimlessly in the water, that had struck her vessel? But then, a more terrifying thought gripped her. Could it be a crocodile? She knew the lake harbored them, and the thought of one sensing her, drawn by the scent of her blood, made her stomach twist. Crocodiles could smell blood from miles away, couldn¡¯t they? She wondered how many could be lurking beneath her, waiting. The idea of a dozen cold, hungry eyes staring up at her from the depths made her breath catch in her throat. Was this how it would end? To escape the monsters of her own village only to meet her fate at the jaws of these flesh-hungry beasts? She strained her eyes, searching the darkness that surrounded her, but saw nothing. The world felt utterly blind¡ªcompletely consumed by the void. It was as if the night itself had swallowed her whole. The coracle swayed again, this time much more violently, as if something from beneath the water was pulling at it. Or worse, climbing onto it. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She gripped the palm stem tightly, her mind racing. Please, please don¡¯t let it be a crocodile. She muttered the prayer silently, hoping that the gods might listen to her desperate plea. Then, as if to answer her prayers, a flash of lightning illuminated the surrounding darkness. For a split second, the world around her was briefly revealed¡ªshimmering water, the faint outline of trees swaying in the storm, and a figure clinging to a fallen palm trunk for buoyancy. A knot twisted in her stomach. And in that moment, she regretted praying for the presence of a crocodile. The beasts, though dangerous, would have been a merciful fate than what had truly found her. It was Turo. His wet, trembling form emerged from the darkness. His eyes locked onto her with a hunger that made her blood run cold. He had followed her into the water, but that wasn¡¯t what terrified her. It was the desperate way he was trying to climb into her coracle, his hands reaching for the edge, his breath ragged from exhaustion. The betrayal, the violence, the threats¡ªall of it flooded back to her in an instant. She wanted to scream, to curse him, to push him back into the water. How could he be here? How could he follow her? After everything, after everything he had done to her, how dare he come after her now? Samora felt her pulse quicken as she gripped the palm stem tighter. She would not let him near her. Not after everything. Not now. Not ever. 1.23 - Betrayed by Blood: The Turo Gamble ¡°Possessed!¡± Malok spat the word like venom. ¡°Goddess, Nox?¡± He let out a bitter snicker. ¡°You¡¯ve lost your mind. She¡¯s possessed, and you left our Turo alone with her? In the lake? On a stormy night? He¡¯s just a boy, Nox! How irresponsible can you be?¡± Nox clenched his fists in frustration. ¡°By the time I got to the shore, they were already far out into the water. Do you think I encouraged him to chase her into the lake?¡± Malok stepped closer, his posture menacing. ¡°That¡¯s just what you say. But who knows what really happened? We can only find out from Turo¡ªif he¡¯s still alive.¡± His voice dropped, each word dripping with accusation. ¡°And for all I know, he might be drowning in there.¡± Chief Marnoell flinched at those words. His face twisted in discomfort, a reaction not lost on Nox. Nox turned his focus back to Malok, his voice taut with anger. ¡°Why would you say something like that?¡± ¡°Because I know the truth,¡± Malok hissed, stepping even closer. ¡°Turo has always been your competitor, hasn¡¯t he?¡± Nox blinked, thrown offguard by the accusation. ¡°Competitor? For what?¡± His confusion was genuine. The crowd watched the exchange in tense silence. Malok¡¯s lips curled into a cruel smirk. ¡°For the title.¡± Chief Marnoell stepped between them, his face etched with disgust. ¡°Nox has never cared about power or leadership, Malok. Your brother is good, loyal, and obedient to a fault.¡± When Malok opened his mouth to protest, Marnoell cut him off with a gesture of his hand. ¡°Enough. I know him better than you ever will. Stop twisting this into a petty grudge and focus on the crisis at hand.¡± The rebuke hit home. Malok¡¯s shoulders slumped, and he hung his head in reluctant defeat. Marnoell turned to Nox. ¡°Is there any way to bring Turo back? Can we stop him before he reaches the other side?¡± Nox¡¯s brow furrowed in thought. ¡°Samora is on a basket, and she looked¡­ steady, like she knew exactly what she was doing. But Turo¡­¡± He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. ¡°Turo is clinging to a palm trunk. It¡¯s unstable, rolling and swaying with the waves. He¡¯s bound to get tired¡ªit might even hurt him. He won¡¯t last long out there. The danger isn¡¯t him setting foot on the other side.¡± He paused, letting his words sink in, his gaze sweeping over the gathered men. ¡°The real danger is that he might drown before he gets anywhere.¡± The men exchanged uneasy glances but nodded in grim agreement. ¡°So, we need to follow him,¡± Nox continued. ¡°We can use a raft and pull him out before it¡¯s too late. That¡¯s why I came here¡ªto get your permission, Chief Marnoell, to use a raft to sail across Lavalthon.¡± He fixed his gaze on the Chief, waiting for his response. Marnoell¡¯s expression darkened, shifting from troubled to furious. ¡°Have you completely lost your mind, Nox? We¡¯re already neck-deep in trouble, and now you want to risk even more lives?¡± His voice rose sharp with anger. ¡°Those waters are forbidden! No one is sailing them¡ªnot for Turo, not for anyone! That¡¯s my final word.¡± ¡°But¡ª¡± Nox began, his tone desperate. Marnoell silenced him with a raised hand. ¡°I know, Nox. I know my son is out there, struggling.¡± He gestured toward the lake, his voice heavy with grief. ¡°But I can¡¯t risk your life to save his.¡±Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. The Chief placed an affectionate hand on Nox¡¯s shoulder. For a moment, Nox¡¯s tension eased, and he gave Marnoell a look of quiet gratitude. Malok, however, wasn¡¯t done. ¡°Of course,¡± he muttered loudly, his tone dripping with sarcasm. ¡°Nox always banks on the Chief¡¯s kindness. Look how perfectly it¡¯s working for him now.¡± Marnoell¡¯s face darkened as he turned on Malok. ¡°Enough, Malok. Not another word against Nox.¡± His voice grew louder. ¡°He¡¯s my responsibility¡ªmy upbringing¡ªand I trust him completely. If there had been even a sliver of a chance to bring Turo back, Nox would have taken it.¡± Malok met his gaze with a bold, mocking smirk. ¡°Exactly my point, Chief. That¡¯s exactly what I said.¡± Marnoell¡¯s jaw tightened in frustration, but he let the remark slide, choosing to ignore Malok¡¯s provocation. Hiyan limped forward, his voice breaking through the tension. ¡°Wait¡ªdid you say Samora was sailing in a basket? The oversized one she¡¯s been working on for weeks?¡± Nox turned to him and nodded in a matter-of-fact way. "But didn¡¯t you call her mad when we saw her weaving it?¡± Hiyan directed the question at Malok, but backed off noticing Malok''s expression changing as if he¡¯d been struck by a thorn. Nox seized the moment. ¡°Exactly. That¡¯s what I¡¯m saying: it¡¯s just a basket. It might be stable for now, but it¡¯s no match for the storm. Both Samora and Turo¡¯s lives are at risk,¡± he argued. Malok scoffed. ¡°Great! Now you¡¯re worried about your sister-in-law? She¡¯s possessed, you fool!¡± ¡°Right,¡± Hiyan added with derision. ¡°She doesn¡¯t need us to save her. We¡¯re the ones who need saving¡ªfrom her.¡± ¡°All the more reason to be concerned,¡± Nox countered, refusing to back down. ¡°If she¡¯s possessed, she¡¯s not in control of herself. Someone needs to step in.¡± Malok sneered. ¡°So what? If she drowns, then so does the beast inside her. Problem solved. As for Turo, he¡¯ll survive on his own. But you¡ª¡± He jabbed a finger at Nox. ¡°You just want to go out there to make sure he never comes back.¡± Chief Marnoell¡¯s patience finally snapped. ¡°Malok! You don¡¯t even know what your own wife was up to, yet here you are, hurling baseless accusations at your brother.¡± His voice turned ice-cold, every word slicing like a blade. ¡°She eloped right under your nose, and you dare deflect your shame onto Nox?¡± Malok faltered, his confidence crumbling. ¡°Uncle¡ª¡± he stammered, flailing to regain his footing, but the words died in his throat. ¡°And a man who can¡¯t control his wife has no right to speak in public, let alone criticize the most capable among us!¡± Chief Marnoell thundered, silencing the group. His piercing gaze bore into Malok. ¡°If anything, Nox is leagues ahead of you. If he were in your place, he would have ensured his wife birthed safely. And if¡ªGod forbid¡ªthe child was cursed, he¡¯d have done what was necessary. He wouldn¡¯t have idled around, slinging accusations at the very people trying to help.¡± Marnoell turned to Nox, his tone softening. ¡°Go ahead, Nox.¡± Nox nodded. ¡°Uncle, you¡¯ve always been right. I¡¯m your upbringing. And you didn¡¯t raise me to turn my back on those in need. Right now, Turo and Samora need me. Let me do what you taught me¡ªto stand for family, no matter the cost.¡± Phyto stepped forward, his face etched with concern. ¡°But the other side of the lake is forbidden. We can¡¯t keep sending people to that cursed place. It¡¯ll bring ruin to the village!¡± Kaius joined in. ¡°Yes, we are Tuscanians. And Tuscanians never sail across Lavalthon. We have never, and we will never set foot on that forbidden land.¡± Nox stayed calm yet resolute. ¡°True. It¡¯s also true that we Tuscanians never abandon our own. We don¡¯t turn our backs on family, on flesh and blood. Turo is out there, and Samora too. I¡¯m not asking for permission to defy our ways¡ªI¡¯m asking for the right to risk my life for my family.¡± The group stood still and silent for a while. Finally, Chief Marnoell cleared his throat. ¡°Alright,¡± he said. ¡°Take four strong men with you. Use the biggest, sturdiest raft we have. Arm yourselves for defense, and take torches. But heed this warning, Nox¡ªdo not set foot on the other side. And do not let them land there, either.¡± Nox nodded. Everything unfolded as planned. Marnoell selected four capable young men, handed them weapons, and instructed them to gather torches on their way to the riverbank. After receiving blessings from the elders and Marnoell, the group set off with unspoken determination. As they prepared to leave the Banyan grove, Malok approached Nox, pulling him aside with a rough grip. His voice was low but sharp with menace. ¡°Uncle¡¯s kindness is wasted on you. This is all because of your stubborn, rigid obsession with following the rules. If you¡¯d gone into the birthing chamber with Turo, you could have stopped them both before they ever touched the lake. This is your fault, Nox¡ªyours and your stupid standards.¡± He paused, his words cutting deeper. ¡°Sometimes, Nox, you might have to break the rules for the greater good.¡± With that, Malok shoved him roughly and stalked away, leaving Nox standing there, the bitterness of his brother¡¯s words lingering in his mind. As they headed toward the warehouse to fetch torches, Nox couldn¡¯t help but wonder¡ªcould he really have saved them both if he hadn¡¯t followed the rules? 1.24 - A Kiss of Deceit The area beneath the Great Banyan bustled with activity. Chief Marnoell¡¯s gaze settled on Malok, his expression a careful mask of stoicism, though disdain seeped into his every movement. "I assume neither of you have anything more pressing to do," he said, addressing both Malok and Hiyan. Marnoell had never harbored a high opinion of the pair. Their intentions were often suspect, their actions questionable. He wondered, not for the first time, whether Malok¡¯s flaws stemmed from his association with Hiyan¡ªor if Hiyan¡¯s recklessness was a reflection of Malok¡¯s influence. You know, sometimes, friendships can shape a man; other times, they shatter him. Malok nudged Hiyan¡¯s ribs, forcing his friend¡¯s attention away from the departing group of young men and back to the chief. Marnoell cleared his throat impatiently. When Hiyan finally wiped the smirk from his face and focused on him, Marnoell turned his piercing gaze back to Malok. "Your mother-in-law deserves to know what¡¯s happening to her daughter," Marnoell began, his voice cold and measured. "You¡¯ve already failed in your duties¡ªas a husband, as a Tuscanian, and as the man of your house. At the very least, fulfill your obligations as a dependable son-in-law. Go to her. Reassure her as best you can. She¡¯s not only your wife¡¯s mother but also your paternal aunt. Do you remember that?¡± Malok nodded stiffly, his face betraying little emotion. Marnoell returned the nod. "Then act accordingly." His attention shifted to Hiyan. "And you," he said. ¡°If the rain continues through the night, Lavalthon¡¯s banks may break before dawn. If that happens, our village will flood again, just as it did last year. Go to the women and tell them to gather their children from Calla¡¯s. Make sure they stay indoors until further notice.¡± Hiyan shook his head vigorously, his exaggerated gesture bordering on comical. Marnoell rolled his eyes, exasperated, and turned his attention elsewhere, clearly done with the exchange. Malok and Hiyan moved away from the heart of the Banyan grove toward the village. Hiyan limped behind, hopping awkwardly over the twisted roots that jutted from the earth, each leap more ungainly than the last. When they were out of earshot, Hiyan broke the silence. "I never thought you were so fond of Turo," he said, his voice light as if testing the waters. Malok shot him a withering glare, sharp enough to make Hiyan falter. Hiyan swallowed hard. "I mean," he stammered, "you seemed really worried back there. I didn¡¯t know you had this¡­ family-oriented side." He trailed off, mumbling. "Family, my foot," Malok growled, stomping harder with each step. Hiyan blinked, confusion knitting his brow. "Then why did you¡­?" A sinister smile crept across Malok¡¯s face, curling his lips in a way that made Hiyan¡¯s discomfort deepen. "I was laying the foundation," Malok said, his tone low, calculated. Hiyan¡¯s expression twisted further in perplexity. "Foundation? I don''t understand what¡ª" "Good thing you don¡¯t understand," Malok cut him off sharply. "If even a dimwit like you could figure it out, then it¡¯d already be doomed." His eyes glinted with cold amusement as he quickened his pace. "Now shut up and keep moving." Hiyan struggled to keep up, his limp making him almost stumble over the protruding roots. He had been the mate who, during a drunken brawl with Malok, got stabbed in the thigh. When bystanders urged him to remove the blade before Kaius arrived, the act had worsened the damage. He had lost so much blood that he nearly died before Kaius managed to stabilize him. The aftermath had changed him forever. His injured leg grew thinner and weaker over time, forcing him to rely on his arms for support. Each step became a calculated effort¡ªdragging the injured foot, leaning on his stronger leg, and lifting the weaker one as he moved forward. His limp, a funny, pathetic mix of shuffling and hopping, had become a part of his identity. The villagers had thought the fight would shatter Malok and Hiyan¡¯s friendship. They expected enmity to replace camaraderie, but Hiyan still clung to Malok. While many admired his loyalty, Malok¡¯s reputation took a hit. People began to see him as who he really was¡ªselfish, harsh and domineering. Malok, who had always relished pushing Hiyan around, grew more abrasive after the incident. If anything, Hiyan¡¯s injuries made him easier to exploit. Yet, Hiyan didn¡¯t seem to mind. He continued to follow his friend, his admiration undiminished despite the growing fear of Malok¡¯s volatile moods. Rain had stopped, leaving the roofs of the houses drenched and dripping. The droplets of water pooled on the muddy ground, turning it into a squelchy mess. The light, cold breeze left them both shivering, despite the thick blankets wrapped around them.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! When they reached his mother-in-law¡¯s hut, Malok stopped in front of the weathered wooden slab that passed for a door. The slab was rotting at the edges, the wood damp from the rain. He hesitated, his hand hovering for a moment in disgust before he rapped on the wood twice. From inside, there was movement. Moments later, the slab shifted slightly. A short, feminine figure stepped into view, silhouetted by the dim light of the hut¡¯s interior. Her tone was sharp, biting. "You! What do you want?" She stood blocking the entrance, her small frame brimming with hostility. Malok cast her a smile, one that aimed for charm but landed closer to insincerity. "Creda, um¡­ is your mother inside?" he asked feigning warmth. "No. She''s dead. We''re both dead," Creda replied flatly, gripping the wooden slab as if to shut him out. She began sliding it back into place. But Malok was quicker. He caught her wrist, his thumb rubbing the edge of her palm with deliberate slowness. Creda flinched, her face contorted with disgust. "Let go of me!" she screeched, trying to wrench her arm free. Malok ignored her protests. "I don¡¯t know about your mother, but you seem more alive than ever." His grip tightened as he pulled her closer with a smirk playing on his lips. Creda¡¯s eyes narrowed, her muscles tensing. She shifted her stance, slanting the wooden slab she still held so it wedged against the doorframe. Pressing her foot into the ground, she leaned her weight into it, effectively anchoring herself in place. Realizing her resistance, Malok changed tactics. Instead of pulling her outward, he leaned inward, invading her space. The scent of the water lily tucked behind her ear hit him¡ªits delicate fragrance cloying, almost mocking against the stench of rain-soaked decay that surrounded him. The flower, oversized against her youthful features, only made her look smaller, more childlike. But her eyes burned with defiance. When Malok drew closer, Creda gathered a mouthful of saliva and spat forcefully. The spit struck him directly in the eye, wet and humiliating. Malok released her wrist with a sharp expletive, stumbling back as he wiped at his face. "You little¡ª" He choked on his words, shaking his head in disgust. "You man-starved witch!" Creda shoved the wooden slab fully aside and stepped out of the house and onto the damp ground. She gripped the slab in both hands, hoisting it as if ready to use it. Hiyan, watching the scene unfold, stepped back instinctively. His jaw hung slack, and he raised his hands in a defensive posture. Despite her small frame and the absurd size of the slab, Creda looked menacing¡ªdangerous even. "Touch me again," she snarled, "and it¡¯ll be the end of you." "Creda?" An elderly voice drifted from inside the hut, softening Creda''s otherwise hardened demeanor. Her eyes, however, never left Malok and Hiyan, as if they were prey to be watched carefully. "Who''s that, little one?" Creda pressed her foot down into the drenched mud. She leaned backward slightly, her body still bristling with tension. "Just a couple cursed spawns of swamp demons, mother. Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll see them out." "Who''s this girl troubling today?" The voice came again, exasperated now, along with the sound of vessels clinking as if the woman were busy setting them down. There was the shuffle of footsteps, and in moments, a figure appeared at the doorframe. A woman with a plain, sorrowful face peered around the gap where the wooden slab had been. Her hair was tied into a low bun, but stray strands framed her face, giving her an air of melancholy. She gasped when she saw Malok and Hiyan standing there. "Creda, what are you doing?" The woman stepped forward, grabbing her daughter by the arm and pulling her aside with more force than expected. She then took the slab from Creda''s hands and leaned it against the outer wall of the hut. She turned her attention back to Malok. "Please forgive her. She''s just¡­" "Brave," Malok finished for her, slightly amused. "Braver than any woman I¡¯ve ever seen." The woman looked away, embarrassed, her hands wringing nervously. "You''re too kind to us," she said, managing a thin, polite smile. "Yes, so kind that he threw your other daughter out to live like a tramp," Creda muttered from behind her mother. The woman glared at Creda. "Shush now. It¡¯s going to be over soon. And when it¡¯s over, he¡¯ll bring your sister back to live with him. I trust him completely. Won¡¯t you, son?" She looked at Malok desperately. Malok hesitated, swallowing a lump in his throat, and wiped off the remnants of Creda¡¯s spit still clinging to his face. "I would love to," he said, a dramatic sigh escaping him as he touched his chest. "I already miss her. My Samora." Creda rolled her eyes in mockery. "But¡­" "But what?" The woman asked nervously, her eyes widening. Malok paused, his hesitation only serving to deepen the tension. Creda''s patience wore thin. Her ears had perked at the "but," and she was growing increasingly impatient with his theatrics. "But what?" Creda snapped. "I''m afraid that¡¯s not going to happen," Malok finally said. The woman¡¯s expression shifted from anxiety to confusion. Creda shifted her weight, unimpressed with the exchange. Hiyan, uninterested, shifted his stance, his gaze wandering away from the conversation. I don¡¯t understand," the woman said. "Is the baby born yet? Is it a boy or a girl? Samora¡¯s doing well, right? What¡¯s¡­ what¡¯s going to happen now? I mean, the prophecy¡ªhas it gone wrong? The baby¡­ my grandson¡­ does he look human?" She stacked question upon question, each one more frantic than the last. Creda placed a calming hand on her mother¡¯s shoulder, gently easing her back. The woman¡¯s breath steadied as her daughter¡¯s touch gave her a moment of solace. Malok flinched, a tinge of mockery creeping into his being, though he struggled to mask his true feelings. His voice remained unnervingly sweet. "Actually, Aunt Bouma, we don''t know anything at all. I mean, you remember when I complimented Creda, calling her the bravest girl I¡¯ve ever seen?" He nodded, as though seeking her confirmation. The woman mirrored his actions, her eyes welling with unspoken emotions as her hands instinctively moved to clutch her chest. "I was wrong," Malok continued, his smile never faltering. "Your sister is far braver than you, Creda. No offense," he added with a casual glance at her. Creda and Bouma both waited, the silence stretching as they anticipated his next words. "Because she¡¯s doing something not even a man would dare to do." He paused, his eyes flicking from one woman to the other, a malicious smile curling on his lips. "She¡¯s crossing Lavalthon, seeking a more gruesome death¡ªfor herself and the baby." 1.25 - Lies Beneath His Smile "Go lick a rotten fish," Creda screamed. She was tending to her mother, who had stumbled backward to a sitting position at the doorstep, overwhelmed by shock and grief. Bouma clutched at her chest, her face twisted in pain, as though she couldn''t endure any more. Creda massaged her mother''s chest carefully, trying to ease her discomfort, but her eyes blazed with anger. "How cheap can he be?" she muttered under her breath, shaking her head in disbelief. Creda snapped her head toward Malok. "You''re shameless!" she spat. "Is this why you came here in the dead of night? To torment a helpless old lady?" "Torment? Who, me?" Malok asked, feigning outrage at the accusation. "I was being the supportive son-in-law I''m supposed to be. Right, Hiyan?" He turned to Hiyan, who nodded in agreement with exaggerated enthusiasm, his head bobbing comically. "Tough times these days!" Malok added, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. And this is your way of supporting?" Creda gestured toward her mother, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Tell me one thing¡ªwhat are you really trying to do?" She stepped forward threateningly, leaving her mother¡¯s side. "First, you married my sister with grand, empty promises." Creda began counting on her fingers, each movement deliberate. "Then, as soon as she bore your child, you threw her out onto the street, accusing her of infidelity." Abruptly, Creda stopped counting, her hand frozen mid-air as if struck by a sudden realization. She rested a hand on her hip, slightly swaying to one side. A bitter smirk curled her lips. "Oh, I get it now," she said. "You accused her because you know the truth¡ªyou¡¯re the one who can¡¯t have children." She scanned him from head to toe with mockery. Behind her, Bouma gasped audibly. "Creda, shush!" she chided, though her voice wavered, coming out as little more than a croak. Malok clenched his jaw tightly, suppressing both his anger and the sting of humiliation. Beside him, Hiyan stood stoic, his expression unreadable, as if Creda''s words had simply bounced off him. Creda was undeterred by her mother¡¯s protests. She took another menacing step forward. Though smaller in frame, her fiery presence forced both Malok and Hiyan to retreat slightly, stumbling backward as though confronted by a toddler throwing a tantrum¡ªbut one armed with fire. Creda resumed counting on her fingers, her tone dripping with mockery. "You wanted the child dead. Your own child," she whispered with fake excitement. Her eyes narrowed, and her gaze raked over Malok with disdain. "But it didn¡¯t matter to you, did it? Because deep down, you don¡¯t even believe it¡¯s yours¡­ do you?" She scanned him from head to toe again, her lips curling into a bitter smirk. "You made my sister live on the streets like a beggar for months," Creda continued, her voice rising with each word, "while you¡­ while you slept in that old hag, Tessa¡¯s¡­" She paused abruptly, hesitating as she turned slightly to check whether her mother was listening. And sure enough, Bouma was listening to every word, absorbing them as though they were the very food and water keeping her alive. Creda felt a lump rise in her throat, regretting that she might have said too much. Creda shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She needed to change the subject¡ªquickly. "Why are you even here?" she demanded. "Tell me, what do you hope to achieve by scaring my poor mother like that?" She took another step forward, her voice tinged with frustration. Malok sighed, letting go of his attempt to be civil. Without warning, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her hard against his chest and wrapping his strong arms around her, pinning her in place. "Scaring your mother, Creda?" he mocked. "I¡¯m just telling the truth. And by the way, you should learn to assess your opponent before you stand in front of them." He released her abruptly, his eyes flicking to Bouma, who was struggling to her feet in a desperate attempt to protect her daughter. "I have huge respect for you, Aunt Bouma," Malok said, his tone suddenly shifting from arrogance to a deceptively respectful smile directed at Bouma. "But not so much for your daughters. Sure, they¡¯re brave, but they fail to understand that a woman¡¯s bravery only brings danger¡ªboth to herself and to those around her."This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. He gave a deliberate nod. "What I said was true. Samora¡¯s crossing Lavalthon. Turo¡¯s following her like a fool, betting his life on a single fallen trunk. Now Nox is chasing after them too. Claims he¡¯s going to save them both. But I don¡¯t hold out much hope for any of them. For all I know, none of them will return. And even if Nox does find them¡­ nah." He shrugged dismissively. "I¡¯m just here, playing the supportive son-in-law, right? Why would I say something to scare you? Let it go." He finished with a dismissive wave of his hand. Creda stepped back with a sneer, her gaze dripping with disdain. Though fear gnawed at her insides, she buried it beneath the mask of disgust she wore. She had to. Bouma stepped forward, her head tilted to one side. "Is it true? Is my Samora¡­?" She pointed towards the lake, her tear-filled eyes locked onto Malok''s, refusing to look away. Malok nodded, his expression grave. "She is." Bouma raised her hand to her face, a gut-wrenching wail tearing from her chest. Her knees gave way beneath her, and Creda rushed forward, catching her mother before she could collapse to the ground. "What have we done?" Bouma cried, her voice breaking with grief. "My poor daughter¡­ How alone, how rejected she must have felt to leave this paradise¡ªthis land, her husband, her kin, her mother." She pressed her hand to her chest, as if trying to hold her heart in place, a fresh wave of sobs wracking her body. "Her lovely¡­ lovely sister." Bouma touched Creda¡¯s chin gently, her voice softening as her tear-filled eyes met Creda¡¯s troubled gaze. "And to seek that forbidden land to bear her innocent child¡­" What have we done?" Bouma sank to the ground, her palm pressing into the wet earth. "We pushed her to her limit. We taught her never to rely on us again. We forced her to leave everything she knew, everything she belonged to, just to survive." She pressed her palms to her face, sobbing bitterly. Her grief was raw, an agonizing reflection of her regret. "We have¡­ made a terrible mistake." Her wail echoed. "We''ve done an unforgivable injustice to my baby. And I¡­ I stood by, while my child suffered inside." Tears welled in Creda¡¯s eyes. Helpless, she wiped her mother¡¯s tears away, rubbing her back comfortingly. Malok¡¯s expression softened at the sight of Bouma¡¯s pain. He crouched beside her, gently prying one of her hands from her face, holding it between his own. He swallowed hard before speaking. "Mother, you need to stay strong now. This isn''t the time for breaking down." He hesitated, struggling to find the right words. "I agree¡­ we made a mistake." Behind him, Hiyan stood, mouth agape in disbelief at Malok¡¯s admission. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, struggling to balance as fatigue crept in. The leg he was relying on, weaker and more unstable, wobbled beneath him, but he quickly corrected himself, trying to hide the exhaustion. Malok continued. "I¡­ I don¡¯t know what to say. I tried to save my wife. I was ready to go to her aid. But you know Uncle Marnoell, right? He never had a good impression of me, so he wouldn¡¯t let me go." Creda, silently sobbing with her mother, raised her tearful eyes to meet Malok¡¯s gaze. Her voice was low but deliberate. "You were ready to help my sister? After you threw her¡ª" "On the streets, yes." Malok cut her off, an annoyed look crossing his face. "The thing is, Creda, humans make mistakes. And I¡¯m human¡ªan incredibly flawed one, at that. But letting my wife live on the streets isn¡¯t the same as letting her die a cursed, sinful death." His tone was sincere. "Trust me. I tried. I really did. But my past mistakes got in the way of doing the right thing this time. Uncle Marnoell didn¡¯t trust me with the task. He gave it to Nox instead. But here¡¯s the thing¡ªI''m not sure how true this is, but I heard from a reliable source that Nox¡­ has changed." Creda and Bouma looked at him as though they were hypnotized. Their tears began to dry. "I heard¡­" Malok glanced at Hiyan, as if seeking permission to continue. Hiyan pouted his lips in genuine confusion. Malok sighed, then turned his gaze back to Creda and Bouma, offering them a sympathetic look. "I heard that he¡¯s planning to kill Turo tonight, to become the only candidate for chief." Bouma gasped audibly. "Our Nox? I can''t believe¡ª" "Neither can I," Malok replied. "But he¡¯s changed a lot in these last few months. Like¡­" He pressed his hands onto Bouma¡¯s palms to emphasize his next words. "¡­too dangerously ambitious. And something in my gut tells me he won¡¯t spare Samora if it serves his purpose." He feigned a troubled expression. "He¡¯s my own brother, but I can¡¯t let my wife become his prey, can I?" He nodded, as if to affirm his decision. Bouma could barely contain the next wave of sobs rising inside her. "No, no, mother! You shouldn''t cry," Malok said, wiping her face gently and pressing warmth into her palm. "You shouldn''t cry while I¡¯m still alive. I¡¯ll do whatever I can to stop this. Even if it means going against Uncle Marnoell''s orders. Trust me, I¡¯ll risk my life to save Samora." Creda''s brow furrowed, uncertainty clouding her eyes. "Will you, really?" "Of course." He caressed her cheek. She didn¡¯t flinch. "But I need to leave now, before Nox gets too far." Malok stood, preparing to go. Hiyan mirrored his movements like a silent shadow. But then, as if something occurred to him, Malok stopped and turned back. "Wait¡ª I forgot. Uncle Marnoell asked us to warn the women and children to stay inside. The lake¡¯s rising. But it¡¯s already getting late for us." He shifted his weight uneasily, glancing toward the river. Bouma rose quickly. Creda followed suit. Bouma wiped her tears away with determination. "Don¡¯t worry, son. Creda will handle it. You go ahead. We¡¯ll get it done." She urged him to leave. "Are you sure?" Malok asked with a hint of concern in his voice. "You both look exhausted." Bouma nodded with urgency. "We¡¯ll manage. Don¡¯t worry." Malok left with a cruel smile. 1.26 - A Murderous Pact in the Moonlight Malok quickened his pace in the direction of the cremation ground. Hiyan limped silently behind him. Wet mud splashed all over the blankets wrapped around their bodies. The closer they got to the cremation ground, the swampier the terrain became. A thick natural wall of reeds and bushes separated the land of the dead from the land of the living. Malok and Hiyan pushed through the narrow clearing in the reeds and bushes, made for people to enter and exit the area. This was the place where Lavalthon drained into the coconut pond, the connection point between the lake and the shallow river feeding the pond. The ground here was wetter and swampier than ever. Over naturally raised mounds of earth, which were less waterlogged than the surrounding land, ashes and charred remains from bodies burned in previous days mixed with rainwater, pooling in the lower ground. The entire area resembled an earthly hell. A few ruined houses, built long ago with mud and stone, were scattered across the landscape, their haunting presence adding to the grim atmosphere. Malok had been told his ancestors had lived here, building stone houses on what they believed to be solid ground. Then the lake had risen, flooding their homes and forcing them to abandon the area. The floodwaters carved a shallow river through the settlement, rendering it uninhabitable. The survivors had moved to higher ground, just as some farmers had done in recent years when Lavalthon encroached upon their fields. Stone houses were no longer built; wooden huts had become the norm because they were easier to dismantle and relocate if the lake rose again. For almost a hundred years, the waters had stayed back, but the memory of the flood lingered, keeping the old ways alive. After moving to the higher lands, the stone houses had decayed into ruins, becoming home to wild barn owls and dead trees that haunted the landscape. The space now served as the cremation ground since it was useless for anything else and located conveniently near the water for rituals. They often burned the bodies on the open, raised mounds of earth during dry seasons. But in seasons like this, when rain flooded the land, they moved the pyres to the ruins, where the floor remained elevated and less swampy. As Malok and Hiyan crossed the desolate ground, scattered bones and skulls from incomplete cremations caught their eyes. The rain had washed the ashes away, leaving the bones and skulls yellowed with decay. Kelp clung to the remains, giving them a creepy appearance as if flesh and tissue were regenerating. The occasional flash of lightning only intensified the illusion. Crickets chirped in a steady hum, filling the silence. Owls hooted, their calls cutting through the stillness. In the distance, the river¡¯s soft rustle grew louder. "Why are we here at this hour?" Hiyan trembled, struggling to keep pace with Malok but reluctant to be left alone. Malok smirked without looking back. "To set up pyres." Hiyan frowned, pulling his blanket tighter around him as he scanned the shadows. "But why? I haven¡¯t heard of anyone dying. Even that two hundred-year-old hag, Calla, is still going strong." Not in the village, you fool," Malok glanced at him, his feet crunching over bones and twigs. "But on the lake." He paused. "And beyond." "How can you be so sure they''ll turn up dead?" Hiyan asked, his ears twitching at the distant slosh of water. He felt himself drawn toward the river.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. "How can you be sure they''ll turn back alive?" Malok mocked. Hiyan fell silent. Lavalthon was uncharted territory, and the land leading to the Maverielle Mountains was forbidden¡ªpossibly cursed. For all he knew, curses required blood sacrifices to be lifted. But what if those were just superstitions? Old wives'' tales? "Are you seriously betting your plan on the cursed land?" he asked, doubt spilling out. Malok laughed, startling the owls. They flapped their wings, then settled back into the ruins. "Betting? I''ve been plotting for months. You think I¡¯d gamble? I know my plan¡¯s working. Now there¡¯s just one last thing to do." "Which is?" Malok turned on him, disgust curling his lip. "Digging one for Nox." He sneered. "You really are a dimwit. How do you think I¡¯ll get the title if he¡¯s still alive?" "But how are you going to do that?" Hiyan asked. "Watch me," Malok said, falling silent. Hiyan limped behind him, his pace uneven. The strain of the long journey weighed heavily on his leg, making each step more awkward than the last. The growth around them became taller and denser as they approached the river. When they reached the rock-strewn, swampy riverbed, they veered off their path and turned northwest, following the riverbank toward the dock where the rafts were stored when not in use. As they got closer to the dock, Malok abandoned the idea of taking the openings and instead moved quietly through the dense woods. He gestured for Hiyan to do the same. Hiyan regretted ever following Malok. His legs ached, desperate for relief. He longed to return home, fall into bed, and never walk again. But having come this far, he had no choice but to press on. When the dock finally came into view, Malok quickly ducked behind a thick bush and pulled Hiyan down beside him. The dock was already lit by torches. "Shoot!" Malok muttered under his breath. "We''re late." "For what?" Hiyan wanted to ask but decided against it. Malok carefully scanned the area ahead. The dock was only a few feet away, a small wooden structure with roofs for occasional storage and stumps for tying the rafts while they were in the water. From where they hid, he could see young men busy crafting paddles instead of using their usual bamboo trunks to push off the riverbed. He could even hear muffled voices, but the sound was too low to make out. Malok strained to listen, but the chirping of crickets and Hiyan''s loud panting drowned out the distant conversation. Malok motioned for Hiyan to stay silent, but Hiyan, as usual, mirrored his action and panted even louder. Malok feared the noise might reveal their hiding spot. Worse, it was blocking him from hearing the conversation. After a moment of frustration, Malok clamped Hiyan''s nose shut with his thumb and forefinger, signaling him to stay quiet. Hiyan''s eyes widened in shock and confusion. But Malok could hear a bit better now. ¡°The bamboo trunks we normally use to push against the ground won¡¯t be much help in the lake if the lakebed is too far below. And that¡¯s the problem¡ª¡± Hiyan''s attempt to pry Malok''s fingers off his nose distracted him from what was happening at the dock. Malok¡¯s grip was slipping, and Hiyan was starting to panic. In response, Malok wrapped one arm around his neck and arms to keep him still and used his other hand to clamp his nose and mouth shut to prevent any noise. ¡°¡ªjust like her, we too might need a paddle to push through the water¡ª¡± Hiyan struggled in Malok''s hold, squirming and thrashing. Malok tightened his grip like an anaconda wrapping around its prey. Hiyan couldn¡¯t move or fight for air, but his chest heaved in painful desperation. ¡°¡ªtie these together like this, we need three more paddles. It''ll give us more speed to make up for the time we lost¡ª¡± Hiyan¡¯s face turned red, his eyes swollen as if they might burst. He pressed both his good leg and the weaker one into the ground, pushing Malok back as best as he could to relieve himself. The wet vegetation masked any sound from their fall, but Malok''s grip remained steady, his ears focused on the conversation ahead. ¡°¡ªif the storm picks up again, the torches will be blown out in no time. We can''t rely on the lightning to search for them. Let¡¯s take these storm lanterns instead. They¡¯ll last until dawn, even if¡ª¡± Malok had heard enough. They were still preparing for their sail, meaning he still had plenty of time to complete his task as long as he stayed hidden. Hiyan''s chest heaved violently, as if it might be his last breath. Malok released his hold just in time for him to gulp in more air than his lungs could handle. Hiyan started to cough and choke uncontrollably on the sudden rush of air. 1.27 - A Dying Friendship 0.20 Malok froze, his eyes darting between the dock and the struggling Hiyan. The young men were still talking, their voices rising as they debated the best way to secure the paddles. But Hiyan''s coughing fit was growing louder, threatening to betray their hiding spot. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the dock and the dense foliage around them, freezing Malok in place. For a split second, he thought they might have been seen. Before anyone could react, a deep rumble of thunder followed, drowning out Hiyan''s first few coughs. Without giving it much thought, Malok acted quickly, grabbing a handful of wet mud and pressing it to Hiyan''s mouth. The cold, squishy texture shocked Hiyan into momentary silence. Wind gusted through the trees, rustling leaves and whipping the torches at the dock into a frenzy. The flames sputtered and danced wildly. One of the men shouted, ¡°Get those torches covered before they go out!¡± The men scrambled to secure their light sources. Behind the dark bushes, Hiyan¡¯s eyes widened in shock and panic as he struggled, clawing at Malok¡¯s arm. "Shut up and breathe through your nose!" Malok growled, pressing harder. Hiyan¡¯s body spasmed in a futile attempt to push Malok away, but the mud kept him from coughing, muffling the sound. The young men didn¡¯t seem to notice. They were still preoccupied with covering the flickering torches, unaware of the two figures hidden in the dark. Hiyan¡¯s chest heaved as he tried to force air through his nose, but the pressure was unbearable. His mouth was filled with thick, choking mud, and his throat burned from the effort to swallow and breathe. He wasn¡¯t obeying; he couldn¡¯t. His limbs were weak, trembling, and the more he struggled, the more he could feel the suffocating weight of it all. The panic rising in his chest made it harder to fight for breath. One of the men on the dock called out, "Did you hear something?" The other man paused. "Probably just the wind," he said dismissively. Malok held Hiyan there, his hand still pressed hard against his mouth, waiting for the men to look away. Every second felt like an eternity. Hiyan¡¯s movements were growing weaker, his body trembling from lack of air, but Malok held firm, his eyes never leaving the men. Another flash of lightning illuminated the area, but no one looked at the thickets anymore. Malok was aware of Hiyan¡¯s movements growing weaker in his arms, yet he wasn¡¯t ready to let go, to risk getting caught. Chief Marnoell was thinking that they were in the village, warning the women about the rising lake water. If he got caught here, he wouldn¡¯t be able to explain his reasons without ruining the entire plan. His plans were bigger, and they couldn¡¯t be ruined at any cost. He waited for the lightning to be followed by thunder. When it finally came¡ªa loud and long-drawn-out rumble capable of masking any sound¡ªMalok acted, dragging Hiyan away from the spot, not worrying about the leaves rustling beneath them. The roar of the thunder covered any noises they made. But something else bothered him. Hiyan was heavy and unresisting, like a dead body. A deadweight straining against his flexing muscles nonetheless. His head lolled to one side. *Is he dead?* Malok¡¯s mind raced. For a moment, he feared he was dragging the lifeless body of his friend. But he didn¡¯t stop. If Hiyan was indeed dead, then there was no reason to stop anymore. He dragged him away for as long as the thunder rumbled and as far as he could get him from the dock. When the thunder finally ended in silence, Malok stopped dragging Hiyan and set his body down. He pressed his thumb to Hiyan¡¯s wrist and neck and checked his pulse.Stolen novel; please report. Hiyan was alive, barely alive, but unconscious. Malok acted quickly. He sprinted to the stream running nearby, drenched the unmuddied part of his blanket in the water, and squeezed it all over Hiyan¡¯s face and inside his mouth. The water seemed to bring Hiyan back to consciousness. He gulped the gushing water greedily, washing away the mud still clinging to the interior of his mouth and throat, burning his insides as it found its way in. Hiyan¡¯s eyes burned; his nose hurt from being pinched earlier. His insides hurt as if they were on fire. Malok sprinted to the stream again to drench his blanket in the water, returned to Hiyan, and squeezed water into his mouth. After two more trips to the stream, Hiyan was able to sit upright without support. His lungs still burned. When Malok offered to squeeze water into his mouth again, Hiyan refused. ¡°Ew! You¡¯ve been wringing your dirty blanket into my mouth?¡± he croaked with disgust. Malok pressed his lips into a thin line of mockery. ¡°Should have left you to die instead.¡± Hiyan scrunched his eyebrows, focusing his concentration on a distant memory. *Why are we here in the dead of night?* he had asked Malok while they were crossing the cremation ground. *To set up pyres,* Malok had replied. A revelation hit him, widening his eyes in realization. ¡°You brought me here to kill me, didn¡¯t you? You said you were going to set up a pyre for someone. Was that for me?¡± His voice rose with anger, the grains of soil still rubbing against his insides. Malok leaned away from him, scanning him from head to toe. ¡°You¡¯re not worth that much.¡± He paused and stared at Hiyan¡¯s bony, limp leg with disgust. ¡°Not anymore.¡± Hiyan¡¯s face shrunk in shame and humiliation. That was the first time he had ever shown his true emotions in months. He stayed silent, staring at a distant rock, avoiding Malok¡¯s gaze at all costs. A storm was starting to brew right beneath his gaze, unknown to Malok. Malok shuffled to his feet. ¡°I have some work to do. You better stay here, else you¡¯ll spoil everything for me.¡± He dusted his clothes of dirt with the back of his hand. Hiyan¡¯s gaze stayed on the rock, unwavering. Malok continued. ¡°That was a narrow escape. If not for the thunder, you might have been dead by now. I¡¯ll be back in a moment. Rest while you can; the dawn is going to be chaotic at best.¡± He disappeared into the thickets again. Hiyan¡¯s gaze over the rock never wavered even for a second. He sat there, replaying the events that led to this exact moment in his mind. He had been mates with Malok for as long as he could remember. He could even recall his mother thrashing him with a stick whenever he did something naughty along with Malok as a toddler. As a teenager, his father had advised and even threatened him to abandon his friendship with Malok. *It¡¯s not working the way it should. He¡¯ll only destroy your life,* his father had said. The entire village had criticized their friendship. Chief Marnoell had hated him to his heart¡¯s content. But he had stuck with Malok nonetheless. Even when Malok had stabbed him in the thigh, rendering one of his legs useless. Even when Malok had pushed him around like a puppet. Even after his entire life was ruined and had to be redesigned to fit his newly disabled body, he had still valued Malok¡¯s friendship more than his life. But now, he could see clearly. Now, he could see what being with Malok was really doing to him. His mother was right after all. Malok had never been good at heart. His father was right after all. Their friendship had indeed ruined his life and everything he had valued in it. The village, even Chief Marnoell, was right after all. No good would come from this friendship. He thought about those days when he and Malok had played together, heard Calla¡¯s stories with adoration in their eyes, dreamed of conquering the world, teased and made fun of the girls in their village as youngsters. All the moments they had spent together. All the moments he had cherished so far. And then there was the moment Malok had cruelly ruined his body and life. The moment Malok had strangled him to avoid getting caught. The moment Malok had pressed a handful of mud into his mouth, making him swallow it. The moment Malok had rendered him half dead and mocked his worth based on the disability Malok himself had caused. He saw clearly now who Malok truly was. He saw clearly now what Malok was doing to him. And he wouldn¡¯t let Malok push him around anymore. Worse, he would make Malok pay for his mistreatment. His body might have been disabled, weaker than his friend¡¯s. But his mind was still intact. He would make Malok pay. He would. 1.28 - The Crocodiles Will Do the Rest Hiyan''s mind was made up. It was himself over Malok, not the other way around. Not anymore. A sharp slap to the back of his head reignited the anger that had just begun to settle. He whipped around to see Malok standing behind him, a triumphant grin stretched across his face. The sight both confused and enraged him further. Whatever Malok was up to, it couldn''t be good¡ªit never was. True, Hiyan had never questioned his intentions before. He''d even helped with Malok''s schemes, no matter how twisted or cruel. But something had changed. The illusion of a bond, one that had never truly existed, had kept him blind. Not anymore. Why should he take part in another''s sins? he asked himself. Malok was no longer a friend¡ªjust a stranger. A cruel, selfish stranger who had tried to kill him, repeatedly, and taken satisfaction in his humiliation every time. "Ah¡­" Malok exhaled, settling beside Hiyan and leaning against the same rough tree trunk. "That''s it. Now we can rest, knowing we''ll succeed when the sun rises." Hiyan stayed silent, defiant, refusing to meet his gaze. Malok didn''t notice. He was too lost in his own fantasies, drunk on the vision of a bright future. "I''ve finally cleared away all my obstacles, my friend!" he said, nudging Hiyan''s shoulder with enthusiasm. Hiyan swayed but kept his eyes fixed on the rock he''d been staring at since he woke up¡ªalive, against all odds. He should have been dead. He remembered the thrashing, the desperate fight to survive. The way Malok had watched with that cold, calculating look, deliberately avoiding his panicked, pleading eyes. Malok had known he was dying, suffocating in agony. And yet, he''d pressed on, focused on his goal, exploiting Hiyan¡¯s weakened state and the fatigue that had clung to him ever since that drunken brawl had sapped his strength. All this time, Hiyan had been walking hand in hand with his own death¡ªand like a fool, he''d let it happen. Hiyan shook his head, forcing the memories away. That Hiyan was dead. He had died when Malok had so mercilessly choked the life out of him. The one who woke up afterward¡ªthe one sitting beside the traitor now¡ªwas someone new. Someone more ambitious than Malok could ever imagine. Someone who would make him pay for every betrayal. Someone crueler, more calculating, and far more dangerous than Malok could ever be. He tuned out Malok''s self-congratulatory prattle¡ªthe boasts, the cackles, the smug remarks. Until¡­ Malok nudged him again, harder this time, his expression shifting to one of concern. "Are you still tired from everything earlier?" he asked. Hiyan hesitated, unsure if the concern was genuine or just another ploy. Was Malok testing him, probing for weakness? Would he try to finish what he started? "Um¡­ no," Hiyan answered, struggling to sound convincing. The question lingered in his mind: was Malok gauging his vulnerability? His limbs still ached, his lungs burned, and any exertion would likely push his battered body past its limits. Was that Malok¡¯s plan all along? To weaken him, to rob him of his ability to fight back? Malok nudged him again, this time with a playful grin. "Who are you dreaming about?" Hiyan knew he needed to tread carefully. First, he had to assess Malok¡¯s intentions. Second, he had to buy himself time. Curling his lips into a smirk, he replied, "Your sister-in-law." Malok¡¯s demeanor shifted instantly, the playful grin giving way to a hard, serious stare. Hiyan¡¯s pulse quickened. Had he gone too far? Had he made a mistake? Every nerve in his body screamed at him to be alert¡ªhe was sitting next to a man who wouldn¡¯t hesitate to kill him. His fingers trembled involuntarily. "Don¡¯t even think about her," Malok warned coldly. "She¡¯ll soon be your sister, and it¡¯s a sin to have intimate thoughts about a sister." Hiyan blinked, confusion washing over him. "My sister? Creda? But how?" His voice was hoarse, his throat still raw from the earlier ordeal. He resisted the urge to claw at his neck, knowing it would only make him gag.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. Malok¡¯s expression softened, a strange shyness creeping onto his face. "What else would you call your best friend¡¯s wife?" he said. Hiyan stared at him, his mind racing. Best friend? Wife? What twisted game was Malok playing now? Hiyan¡¯s eyebrows furrowed as his mind snapped into overdrive. What was Malok talking about? Why would Creda marry him? Questions swirled in his head, but his instincts warned him to stay quiet. "Ah¡­ this occasion calls for a drink. Come, let¡¯s head to the warehouse." Malok sprang to his feet and yanked Hiyan up along with him. Hiyan winced as he stood, his legs trembling under his weight. Pain flared in his muscles¡ªhe must have sprained a tendon or two during the struggle. Malok led the way through the woods, taking a shortcut to the village. Hiyan followed, limping behind, watching the peculiar bounce in Malok''s step. What was he so happy about? Had he already killed Nox? Was that why he''d gone back to the dock earlier? It took only a few minutes to reach the fields on the village''s western edge. Soon, they were moving stealthily through the village toward the warehouse. The trees, bushes, and crops swayed gently in the cold breeze. The sky, still heavy with clouds, threatened rain but held back. Lanterns in the houses had gone out, signaling the women and children were asleep. Yet the distant crackle of a bonfire hinted that the men were still awake beneath the Great Banyan. From the tree''s core, concealed by its countless prop roots, no one would spot them. But anyone wandering near the grove''s edge might catch sight of their movement. Malok and Hiyan kept to the shadows. Hiyan couldn¡¯t understand why they were being so cautious just to fetch drinks. Drinking wasn¡¯t exactly a crime compared to the other things they¡¯d done. Inside the warehouse, Malok tossed his damp blanket near the door. He stretched and scanned the racks lining the walls. "Ah¡­ here it is," he said, lifting two pots of fermented palm wine he had stored there earlier that evening. The pots, their necks covered with thick fabric tied with rope, seemed heavy. Malok turned to Hiyan, his face alight with satisfaction, and winked. "Let¡¯s take these back to the dock," he said, securing the pots with a rope strung over his neck. The pots swung like pendulums at his sides as he grabbed them firmly to keep them from colliding. They retraced their path through the village, this time heading back to the dock. The journey was darker now¡ªthe torches had been taken by the men, along with Nox. Over the horizon, the first hints of dawn peeked through. The black sky lightened to gray, though thick rain clouds still obscured the rising sun. Malok sat cross-legged on the wooden dock under the roof, gesturing for Hiyan to join him. He removed the rope from his neck and untied the fabric covering the pots. Handing one to Hiyan, he grinned proudly. "To the dawn of victory," Malok said, clinking his pot against Hiyan¡¯s. Hiyan forced a smile, his heart heavy with unease. He hadn¡¯t touched his drink, instead watching Malok down his with enthusiasm. Fear gnawed at him¡ªwhat if Malok intended to get him drunk and slit his throat? But Hiyan¡¯s pride wouldn¡¯t let him admit the thought, not even to himself. "What¡¯s the occasion?" Hiyan asked, his pot still untouched. Malok wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after a long gulp. "Told ya already!" he said with a smirk. Hiyan exhaled a frustrated breath. What had Malok done? Why was he so damn happy? He waited until Malok had emptied more than half of his pot and was tipsy from the drink before trying again. "Why are you so damn happy?" Hiyan asked, his voice sharp with suspicion. "Did you kill someone or what?" "Me?" Malok pointed at his chest, then burst into maniacal laughter. "I don¡¯t dirty my hands like that. It was just an accident. I never killed anyone." He took another swig from his pot. "Not with my hands, anyway." Malok stared at his hands in drunken confusion. Hiyan¡¯s heart pounded. That phrase gnawed at his mind. He set his own untouched pot down and shifted closer to Malok. "What do you mean by that? ¡®Not with your hands¡¯? What are you trying to say?" Did Malok actually kill someone? On purpose? Despite everything Malok had done earlier, Hiyan struggled to believe he was friends with a cold-blooded murderer. A troublemaker? Absolutely. But a killer? "The crocodiles are going to kill him, not me," Malok muttered, grinning. The words hit Hiyan like a blow. He realized Malok was talking about his brother, Nox. A wave of relief swept over him. The crocodiles¡ªyes, the lake was infested with them. For a moment, he had feared something far worse. But Malok wasn¡¯t finished. "I just cut the lifeline of the raft he was on," Malok added with a chuckle. Hiyan¡¯s eyes widened in shock and horror. The lifeline¡ªa marvel of Tuscanian craftsmanship¡ªwas the very core of the raft¡¯s structure. It held the logs together, ensuring they stayed unified against the current. No matter how strong the flow or how aged the wood, the lifeline could withstand it all. As long as it was intact, the raft could carry any reasonable load across any reasonable distance. But if the lifeline was severed? The raft wouldn¡¯t break apart immediately. It would weaken, disintegrating slowly, almost imperceptibly¡ªuntil it was too late. Until that night, the rafts had only been used to ferry coconuts from the ponds to the village. The river was shallow and forgiving; even if a lifeline failed, the worst they¡¯d lose were a few sacks of coconuts¡ªsacks they could recover with another raft. But tonight was different. Tonight, the lifeline was the difference between life and death. The raft wasn¡¯t carrying coconuts. It was carrying people¡ªNox and four other innocent men, none of whom had anything to do with Malok¡¯s schemes. And tonight, they weren¡¯t sailing the calm, shallow waters of the river. They were venturing into the deep, uncharted lake. Malok had severed the lifeline. Which meant¡­ Tonight marked the deaths of four innocent people¡ªpossibly more. And Malok was drinking to celebrate it. 1.29 - The Search for Turo Turns Deadly The lake was alive. Waves lapped against the logs of the raft, making it creak¡ªa mournful sound that echoed in the vast, oppressive stillness. Nox gripped the storm lantern tightly, its faint glow casting trembling reflections on the water¡¯s inky surface. Rain had stopped, but lightning still flared across the sky, each flash revealing far more than the lantern could. Everything was soaked¡ªhis hands, his feet, his face, his hair, his clothes. Even the base of the raft was slick and sodden. But Nox didn¡¯t care. All that mattered was finding Turo. He knew how much Turo meant to his uncle, Marnoell. After years of painful longing for a child, Turo had been a miracle. A child born of prayer and desperation. Losing him wasn¡¯t an option. And then there was Samora. She was pregnant. The bloody footprints near the lake¡¯s edge suggested that she was injured, possibly dying. And there was the cursed baby in her womb. Nox didn¡¯t know what to think about the baby. Could an innocent soul truly be evil? He wanted to believe otherwise, but he didn¡¯t dare question the oracle¡¯s premonition or disobey his uncle¡¯s orders. Let me take both Samora and her child back to the village, he thought. Uncle will decide what¡¯s best. The men on the raft paddled sluggishly, their movements stiff with cold and fear. Their eyes darted across the water, not seeking signs of Turo but scanning for something far worse¡ªsomething they feared would leap out at them at any moment. Bhola¡¯s trembling hands gripped his paddle, his teeth chattering as he hummed a shaky tune under his breath. It was barely audible over the soft splash of water, but the fear in his voice cut through the air like a knife. ¡°Shut up and paddle,¡± Khotal muttered, nudging Bhola sharply in the ribs. Bhola¡¯s face twisted in annoyance, but his voice wavered. ¡°What if¡­ they catch us?¡± he mumbled, his words lilting into a broken melody. ¡°What if they take us? What if they drown us? What if they¡ª¡± ¡°Enough!¡± Nox snapped. ¡°Aren¡¯t you men already? You don¡¯t sound like it.¡± As the youngest of the group, Nox was all too aware of his position among them. The others had each completed their first hunt, adorning themselves with trophies from their kills. By comparison, he was just a boy. But fear? Wasnt that for children? For women, he thought. Not for men. ¡°Isn¡¯t fear something you outgrow after your first hunt?¡± he taunted. Khotal turned to him with a scowl. ¡°Who told you that nonsense?¡± he shot back. ¡°Fear¡¯s not something you outgrow¡ªit¡¯s human. We just learn to hide it better.¡± As if to prove his point, Khotal¡¯s eyes darted toward the sound of splashing water. His face twisted in panic, and he sprang to his feet, the raft rocking beneath him. ¡°What¡¯s that?!¡± he shouted, brandishing his paddle like a weapon. ¡°Is it a monster? Is it evil? I¡¯ll kill you! Come here, I¡¯ll kill you!¡± His wild movements sent the raft swaying dangerously, the logs groaning under the sudden shift in weight. Nox crouched low, clutching the slippery wood to steady himself as Khotal swung his paddle, narrowly missing the heads of the other men. ¡°Sit down, you fool!¡± one of them shouted in panic. Khotal teetered precariously, his paddle raised like a warrior ready for battle. For a moment, it seemed like he might plunge himself into the dark, waiting waters. "Sit down, you fool!" "Someone put him down!" "You''re gonna drown us!" The men¡¯s shouts overlapped as the raft wobbled dangerously beneath them. ¡°That¡¯s not a monster. It was your mate paddling the raft,¡± Nox said calmly. He shifted his weight carefully to counterbalance the tilt Khotal had caused. The raft groaned under the strain. Khotal froze, his paddle still raised mid-swing. Slowly, the tension drained from his body, replaced by the creeping heat of shame. The back of his neck and ears burned as he exchanged a sheepish glance with Bhola. ¡°It was you,¡± he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. ¡°You¡¯re not a monster.¡± Bhola shook his head, his expression deadpan. ¡°No, I¡¯m not.¡± The other men sighed, rolling their eyes as they turned their attention back to paddling. Khotal lowered himself, reluctantly resuming his position and dipping his paddle into the water. His movements were stiff, his pride bruised. ¡°That doesn¡¯t exactly sound like being better at hiding fear,¡± Nox remarked dryly. His eyes never left the water as he slowly stood, testing the raft¡¯s stability. When it held firm, he stretched the storm lantern as far as he could, its light casting weak, trembling reflections on the vast, dark surface.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. But it was no use. The lake was too large, the night too dark. They could have drifted south. Or east. Or southeast. Or anywhere in between. The only certainty was that Turo and Samora had been moving away from Tuscanvalle. And in a water body this monstrous, that single piece of knowledge felt laughably insufficient. ¡°No, these two really are too much,¡± one of the men replied to Nox''s comment. ¡°You would say that, wouldn¡¯t you?¡± Khotal snapped. ¡°You¡¯ve known every happiness in life. But not us!¡± His voice cracked, and he jabbed a finger at himself and Bhola. ¡°We aren¡¯t even married! We haven¡¯t even had a woman touch us in our very small lives. Right, Bhola?¡± Bhola nodded eagerly. ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m not ready to die yet.¡± ¡°I just hope we¡¯re not cursed already,¡± Khotal added, his voice softening, fear creeping back in as he dipped his paddle into the water again. The men laughed, easing some of the fear that clung to them. Nox stayed quiet. He knew he was in the same boat as them¡ªfiguratively and literally¡ªbut he didn¡¯t want their laughter directed at him. For a brief moment, Creda¡¯s face flashed in his mind. He quickly pushed the thought away. She was Turo¡¯s now, and thinking otherwise was pointless, painful. Nox turned his back to the men, lifting the storm lantern and shining it on the other side of the raft. The creaking of the logs under his feet felt more noticeable this time. The raft seemed to shift slightly, but he brushed the thought aside. He had checked the ropes and logs and lifeline himself before they set out¡ªthey had been secure. The men paddled quietly for a while, their paddles splashing softly in the water. But Nox¡¯s thoughts kept drifting back to Creda. He remembered their childhood¡ªdays of laughter and play, of petty arguments that quickly gave way to fierce loyalty. They¡¯d defended each other against others and spent long afternoons by the lake, their feet stirring the water as they giggled about things only they understood. Then, one day, everything changed. Creda had reached womanhood, and with that transformation came a chasm Nox couldn¡¯t cross. She no longer lingered to talk or laugh with him. Instead, she shied away, retreating whenever he approached. He didn¡¯t understand why, but her absence only made him more aware of her beauty. He longed to tell her how he felt, to express what he didn¡¯t fully comprehend himself. But she darted away like a frightened rabbit, leaving him rooted to the spot with a foolish smile on his face. That life¡ªthe one they¡¯d shared before¡ªwas gone. Yet it left behind something new, bittersweet but beautiful. Nox found contentment in stolen glimpses of her, replaying those moments in his mind at night. The memory of her smile sent unfamiliar shivers through his body, an innocent but electrifying pleasure. But that, too, came to an end. Nox vividly recalled the day Marnoell had approached Bouma to propose a match between Turo and Creda. It was a tumultuous time. Bouma¡¯s elder daughter, Samora, had been cast out by her husband, Malok, because he had accused her of infidelity and had left her destitute. Bouma blamed Nox¡¯s family for Samora¡¯s suffering and didn¡¯t want Creda to end up in the same situation. By tradition, Creda should have been promised to Nox as her eldest cousin. It was customary that if multiple cousins were eligible, the eldest had the first right unless they willingly relinquished it. But Bouma¡¯s bitterness toward Nox¡¯s family overrode tradition. When Marnoell made his request, Bouma accepted, desperate to keep Creda away from the family that had wronged Samora. Nox had been hunting in the northern woods when the decision was made. That day, he¡¯d bagged a fine catch, returning home triumphant and eager to share his success. Instead, he was met with news that shattered his world: Creda was betrothed to Turo, they said. The villagers sympathized with him, for him. But it was done. He could have challenged the elders. By rights, he could have claimed Creda for himself unless he formally stepped aside. But Nox, loyal to a fault, would never defy his uncle Marnoell. So he swallowed his heartbreak and resigned himself to the reality that Creda would never be his. Not now. Not ever. A sudden jolt rattled the raft, snapping Nox out of his thoughts. Something heavy had struck the front of the raft, and the structure groaned in protest. Nox¡¯s grip tightened on the lantern as he shifted its light to identify the source of the impact. The faint glow illuminated a tree trunk, floating and half-submerged. He sighed in relief¡ªit wasn¡¯t an attack, just a palm trunk drifting in the lake¡¯s current. But his relief didn¡¯t last. His heart skipped a beat when he realized there was no one clinging to it. Turo should have been holding on to something like this to stay afloat. Nox stepped closer, angling the light to better inspect the trunk. His eyes darted across its length. ¡°Where¡¯s Turo?¡± he murmured under his breath. The thought made his chest tighten. Then he saw it. A scrap of cloth snagged on one of the jagged edges of the trunk. ¡°Is that him?¡± one of the men behind him asked, his voice trembling. ¡°Is that Turo?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t see him on the trunk,¡± Nox replied. The men shuffled nervously, their movements making the raft sway again. The sound of wood creaking was louder now, ominous in the stillness of the lake. ¡°Maybe the lake monster got him,¡± Bhola muttered. Khotal shot to his feet, panic erupting in his voice. ¡°Monster? Where? Oh my gods, we¡¯re doomed!¡± His sudden motion threw the raft into chaos. It tipped violently, sending everyone stumbling. Nox lost his balance, the storm lantern slipping from his grasp. He plunged into the cold water as the lantern hissed and extinguished, leaving them in pitch darkness. Underwater, Nox flailed, kicking hard to reach the surface. The weight of the water pressed against him, but he finally broke through, gasping for air. Something brushed against his leg. His chest tightened. Was it a crocodile? He froze, then felt it again¡ªa heavy, unresisting shape. The texture was smooth. His pulse thundered as his hands found fabric wrapping around his leg. Instinctively, he dived back under, gripping blindly. His fingers tangled in something soft and thick¡ªhair. His heart lurched. Turo. He pulled with all his strength, the weight moving toward him without resistance. Breaking through the surface again, he shouted, ¡°He¡¯s here! Help me! Pull him up!¡± The men scrambled toward the edge of the raft, their hands searching blindly for the weight Nox was struggling with. They grabbed and pulled, their combined strength hauling the limp form out of the water inch by inch. But Turo¡¯s weight was too much. The raft groaned and tilted dangerously under the strain. Wood splintered, the logs beneath them shifting out of place. Before they could lift Turo fully onboard, the entire structure gave way with a deafening crack. The raft collapsed, throwing them all into the lake. Chaos erupted¡ªwater splashing, limbs flailing as the men fought to stay afloat. Their gasps and cries filled the air. Logs bobbed and spun in the water, scattered and useless. ¡°Where¡¯s Turo?¡± Nox yelled in frustration and fear as he slapped at the water¡¯s surface. ¡°Where is he?¡± 1.30 - But Is He Still Human? "To the shore!" Nox yelled, his voice cutting through the chaos. "To the shore!" he repeated, desperation creeping in. "Keep swimming." Turo¡¯s weight dragged him down, and his muscles burned as his lungs screamed for air, but he refused to let go. When the raft had collapsed, the lake had swallowed them both. For a moment, Nox had flailed in the darkness, the storm lantern extinguished, the shouts of the others lost in his own heartbeat. He thought it was over. Then his hand had struck something beneath the surface¡ªa shoulder, limp and heavy. Instinct had took over. He had grabbed hold and kicked upward, hauling Turo to the surface. Now the shore loomed impossibly far, but Nox pushed forward. Somehow, he got them onto slid land. The how hardly mattered. What mattered was that Turo wasn¡¯t breathing. The men dragged themselves out of the water, coughing, gasping, collapsing onto the rocky shore. Their soaked clothes clung to their skin, and the air stung their lungs. Bhola retched water onto the stones. Khotal lay flat, staring blankly at the cloudy sky. Nox ignored them. He dropped to his knees beside Turo¡¯s lifeless body. Water pooled beneath him, dripping from Turo¡¯s hair and open mouth. ¡°Turo!¡± Nox shouted, his voice raw. He pressed his ear to Turo¡¯s chest. Nothing. ¡°Wake up!¡± He tilted Turo¡¯s head back, opened his mouth, and pressed on his chest with trembling hands. ¡°One, two, three¡­¡± He pinched Turo¡¯s nose and breathed into his mouth. Nox''s frantic breathing drowned out the faint sloshing of the lake. ¡°Breathe!¡± Nox slammed his palms down harder. ¡°One, two, three!¡± Another breath. ¡°One, two¡ª¡± Turo¡¯s chest heaved. Water poured from his mouth as he coughed and gasped, twisting onto his side. Nox sagged back onto his heels, trembling as relief swept through him. ¡°You¡¯re alive,¡± he whispered, gripping Turo¡¯s shoulder. Turo blinked at him, dazed, his breaths shallow and uneven. ¡°Nox¡­¡± he rasped. ¡°You¡¯re safe,¡± Nox said, though the words rang hollow. A nervous murmur rippled through the men. Nox turned to see Bhola and Khotal huddled together, their faces pale and drawn. ¡°This¡­ this isn¡¯t right,¡± Bhola whispered, his wide eyes darting over their surroundings. ¡°What do you mean?¡± Nox asked, still catching his breath. Bhola pointed toward the gnarled, twisted trees looming around them. Their blackened branches jutted into the sky like claws, silhouetted against the jagged peaks of the Maverielle Mountains. The air felt heavier here, charged with an unspoken dread. ¡°The forbidden shore,¡± Khotal''s voice trembled. ¡°We¡¯re in the forbidden part of the lake.¡± Nox frowned and followed their gaze. He had heard the stories¡ªeveryone in Tuscanvalle had. The forbidden shore, a place cursed by legends where no one returned from, swallowed by its shadows. But he¡¯d always dismissed the tales as old wives¡¯ warnings, as was Calla''s every other story. ¡°Stop talking nonsense,¡± Nox snapped, though unease coiled in his chest. ¡°We¡¯re alive. That¡¯s what matters.¡± ¡°No,¡± Bhola whispered, shaking his head. ¡°You don¡¯t understand. No one comes here and leaves. The spirits¡ªthey don¡¯t let you.¡± ¡°Spirits or not,¡± Nox said, his voice hardening, ¡°we¡¯re not staying. We¡¯ll find our way back to the village. Together.¡± ¡°Oh gods! Oh gods! Oh gods!¡± Khotal¡¯s panicked voice rose in pitch as he staggered to his feet, only to collapse again, his legs buckling beneath him. He scrambled backward on his hands and feet, his gaze fixed on something near the water¡¯s edge.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°It¡¯s coming! Run!¡± he gasped. ¡°Run! Oh gods, save us! Save me!¡± His cries broke into wild, incoherent shrieks. Bhola whipped his head around, searching the shoreline frantically. ¡°What? Where?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t see anything!¡± "There!" Khotal pointed a trembling finger at the shoreline. "It''s coming. It''s coming." "Where?" Bhola whined, scrambling to his feet. "Right there! Oh gods, it''s crawling!" "Calm down," Nox said sharply, pulling the knife from his waistband as he stood. "It¡¯s probably a crocodile. They¡¯re dangerous in the water, but not on land. That¡¯s our territory. Just stay back." He stepped forward, adopting a defensive stance. "Damn it, Nox!" Khotal screamed, still dragging himself away on his backside, one hand outstretched as if to pull Nox toward him. "That¡¯s not a crocodile. It¡­ it has hands." Nox let out a dry chuckle, trying to keep the others grounded. "Crocodiles do have arms." "Yeah, they do. But they don¡¯t wave at you, do they?" Khotal¡¯s voice trembled with panic. "Oiiiii¡­" Bhola¡¯s voice cracked as he stumbled backward. "I see it now. That¡¯s not a crocodile. Not even close. It¡¯s a ghost!" "A ghost!" Khotal echoed, his tone breaking into a shriek. "Enough!" Nox snapped. "If you¡¯re that scared, help Turo up and get away from here." "He didn¡¯t see it," Khotal mumbled, his voice unsteady. "Yes, he didn¡¯t see it," Bhola echoed, edging toward Turo and fumbling to pull him upright. Nox turned his gaze back to the shoreline. A dark silhouette crawled slowly toward them, its movements unnatural. He squinted, refusing to believe the others. Ghosts aren¡¯t real, he thought. This was just panic talking. "Nox," Turo croaked, his voice weak but urgent. "Back off." He struggled to steady himself on trembling legs. Nox glanced at Turo to check if he was alright. Above them, the clouds shifted, and a sliver of moonlight broke through. The pale light spread over the shoreline, illuminating the crawling figure. Turo¡¯s eyes widened in a mix of confusion and fear. His voice trembled as he pointed. "It does have hands¡­ and a head." "What¡­?" Nox frowned, his gaze locking onto the creeping figure. "Dias!" he muttered, dropping his knife and rushing forward. Khotal, Bhola, and Turo gasped, frozen in place as they watched Nox approach the crawling figure. It took them a moment to recognize Dias¡¯s familiar features beneath the mud and blood. But something about the way Dias moved¡ªhis slow crawl, his mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish, no words escaping¡ªkept them rooted in place. Suspicion and fear held them back, unsure if he was still himself or something else entirely. Nox didn¡¯t hesitate. "Dias, what happened to you?" he asked, his voice laced with urgency. Only now did it strike him that he hadn¡¯t noticed Dias was missing earlier. He¡¯d been too consumed with reviving Turo to count heads. His eyes darted to the others standing behind him. Something else was wrong. "Where¡¯s Ayan?" he demanded, first to the group, then to the struggling figure before him. As Nox crouched closer, his heart stopped. Dias¡¯s lower body was gone. All that remained was a jagged mess of torn flesh, blood mixing with the mud in a grisly pool. His breath hitched, his hands trembling. "What happened to you?" he whispered, leaning down. Dias¡¯s lips moved, but no sound came at first. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. With immense effort, he raised a weak, trembling hand and pointed toward the lake. His voice rasped, barely audible. "It¡­ took him." His words came haltingly. "Ayan¡­ he¡¯s dead." Each syllable was a battle against pain. "I tried¡­ to save him. But it took¡­" His head slumped back, his body limp against the ground. Khotal, Bhola, and Turo broke free of their paralysis and rushed to Dias¡¯s side. "Is he¡­ dead?" Turo asked, his voice heavy with concern. Nox pressed his fingers to Dias¡¯s neck. A faint pulse beat beneath his touch. "Alive. Barely," he said, his forehead creased with worry. "It was the lake monster," Khotal whimpered, his voice quaking. "It took Ayan. It¡¯ll take us too." "Gods, save us. Show us mercy," Bhola sobbed, his voice breaking like a frightened child¡¯s. "This is no time to cry. We need to take him back to the village," Nox said, untying his waist sash. "He needs Kaius immediately." Without hesitation, he marched to each man and yanked their waist sashes loose, ignoring their protests. "Hey! What are you doing?" Bhola snapped, grabbing at his belt. "Stop pulling at me, Nox!" Khotal squawked, trying to shield himself. "What is this madness?" Turo growled, stepping back. Nox didn¡¯t answer. He tied the sashes together into a crude, extended bandage and wrapped it tightly around Dias¡¯s shredded lower body to slow the bleeding. "It¡¯s not enough," Turo said flatly. "He¡¯s still bleeding. Even if we drag him all the way back to Kaius, do you really think Kaius can save him? We¡¯re wasting time and strength on a man who¡¯s already lost." Nox froze and stared at Turo, as if seeing a stranger. "Are you saying we should leave him behind?" "What else makes sense?" Turo shot back, his tone cold. "He¡¯s dying. You know it. And we have to find Samora and her cursed child before they cause even more trouble." Nox straightened. "We try. That¡¯s what we do, Turo. We don¡¯t give up¡ªnot on him, not on anyone." He scanned the group, his eyes burning with determination. "Here¡¯s how we move forward. We split into three groups. Two of us gather materials to build another raft. One of us stays with Dias and keeps him alive until it¡¯s ready. I¡¯ll search for Samora and bring her back. I just hope she made it to land as safely as we did." 1.31 - The Man Who Came to Claim Samora was dying. At least, that¡¯s what it felt like. Blood poured from the stab wound, leaving her body drained. Every part of her¡ªher head, eyes, throat, heart, spine, core¡ªburned with pain. Thoughts slipped away, leaving only fragments. She couldn¡¯t remember why she was there or how she had ended up in this place. Her only recollection was of dragging herself¡ªnot walking, not crawling, just dragging¡ªthrough wetness and into a tangle of stones, twigs, and thorns that tore at her. Insects fed on her blood, each bite a new agony. Everything before this felt like a fading dream. But none of that mattered now. Maybe she had always been here, lying beneath this jagged stone above her, a ceiling that loomed and stared back like a silent witness to her suffering. Stone? A heaven, she thought. Somewhere, amidst her suffering, she had stumbled into this haven¡ªa crude structure of uncut stones in a clearing overgrown with bushes and vines. Stone. Clearing. Words that felt both familiar and alien. And the basket¡ªwhy did she keep thinking of the basket? It seemed absurd yet profound. Could a basket be God? The thought hovered, ridiculous and comforting all at once. Tears blurred her vision, smearing the view of her sanctuary, its rough stone ceiling rising above her. A womb! Is this a womb? Am I just a child in the womb? Something tugged at the edge of her mind, vital yet unreachable. Had she forgotten something too important to lose? Her pain surged. Something inside her shifted, struggling to escape. She could hear crying¡ªanguished, relentless. Whose cries were these? Hers? No, surely not. The word pain lost meaning as her awareness splintered. She stared at the ceiling, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes and sliding down her face. Her own cries, raw and animalistic, escaped her throat. She felt detached from her body, yet it trapped her, writhing and heaving with every wave of pain. Air. She needed air. Desperation clawed at her chest. Someone should burst through, offer her something¡ªanything¡ªto make it stop. Her anger surged. Why wasn¡¯t anyone here? Why was she so alone? Her insides clenched, cutting off what little air her lungs could grasp. She whined, the sound rising to a moan before erupting into a scream that bounced off the walls of her stone sanctuary. As quickly as it began, the scream faltered and died. She lacked the strength to sustain it. The inability to scream only deepened her delirium, amplifying the unbearable pain. Her hands clawed at anything they could reach¡ªtugging at the weeds at the edges of the structure, tearing at the grass beneath her, and ripping away the scraps of cloth that clung to her. Finally, she was just a blood-smeared, naked form, trembling with pain and madness. She didn¡¯t notice. Her fingers dug into the earth, scraping at dirt and roots until her skin split and bled. The sting barely registered. The flood of sensations drowned it all out. She was ready¡ªready to leave this broken body, to abandon the torment that had become her existence. But something lingered, a gnawing thought at the edge of her mind. She had forgotten something.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. A task remained¡ªsomething too vital to leave undone. Something precious enough to outweigh her suffering, her very life. What was it? Her hands clawed at her scalp, pulling strands of hair in frustration. Somebody remind me, her mind screamed. Desperation echoed through her chest. When she opened her eyes, she saw a pair of feet standing at the entrance to her sanctuary. A figure loomed, silhouetted against the flicker of distant lightning. The man ducked inside, bending low to avoid striking his head against a fallen stone beam left broken from some long-past storm. He carried a large, ornate lantern that cast a bright, golden glow, brighter than the strongest lightning outside. The light spilled over the stone walls and illuminated Samora''s twisted form. He stood there, watching her, the lantern¡¯s flame flickering and sending restless shadows dancing around the room. For a moment, his expression wavered. Something like sympathy flared in his eyes, only to be swallowed by the unyielding greed etched into his face. His hair, unkempt and brown, fell in matted strands to his shoulders, but his clothes and ornaments spoke of royalty. As he crouched near Samora, the green gems and pearls on his chains and stitched into his garments clinked together, the sound almost mocking her agony. His clothing, crafted from a soft dyed material she wouldn¡¯t recognize, clung tightly to his upper body, covering him all the way to his neck. A Tuscanian man would have found such attire stifling¡ªthey often left their chests bare. His lower body was wrapped in the same dyed fabric, each leg covered in an intricate pattern. To a Tuscanian, the complexity would have seemed absurdly feminine, a frivolity even their women wouldn¡¯t entertain. Who had time for such self-adornment? Why would a man deck himself in precious ornaments, no matter their value? At another time, Samora might have laughed at his comical appearance. His strange sense of fashion would have been the subject of endless jokes. But now, she barely noticed. All that mattered was that someone else was here. Was he here to save her? She wondered briefly. Or was it¡­ something else? Yes. She remembered now. She had been running. From something¡ªor someone. She had been protecting something. Or maybe someone. But what? The man reached out, his hand brushing her cheek, wiping away the sweat and tears streaking her face. He placed the lantern beside him with a muted thud. Samora thought she flinched at his touch, but her body didn¡¯t move. Pain gripped her again, sharp and consuming. Her insides clenched. Fire raged in her lower body. She strained, her jaw locked, her back arching, trying to push something out. She bore down, over and over, until there was no breath left to give. ¡°You¡¯re hurting,¡± the man said, his voice calm, almost detached. His yellowed teeth glinted in the lantern¡¯s glow, and a sour smell wafted from his mouth. He spoke as though he were observing a butterfly struggling to free of its cocoon. ¡°Aren¡¯t you?¡± he added, tilting his head. Samora didn¡¯t answer. She couldn¡¯t. Her mind screamed for water, for air, for relief. She gasped, struggling for each breath. If only he could read her thoughts, she might have found help. But the man had his own agenda, one that could either save her¡ªor doom her. ¡°I can help you,¡± he said, his voice unsettlingly calm. Samora arched her back, straining again, a guttural grunt escaping her lips. ¡°I can help you deliver your baby,¡± he said, his hand moving to her swollen belly, stroking it with unnerving eagerness, as though desperate to touch the life within. A sudden realization struck her. A baby. Yes, a baby was inside her. Her baby. That was why she was running. That was why she had endured so much. To save him. Her son. ¡°I can,¡± he repeated. ¡°I can help you end your suffering. I can help you bring your baby into the world.¡± Samora groaned, her scream raw and anguished as her body convulsed. She pushed again, her hips lifting from the ground. Blood seeped from the wound around the dagger still lodged deep in her side. The man seemed unfazed by her delirium or the extent of her agony. His tone remained steady, his words deliberate. ¡°But there¡¯s one condition,¡± he said, leaning closer. ¡°If I help you, I¡¯ll need something in return.¡± Samora gasped for air, forcing herself to speak through the haze of pain. ¡°What?¡± she mouthed. There wasn''t much she could do other than scream and gasp. The man¡¯s lips curled into a smile, his yellowed teeth gleaming in the flickering lantern light. ¡°Your baby,¡± he said. 1.32 - Dig It Out Like The Treasure It Was Samora groaned. Her body trembled as she bore down, lifting her hips off the ground in desperate effort. She didn¡¯t have the strength to respond to the man, nor did he seem to expect her to. His gaze remained fixed on her, calm and calculating, as he studied her every movement¡ªthe strain in her face, the way her body contorted to push the child out, the dagger still lodged in her side. He shifted, settling onto the ground cross-legged, his demeanor unnervingly casual. There was no trace of urgency in his posture. Her naked state didn¡¯t seem to faze him, his focus locked entirely on what was inside her rather than the woman herself. He appeared eager¡ªtoo eager¡ªto get his hands on the baby, yet there was an almost scholarly patience in his gesture. Labor, he knew, was a process that couldn¡¯t be rushed. He propped his elbows on his knees and cupped his chin in his palms, watching her as if it were an ordinary pastime to observe a woman in childbirth. ¡°You look far too young to be giving birth,¡± he remarked after a while, his tone conversational, even friendly. A dry chuckle escaped his lips. ¡°Then again, your kind can¡¯t seem to help it. Poor soul. Such uncivilized brutes.¡± He shook his head, his laughter hollow and mocking, as if they were two old acquaintances sharing a dark joke. Samora had no energy to react to his words. She was too busy fighting against the pain, her entire being focused on the task of bringing her child into the world. The man didn¡¯t mind her lack of response. If anything, he seemed to enjoy his own commentary, speaking as if he were her midwife. When her legs trembled and drifted closer together, he reached forward, his hands firm but dispassionate, pushing her knees apart. ¡°Like this,¡± he instructed, his voice disturbingly calm. ¡°Keep them apart. It¡¯ll make the pushing easier for you.¡± There was a strange detachment in his tone, a clinical precision that no man in Tuscanvalle would possess. The depth of his knowledge about childbirth was unsettling, his advice delivered with an ease that suggested he¡¯d been present for far more births than any man ought to have been. When she arched her back and lifted her hips again, he leaned forward, one hand pressing gently but insistently against her torso to push her back down. ¡°No,¡± he chided, his voice steady, almost patient. ¡°You¡¯re putting all the pressure on your feet. You need to push with your core, not your hips. Keep them grounded. How do you expect to deliver effectively if you¡¯re thrashing about?¡± Samora resisted at first, her instincts warring with his instructions, but eventually, out of desperation or exhaustion, she complied. Each motion was agony. Her breaths became shallow and rapid as she fought against her body¡¯s limitations. The man gave a small, approving nod, then returned to his previous position, folding his hands neatly in his lap. The lantern was placed strategically between them, the soft glow illuminating the space between her legs. He adjusted it slightly, angling the light toward her birthing canal in quiet anticipation as if waiting for the inevitable arrival. His eyes flickered to her face, then back down, his demeanor disturbingly calm. He was no ordinary observer. This was no ordinary moment. The man sighed, his face contorted with exaggerated disappointment. ¡°Not even close,¡± he muttered, shaking his head. His gaze dropped to her trembling form, then to the space between her legs. He pointed matter-of-factly toward her. ¡°I don¡¯t see the baby¡¯s head there. Must push harder, I guess.¡± Samora groaned, her cries ripping through the air, raw and desperate. Each scream scraped against her throat, leaving it coarse and burning. Her vision blurred, dark shadows creeping in from the edges as her pupils rolled back beneath her eyelids. Her chest heaved as she struggled to take one last breath, her lips parting slightly before the tension in her body released. Her muscles slackened, and her body stilled, her effort giving way to a terrifying silence. The man¡¯s demeanor shifted instantly. He jerked upright, dropping to his knees beside her. ¡°Hey, you! Wake up. You can¡¯t die now,¡± he barked, shaking her by the shoulders. There was no response. ¡°No, no, no,¡± he muttered, his movements growing frantic. He clawed at his matted hair, pacing the small, dilapidated stone structure. His boots crunched against debris as he walked back and forth, muttering under his breath in a tone that bordered on panic. He paused at the crumbled threshold, hesitating as though debating an impossible decision. After a moment, he ducked under the fallen stone beam and stepped back inside. His steps were slower, more deliberate this time. Kneeling beside her once again, he reached out to shake her, though his touch was hesitant, almost uncertain. Still, she didn¡¯t move. His hands trembled as they hovered over her. He bit his nails absently, the jagged edges digging into the dirt-streaked skin of his lips. His breathing quickened. He swallowed hard. Finally, as if reaching a grim conclusion, he closed his eyes and began to speak. The words that escaped his lips were unlike any language known to man. They were sharp, guttural, and alien, the unnatural syllables reverberating through the space. The sound of his incantation seemed to make the air itself heavy and intrusive, as though it didn¡¯t belong in the world of the living.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. When the final word escaped his lips, the air around him shimmered faintly. He outstretched his hand, palm up. A dim red glow began to emanate from his skin. The light intensified for a brief moment, illuminating the ruined structure with an eerie glow before fading into nothingness. When the glow disappeared, his palm held an ornate knife, its hilt intricately carved with symbols that seemed to shift and writhe in the dim glow of the lantern. The blade shimmered ominously, its edge sharp and glowing with the same albeit faint red hue that had filled the room moments ago. The man exhaled, inspecting the knife with a blend of awe and dread before turning his attention back to Samora. He pressed two fingers to the side of her neck, checking her pulse. ¡°You¡¯re not dead,¡± he murmured more to himself than to her. ¡°But you¡¯re too weak to carry on.¡± His gaze flicked downward. His jaw tightened. ¡°If the baby doesn¡¯t come out now¡­¡± He trailed off. His grip tightened around the knife as he stared at her motionless form. He caressed the blunt edge of the knife, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings along its hilt. ¡°You¡¯re not dead,¡± he murmured, his voice tinged with something almost like regret. ¡°But you¡¯re dying. And I¡­¡± He hesitated, as if his next words threatened to choke him. ¡°I¡¯m not killing you. I¡¯m saving the baby.¡± He touched a finger to her bloodless lips, then pressed it to his own in a shushing gesture. It was unclear whether he was speaking to Samora, to himself, or to some unseen witness. ¡°Shh. I don¡¯t have a choice, little girl. I need this baby. I just hope¡­¡± He paused, his breath hitching. ¡°I just hope you can name him before you die.¡± And then, without further ceremony, he plunged the blade into her lower abdomen. Samora¡¯s eyes shot open, wide with pain and incomprehension. Her scream tore through the night, raw and primal, echoing through the trees like the cry of a wounded animal. The man flinched but didn¡¯t stop. ¡°Shhh, shh!¡± he hissed, his tone almost soothing in its incongruity. ¡°I¡¯m saving your son. Nothing will happen to him, don¡¯t you worry.¡± She tried to resist, her trembling hands grasping at his wrist, but her strength was fleeting, her grip like that of a wilting flower. With deliberate precision, he pushed her hands aside and resumed his grim task. The knife tore through the outer layer of her flesh, its edge meticulous but unyielding. Blood erupted from the wound, spattering his hands, knees, and the ground beneath them. It soaked into the earth, painting it with the finality of her sacrifice. He worked methodically, ignoring her muffled cries and feeble struggles. Each layer he cut through brought him closer to his prize. When the womb was finally laid bare, he paused, his breath ragged as he pushed the last obstruction aside. The sight of the child¡ªsmall, bloodied, and alive¡ªdrew a gleeful exclamation from his lips. ¡°There it is!¡± he said, his voice trembling with mania. ¡°It¡¯s your baby!¡± With no regard for the woman¡¯s pain, he plunged his hands into the opening he¡¯d created, wrenching aside the tissues that still clung stubbornly to the child. Samora¡¯s body jerked under his rough movements, her head lolling weakly to one side. Tears streaked down her face, pooling in her ears as she lay helpless, her life slipping away with every drop of blood that seeped from her. The man¡¯s effort grew frantic as he tugged at the child. ¡°He¡¯s stuck halfway in your birth canal,¡± he muttered through gritted teeth, his focus singular, his hands relentless. With one final, forceful, arrogant pull, the baby came free, its body slick with blood and fluid. The infant¡¯s first cry split the air. The man sank back on his heels, panting in relief and exhilaration. He held the baby aloft, his trembling hands cradling the small, writhing form. A strained, almost unhinged laugh escaped his lips as tears streamed down his dirtied face. ¡°He¡¯s your son,¡± he said, lowering the infant toward Samora¡¯s face. His voice softened, trembling with something that could have been reverence¡ªor madness. ¡°Look at him.¡± Samora¡¯s head rolled toward the child. Her glassy eyes struggled to focus, but they widened just slightly at the sight or so she thought. The baby was human. Perfectly human. His tiny fists clenched and unclenched as his cries pierced the quiet night. A tear slipped from the corner of Samora¡¯s eye. Relief, fleeting and bittersweet, washed over her. Her baby was alive. He was human. The man leaned closer. ¡°Name him,¡± he urged, desperation creeping into his tone. ¡°You¡¯re the mother. So name him.¡± Samora¡¯s lips moved¡ªor not. No sound came out. She swallowed hard¡ªperhaps she didn''t. "Runo," he said, not waiting for her to come up with one. ¡°Runo,¡± she heard her own voice barely audible, fragile as the faintest breeze. A single tear slipped from the corner of Samora¡¯s eye, tracing a silver line down her blood-streaked face. Wasn¡¯t this the moment she had dreamed of for months? Her body grew colder by the second. She was dying¡ªshe knew that¡ªbut it didn¡¯t matter now. Her baby was alive. Her son was alive. For a fleeting moment, a fragile sense of peace washed over her. No one could hurt her baby now. He would live, untouched by the cruelty that had consumed her. But then the thought struck her with an icy ferocity. What would happen to him? Who would care for her child? Who would cradle him when he cried, protect him from the monsters lurking in the village, and guide him through a world she would no longer be part of? The question threatened to suffocate her. Her gaze flitted to the man cradling her son, her unspoken fears burning like a plea in her lifeless eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll take your son back home,¡± the man said, as though plucking the question straight from her soul. His gaze never left Runo¡¯s tiny face. ¡°I don¡¯t have a child. Mine died a while ago¡­¡± His voice cracked, the words catching in his throat. A single tear escaped him, trailing through the grime on his face. He whimpered, brushing his knuckles against the baby¡¯s cheek. ¡°I¡¯ll take Runo with me. I¡¯ll make sure he has ¡®a roof over his head.¡¯¡± His voice carried an earnestness, a promise he seemed to be making not just to Samora but to himself. Samora¡¯s glassy eyes remained unmoving. Her heart swelled with gratitude and relief. Her strength was gone, but her heart¡ªher maternal love¡ªpushed through the agony. She looked at him, her expression one of unspeakable thanks. The man hesitated. He reached out and placed a trembling hand on her shoulder, the touch a gesture of farewell. He adjusted his hold on the baby, clutching Runo close to his chest. With a final glance at Samora¡ªhe rose. His heart felt heavy as he stepped away. The man turned back several times, as if reluctant to leave her, as though her fading presence tugged at something deep within him. But he continued on, stepping out of the crumbling stone structure and into the cool night air, carrying the child who now held all his purpose. Inside, Samora lay alone. Her eyes stuck to the spot the man had been, her body limp against the blood-streaked ground. As the man disappeared into the woods, she thought a final thought: Live, my Runo. Live. 1.33 - What Calla Knows That No One Else Does Creda stood at Calla''s doorstep, listening to the lilting voice of the elder as she spun her stories, punctuated by the lively chatter of children gathered at her feet. In a moment, she felt the thought of her sister, burdening her mind being magically lifted. The lantern hanging from the wooden beam above had dimmed, its fuel nearly spent. Long, flickering shadows stretched across the room, giving it an otherworldly atmosphere. Yet neither Calla nor the children seemed to mind. Calla, as always, was lost in the world of her tales, and the children hung on her every word. Creda smiled despite herself. Calla¡¯s storytelling had an almost magical quality. It wasn¡¯t just the tales she wove but the passion with which she told them¡ªstill vibrant even after more than a hundred years. Creda recalled an old rumor about Calla, a fable whispered in the village. It was said that Calla had struck a bargain with Death itself, vowing to continue her storytelling forever in exchange for her life. As long as she kept telling her tales, Death could not touch her. But should she ever stop, even for a moment, Death would claim her on the spot. Creda chuckled softly at the thought, shaking her head. It was a fanciful story, no doubt, but it spoke to the awe Calla inspired in the villagers. Despite the absurdity of the rumor, Creda couldn¡¯t help but admire Calla¡¯s resilience. Lost in her musings, Creda had nearly forgotten why she¡¯d come here, the cruelty happening just outside that litte hut, the way her family and her loved ones were tangled in it in the worst way possible. Calla''s hut was a world of its own. The warmth of Calla¡¯s stories had drawn her in, as it always did. Calla sat on the cot, her frail, twig-like limbs stretched out before her. The children sat cross-legged on the floor, their eager eyes fixed on her, soaking in every word like sponges. Calla blinked suddenly, glancing at the children and then around the room, in mild confusion. ¡°What were we talking about?¡± she asked, her voice thin and wavering. The children let out a collective groan. They were used to this now. Calla¡¯s age had begun to show in her faltering memory. It had become a routine: her stories would flow effortlessly until, without warning, her mind would lose its place, leaving her adrift in her own narrative. Someone would have to remind her before she could pick up the thread. Leaning against the doorframe, Creda couldn¡¯t help but marvel at how Calla¡¯s mind, though prone to these lapses, always managed to remember the stories themselves. It was as though the tales were etched deeper than memory, embedded in her very soul. Sisi let out a dramatic sigh, her shoulders slumping as though the excitement had drained out of her all at once. Beside her, Baabi pressed her palms to her forehead and groaned, ¡°Again!¡± Koko rolled his eyes at their exasperation. ¡°Calla, you were telling us about the evils The Great Hero was fighting,¡± he said, his voice filled with a patience and pride. ¡°You told us about¡­¡± He paused, looking down at his clenched fists. Stretching one finger at a time, he began counting, ¡°Greed, gluttony, and¡­¡± He scrunched his forehead, struggling to recall the next word. The effort was endearing, and Creda couldn¡¯t help but smile at the sight. "Injustice,¡± Baabi said sharply, punctuating her words with a slap to the back of Koko¡¯s head. Koko flinched, his lips trembling in a pout as pain and indignation welled up in his eyes. He wiped them hastily with the back of his hand, sniffing as he caught the look of recognition spreading across Calla¡¯s face. She was about to continue. The children held their breath in anticipation. ¡°Greed,¡± Calla repeated, her voice rasping with age. ¡°Gluttony, and Injustice. Yes.¡± She nodded slowly, as if reaffirming her own words. ¡°Then there¡¯s the trickiest evil. Not the most dangerous, no, but the trickiest.¡± Her gnarled finger rose, pointing at the children. She squinted into the dim light of the nearly extinguished lantern, her gaze scanning the eager faces before her. ¡°Ignorance.¡± ¡°Ig¡­ Ig¡­ no¡ª¡± Koko struggled to piece together the unfamiliar word. ¡°Ignorance,¡± Calla corrected him gently, cutting off his stammering. ¡°It¡¯s a camouflage, a trick of the eye and the mind. Like magic. A smokescreen. It¡¯s when you fail to see what¡¯s right in front of you. It¡¯s when you don¡¯t know what the truth is; what your reality is.¡± ¡°But Calla,¡± Sisi¡¯s voice was timid, her brow furrowed in confusion. ¡°How can not knowing be evil?¡±This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. Calla¡¯s eyes wandered, drifting toward the shadowed corners of the room as though searching for something¡ªor someone¡ªhidden there. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. ¡°It¡¯s not the not knowing, little one. It¡¯s the choosing not to know. Ignorance isn¡¯t born; it¡¯s fed. The more you choose to stay in the dark, the deeper it drags you into its shadow.¡± Her voice dropped, low and conspiratorial. ¡°It¡¯s like a wish-granting fairy, in a sense.¡± ¡°A fairy?¡± Baabi¡¯s eyes sparkled with excitement. Koko clapped his hands in delight. ¡°Yes, a fairy,¡± Calla said with a faint smile. ¡°It grants you exactly what you wish for. But you must be careful what you ask. If you seek knowledge, it will give you that. But if you wish for ignorance, it will grant you that as well¡ªand it will consume you. Not just you, but those closest to you, those who rely on you.¡± The children gasped, their small bodies inching closer together in the gathering darkness. ¡°But,¡± Calla continued, ¡°ignorance isn¡¯t the most dangerous of evils. Not unless you¡¯re too careless.¡± She paused, her trembling hands reaching for the pot of water on the nearby table. With a sip to moisten her throat, she pressed on. ¡°Not as dangerous as corruption and pain.¡± The children listened, their wide eyes reflecting the dim light of the dying lantern. What¡¯s corruption?¡± ¡°Pain¡¯s an evil too?¡± The children¡¯s voices overlapped as they bombarded Calla with questions, their faces scrunched in confusion. Calla¡¯s lips curled in thought. ¡°Corruption¡­¡± She paused, considering her words. ¡°Ah¡­ decay. You know what decay is, right?¡± She looked around, gauging their understanding. ¡°Rot!¡± Sisi¡¯s hand shot up, her eyes bright with recognition. ¡°I¡¯ve seen it in the tubers Mama brings home sometimes.¡± Calla nodded approvingly. ¡°Yes, rot. And how does your mama treat it?¡± Sisi¡¯s excitement faltered. ¡°Mama said there¡¯s no way to fix rot. She just cuts the bad part off and saves the rest.¡± ¡°Exactly.¡± Calla¡¯s voice grew somber. ¡°There¡¯s no way to heal a rot. Corruption is like that¡ªa rot of the soul. It¡¯s when you trade what¡¯s right for what¡¯s easy. When you stop caring about the difference between good and evil because it¡¯s too hard to fight, your soul begins to decay. And just like the tubers, once the soul starts to rot, there¡¯s no cure. That¡¯s why it¡¯s so important to never let our souls¡­¡± She let the sentence hang, posing it as a question. ¡°Rot,¡± the children chorused, their voices bouncing off the damp wooden walls. Creda shifted her weight, her body leaning against the sturdy doorframe. She didn¡¯t want to interrupt the spell Calla had cast over the children. They were too engrossed to be sent back to bed now. Lowering herself quietly onto the floor, she pressed one palm against the wooden planks and rested her cheek on her other hand, settling in to listen. ¡°And then, there¡¯s pain,¡± Calla continued. Her voice softened, almost mournful. ¡°You may wonder how pain can be an evil.¡± Baabi nodded, her small face a picture of curiosity. ¡°It¡¯s not the pain you feel when you fall and scrape your knee,¡± Calla explained gently. ¡°This pain is different. It¡¯s the kind that twists your heart, makes it ache so badly that you want others to hurt too¡ªjust because you are hurting. It¡¯s when your own suffering blinds you to everything else, and you lash out, breaking what¡¯s whole because you can¡¯t bear to see it.¡± The children shrank into themselves, hugging their knees as though shielding themselves from her words. Their tiny bodies trembled slightly in the flickering lantern light. Creda¡¯s chest tightened with sorrow. They were too young to truly understand the depths of the pain Calla described, yet the old woman spoke with a certainty that suggested she had lived it. Calla¡¯s gaze seemed far away now, as though she no longer saw the innocent faces before her but instead the shadows of a darker, more painful memory. ¡°But Calla,¡± Sisi asked hesitantly, ¡°how do we know what these evils look like? Are they monsters?¡± Calla¡¯s eyes glinted with knowledge. ¡°Monsters? Oh, yes. But not the kind you can see. These evils live inside us, waiting. They don¡¯t all come at once. No, they¡¯re clever. They wait for the first one to take root, until it¡¯s strong enough to invite the next.¡± The children exchanged nervous glances, their wide eyes darting to the dark corners of the hut as though expecting shadows to take shape. Creda scanned the exterior of the hut. The rain had stopped, but the night stretched late. The children had lingered far past their bedtime, and she knew their mothers would soon come searching for them. Her mother, Bouma, must have already spread Chief Marnoell¡¯s instructions throughout the village. Besides, the conversation was getting far darker than their fragile minds could handle. It was time to break up the gathering. Stepping fully into the threshold, Creda clapped her hands sharply, drawing their attention. ¡°Chop, chop! Time for bed. Your mothers are waiting for you. Run along now!¡± The children¡¯s faces fell in unison. ¡°But it¡¯s not over yet,¡± Sisi protested, her bottom lip jutting out in defiance. Creda softened, crouching on the floor to meet their gazes. ¡°Why don¡¯t you come back in the morning? Calla will tell you the rest then. Right, Calla?¡± Calla, already shifting into a more comfortable sleeping position, waved a frail hand. ¡°Yes, yes. Morning. Morning.¡± The children groaned in disappointment but obeyed. One by one, they scrambled to their feet and shuffled out of the cramped hut, their small forms disappearing into the night. Creda waited until the last child had gone before turning back to Calla. The elder woman had settled on her side, her twig-like limbs curled in repose. ¡°Calla,¡± Creda began hesitantly, as though seeking permission to continue. ¡°What is it, my precious?¡± Calla murmured, her voice a soft rasp. Creda stepped closer, her shadow dancing in the faint glow of the flickering lantern. ¡°Those evils you were talking about earlier. You said they were clever, that they don¡¯t all come at once.¡± She paused, unsure how to phrase her question. Calla opened her eyes, motioning for her to settle on the floor beside her bed. Creda obeyed. ¡°Aren¡¯t they all the same?¡± Creda asked finally. ¡°Evil is evil, isn¡¯t it? Why would the rest wait for the first one to take hold?¡± Calla gave a low chuckle, like dry leaves brushing against one another. ¡°Because they have to, my dear. They don¡¯t have a choice.¡± 1.34 - Death is the Least of Our Fears ¡°Because they have to, my dear. They don¡¯t have a choice.¡± Creda listened to Calla''s words, hanging onto them as if were her lifeline. She tilted her head, her brow furrowed in confusion, but Calla pressed on. ¡°None of it can take hold as long as a person chooses not to allow them.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡± Calla¡¯s lips curled into a faint, almost wistful smile. ¡°You see? Our minds are like fresh fields, waiting to be farmed. But what we let grow in our fields decides their fate.¡± Creda nodded, her gaze fixed on Calla¡¯s weathered face, though a small voice inside her whispered that this was childish talk. She wasn¡¯t a story-hungry toddler anymore¡ªshe was fifteen. ¡°And every single time, it¡¯s ignorance that comes first,¡± Calla continued. ¡°It makes you blind to what¡¯s about to come next. It blurs your ability to choose at its best. At its worst, though, it pushes you to choose the wrong thing every single time, making you more and more vulnerable to the others in line.¡± Creda felt a strange pull as Calla spoke, the words tugging at her like the faint memory of a dream. ¡°Then comes greed,¡± Calla said, her voice dipping into a somber cadence. ¡°It¡¯s like a slow poison, twisting its way into your mind and body. It¡¯s far too stealthy to notice at first. It starts small¡ªan innocent desire. You might even believe it¡¯s ambition. And then, you¡¯ll justify your growing desires, no matter how absurd they are.¡± ¡°Why does that happen?¡± Creda asked. ¡°Because you let ignorance take root long before greed arrived,¡± Calla replied. ¡°And ignorance never rests. He¡¯s always at work, an expert in everything he does. So you won¡¯t notice that your desires are no longer desires but greed¡ªdisgusting, malicious greed.¡± Creda¡¯s breath hitched at the venom in Calla¡¯s tone. ¡°And where there¡¯s greed,¡± Calla went on, her voice almost a growl, ¡°there will always be gluttony. Unlike the others, gluttony thrives by consuming your sense of satiation. It means you¡¯ll crave more and more and more¡ª¡± Calla leaned forward, her eyes shadowed and intense. Creda found herself leaning in too, caught in the pull of Calla¡¯s spell. ¡°¡ªuntil there¡¯s nothing left to take. But you¡¯ll still crave, even when there¡¯s nothing. And that¡¯s when the decay begins.¡± Calla paused, her gnarled fingers wiggling in the air as if pulling something unseen from her chest. ¡°The sins you¡¯ve committed will rot you from the inside¡ªslowly, painfully.¡± The words sent a shiver down Creda¡¯s spine. ¡°The more you rot, the more everything around you begins to collapse,¡± Calla said. ¡°That¡¯s when injustice takes root. The strong become stronger, and the weak become weaker. Deliberate cruelty becomes the norm. And when the weak can¡¯t bear it anymore¡ª¡± Calla¡¯s voice softened, her eyes glistening with something that looked almost like sorrow. ¡°When their hearts crumble from within, when they realize they can no longer be pieced together, the pain of the injustice done to them¡­ it tempts them. It whispers lies, coaxing them to spread that same pain to others. For pain¡­¡± Calla hesitated, her eyes brimming with tears and her voice dropping to a near-whisper, ¡°pain is deceptive. She dresses herself as pleasure just to sell herself.¡± The room fell into a heavy silence, the only sounds the steady rhythm of Calla and Creda¡¯s breathing.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Creda exhaled shakily, realizing she¡¯d been holding her breath. Her thoughts churned as she replayed Calla¡¯s words, her chest tight with unease. Did Calla really refer to those evils as "he" and "she," or was that her imagination? She decided to let the question pass for now. ¡°Calla,¡± she asked after a moment, her voice hesitant, ¡°there must be a way to defend ourselves against them. Isn¡¯t there a way to fight them?¡± Calla chuckled. ¡°Choice,¡± she said. The word hung in the air, heavy and potent. ¡°But it¡¯s such a fragile shield,¡± Calla continued. ¡°Once it breaks, there¡¯s no way to mend it. Once you choose, there¡¯s no going back.¡± Her words carried the punch of finality, making Creda¡¯s chest tighten. ¡°But,¡± Calla said, her tone melting as if revealing a closely guarded secret, ¡°there¡¯s a weapon¡ªone that can save you, even after the shield of choice shatters.¡± Creda leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. ¡°What is it?¡± she asked. ¡°We call it guilt,¡± Calla replied. ¡°It¡¯s not just a weapon; it¡¯s a hidden path. A secret passage that leads you far from ignorance. And where ignorance can¡¯t follow, none of the others can either.¡± Creda¡¯s heart constricted uneasily at those words. She reminded herself it was just a story¡ªa theory, really. Still, her fingers found their way to her mouth, and she began nibbling on her nails. ¡°But,¡± Calla said, her tone darkening, ¡°that path doesn¡¯t stay open forever. The more the evils take hold of you, the narrower the way becomes. And when pain finds you¡ª¡± Calla paused, her gaze sharp and piercing, as though she could see the unease rising in Creda. ¡°When pain finds you,¡± Calla continued, her voice dropping, ¡°you¡¯ll know it¡¯s already too late to turn back. Pain disguises herself as pleasure, slipping past your defenses. And once she does, she can even override your guilt, sealing the path shut forever¡ªfor what comes after her.¡± Creda froze, her nails forgotten. Her brow furrowed deeply as she tried to make sense of Calla¡¯s words. ¡°There¡¯s¡­ more?¡± she asked hesitantly. Calla nodded, her expression grave. ¡°Two more,¡± she said. Creda¡¯s eyes widened, both terrified and curious. ¡°Is it¡­ death?¡± she blurted out, unable to contain herself. Calla paused, momentarily surprised. Then she let out a hearty laugh, her frail body shaking with the effort as she sat up in her cot. Gently, she ran her weathered hand over Creda¡¯s crown in a gesture of affection. ¡°Death isn¡¯t evil,¡± she said simply. Creda noticed Calla¡¯s gaze shift, almost instinctively, toward the shadows in the room. Her expression changed¡ªa flicker of recognition crossed her face, followed by a sliver of excitement, as though she were greeting an old friend. Creda¡¯s heart skipped a beat. What was Calla looking at? Was there something lurking just beyond the reach of the flickering lamplight? Creda recalled the rumors she¡¯d overheard¡ªthat old people could see Death when they were near their own end. And wasn¡¯t there a rumor about Calla? A fable about her striking a bargain with Death himself? Creda turned her head slowly, her eyes scanning the dim corners of the room. But she saw only walls and shadows¡ªnothing more. She forced herself to look back at Calla, exhaling a breathe of relief. ¡°Calla?¡± she called, shaking the old woman¡¯s arm. Calla blinked, her head jerking as if she¡¯d been pulled back from somewhere far away. For a moment, Creda feared Calla had forgotten their conversation entirely. She opened her mouth to remind her, but Calla surprised her by continuing as though nothing had happened. ¡°Death isn¡¯t evil,¡± she said. ¡°If anything, Death is kind. Compassionate. Merciful!¡± Creda chuckled nervously. ¡°Death is merciful? Only you would say that, Calla.¡± Calla smiled, her eyes distant but warm. ¡°Aren¡¯t you happy with your life, Calla?¡± Creda teased, trying to mask her unease. ¡°You¡¯re giving Death far more credit than he deserves.¡± Calla lifted Creda¡¯s chin with a gentle finger. ¡°Death comes when life ends, yes,¡± she said. ¡°But Death isn¡¯t the opposite of life.¡± Creda frowned, puzzled. ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡± ¡°The opposite of Death,¡± Calla said, ¡°is undeath.¡± Her tone wavered with the stains of some distant, painful memory. ¡°A cruel, cruel fate. One I wouldn¡¯t wish on my worst enemy. Nor should you.¡± ¡°Undeath?¡± Creda asked, incredulous. ¡°Is that even a word?¡± Calla ignored the question, her gaze growing sharper as she pressed on. ¡°Death isn¡¯t evil¡ªat least, not until he becomes undeath. That is the seventh evil. Undeath traps your soul¡ªyour very consciousness¡ªin a body that is decaying and corrupted. A body that no longer listens to your mind but answers only to a darker force.¡± Creda felt a chill ripple through her. ¡°A darker force?¡± she whispered. Calla¡¯s face darkened. ¡°The eighth evil.¡± Creda leaned forward, unable to take it slow anymore. ¡°What¡¯s the eighth evil?¡± ¡°Havoc,¡± Calla replied, her voice heavy with dread. ¡°Madness. Rage. She goes by many names.¡± ¡°What happens,¡± Creda asked, her throat dry, ¡°when the eighth evil arrives?¡± Calla¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line as she stared into the shadows. ¡°No one knows,¡± she said at last. ¡°Perhaps she marks the end of mankind.¡± 1.35 - The Shadows Have a Name Samora was still aware. She thought back to how those meant to protect her had cruelly abandoned her. The song, with its hauntingly sorrowful melody, bubbled in her chest. Though her lips refused to move, she could hear it in her mind. Each note and lyric was a fragile distraction from the searing waves of pain radiating from her abdomen. 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. At first, she¡¯d been grateful her son had a place to belong, but regret had taken root in its place, growing thorny and unrelenting. She regretted everything¡ªthe circumstances that chained her, the helplessness that consumed her, and the choices that led her here. Most of all, she regretted the growing distance between her and her child. She hadn¡¯t even touched him, not once. From the corner of her eye, something moved. A flicker in the shadows. Was it real, or just her imagination? She hummed the tune again, willing herself to focus. 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. Pain consumed her, raw and merciless, enough to drive anyone to madness. Yet she wasn¡¯t numb to her past or her surroundings. Instead, her awareness sharpened as time passed. Her thoughts churned¡ªof her kin who¡¯d called her unborn baby a monster, of the husband who cast her out, of Turo¡¯s blade sinking into her flesh. She recalled the endless pursuit across the lake, his threats, his demand that she surrender her child as though he were a prize. She remembered the desperate, solitary birth, the strange man tearing her apart to save her baby. The air thickened. Was the lantern¡¯s light dimming, or was the darkness itself growing bigger? The shadows seemed to stretch physically, creeping closer, defying the glow. She hummed the song again, the melody trembling now as her unease deepened. But the waters will know, and the winds will hear, The strength of a soul that refuses fear. My feet are banished, my hands are bare, My children carry that I cannot bear. Yet in their eyes, the dawn may rise, A future unseen by cursed skies. And if I am lost, let this be true¡ª Waters can¡¯t consume what''s in you. The song lingered in her mind, but her thoughts began to stray. Why had the man been so desperate to save her baby? A stranger, appearing out of nowhere, willing to go to such lengths when her own kin had abandoned her. Why? What were his motives? Would he truly protect Runo? Where was he taking him? And¡ªmore unsettling still¡ªhow had the man known she was in the crumbling stone shelter? Was he a local? If so, what led him to her at the exact moment her life had begun to fade? Could it have been a coincidence? No¡­ The timing was too precise. Was this divine intervention? Or was it something far darker? For the first time, doubt pierced her heart, a mother''s doubt. What if Runo wasn¡¯t entirely human, as she had prayed he should be? What if there was something about her son¡ªsomething extraordinary, something dangerous¡ªthat made others covet him? The thought crawled through her mind, and she recoiled from it. But no, she had seen him, writhing in the man¡¯s hands. Runo was human, as human as any baby ever born. Wasn¡¯t he?The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Still, the questions festered in her. What could anyone gain by claiming him as their own? Her breath hitched¡ªif she could still call it breathing. She was certain now. Something moved in the shadows. At first, it was subtle, like ripples in dark water, but then it grew, tangible and deliberate. The shadows seemed to twist, like clay being molded by unseen hands, forming a shape. A human figure. Was it a child? An adult? Her heart raced as her mind fought to process what she was seeing. Was this her imagination? Memories of Runo, warped by her pain and grief? No. This was real. Slowly, the figure emerged from the base of the shadows, an illusion made flesh¡ªor something worse. Fear clawed at her. Panic surged. But she was powerless to act. Her body remained unyielding, as if it no longer belonged to her. She tried to shut her eyes, to block out the terror, but even that was impossible. She could only watch, trapped in her own body, as the figure grew before her. She hummed the song again, the melody quivering in her mind. Though death may come, though light may fade, The soul''s resolve cannot be swayed. Row, row, row, across the tide, Through cursed waves where fears reside. She hummed to distract herself, to cling to some semblance of sanity. The pain and exhaustion had to be playing tricks on her mind. That was all it was¡ªwasn¡¯t it? The thoughts tormented her soul as much as the agony of her lifesource draining away. She could feel it now¡ªthe cold, seeped into her bones, a chill unlike anything she had ever known. Her body had grown as frigid as the stone beneath her, colder than death itself should feel. The pain in her torso burned, unbearable and ceaseless. Yet she couldn¡¯t scream or cry out; her lips refused to move. She felt as if she had been ripped apart, shredded like prey left to scavengers. After everything she had endured, why wasn¡¯t she dead yet? Or worse¡ªwas this death? Is this what it felt like to be caught between life and the void? Why could she still feel pain? Why hadn¡¯t she lost consciousness? Why hadn¡¯t she drifted into the oblivion she had come to expect? Instead of fading, her awareness sharpened, growing more acute with every passing moment. And with it came a surge of emotions¡ªanger, regret, hatred¡ªbubbling to the surface, refusing to be ignored. Was this what it meant to die? Her thoughts turned dark, bitter. She despised them all. Every single one who had turned their back on her, who had abandoned her when she needed them most. They had pushed her to the brink, forced her to give birth alone¡ªafraid, and dying. She despised Turo for the pain he had inflicted, for chasing her like a beast through the lake, for stabbing her and leaving her body to falter in the middle of labor, putting Runo¡¯s life at risk. She despised Tuscanvalle for the cruelty they had shown her, for casting her out as if her life and her child¡¯s life were worth nothing. She despised her husband for his betrayal, his indifference, his injustice¡ªnot just to her, but to their innocent child. She despised the stranger who had taken Runo from her before she could even touch him. She hated him for stealing away her son, for denying her even a fleeting connection before the end. If only she weren¡¯t so powerless¡ªbound by pain, immobility, and the slow, suffocating crawl of death. If she could move, she would claw her way back to those who had wronged her. She would make them suffer as she had. Her fury was her only solace now. She imagined herself gritting her teeth as she hummed the song in her mind once more. This time, the melody carried a darker tone, laced with rage and despair. The stones may cut, the sky may cry, But you will live, though I may die. And if the end is all I find, I leave my wrath for those behind. Her very being trembled with defiance. Even as her body failed, her spirit burned with the fire of all she had lost¡ªand all she had yet to do. Samora floated in a void of pain. She couldn¡¯t move, couldn¡¯t cry out. Yet her mind remained vivid, a prisoner within her own dying body. Agony pulsed from her abdomen, fiery and unrelenting, demanding release that her frozen form couldn¡¯t provide. Her limbs were useless, unresponsive. Runo. She clung to the name as if it were the only thing tethering her to life, letting the words of the song spiral endlessly in her mind. But in that endless loop of pain and thought, she noticed something again. The shadows were indeed moving. They stretched and twisted, tendrils of darkness thickening around her. The air grew colder. Her heart¡ªor what little of it remained¡ªlurched. This wasn¡¯t her mind playing tricks on her. It was real. It was happening. From the shadows, a figure began to take form. He emerged tall and impossibly still, his presence both ominous and captivating. A hood obscured his face, but the lantern light caught the sharp angles of his jaw and high cheekbones. There was a cold, ethereal beauty to him¡ªhandsome but unsettling. He moved closer, his hands outstretched, as though reaching to claim what remained of her. Samora felt a surge of terror, instinctively trying to recoil. But her body remained limp, unmovable. Her mind, however, screamed in defiance. ¡°Who are you?¡± she asked¡ªor at least she thought she did. The words might have been spoken aloud, or perhaps they only resonated within her mind. The figure stopped abruptly, his head tilting as though in confusion. ¡°You¡¯re aware?¡± he said, his voice reverberated as if it came from everywhere and nowhere at once. His lips didn¡¯t move, yet the words were clear. ¡°Who are you?¡± Samora asked again, this time with more resolve, feigning bravery. ¡°This is impossible,¡± he murmured, almost to himself. ¡°You¡¯re still aware.¡± Samora waited patiently for his response. The man seemed to come to a decision, his hood shifting slightly as he straightened. ¡°I am Raeglon. Your kind call me Death,¡± he said, his voice unnervingly calm, neutral, and devoid of malice. The air around her seemed to freeze though not with cold. The flickering lantern light, the faint rustle of the world beyond¡ªall of it faded into a surreal silence. In his presence, everything felt suspended, caught in a perfect equilibrium. ¡°The reaper of souls,¡± he continued, ¡°the keeper of shadows.¡± 1.36 - Will He Let a Friend Die? Turo fumed, pacing beneath the Kapok tree. His fists clenched at his sides, his voice dripping with venom. ¡°And why should I stay back like a coward? Why am I supposed to babysit a corpse?¡± Nox''s gaze hardened, as though seeing Turo for the first time. The Turo he knew was kind, dependable. But this¡ªthis stranger¡ªreeked of bitterness. Or perhaps this cursed place had twisted him. ¡°Dias is not dead,¡± Nox said, his voice taut. ¡°Yet,¡± Turo shot back. He paced beneath the Kapok tree, his frustration spilling out in restless strides. ¡°Think about it. He¡¯s lost half his body, more than half his blood. Even if we drag him back to Tuscanvalle, what are the chances he¡¯ll survive? And even if he does¡ªwhat then? What kind of life is that? Look at him, Nox! He¡¯s deadweight, even to himself.¡± Nox stepped closer, gripping Turo¡¯s shoulder to halt his frantic pacing. ¡°You sound¡­¡± he hesitated, searching for the right word, ¡°¡­different.¡± He took a breath and steadied his tone. ¡°I know the odds. I know he might not make it. But he¡¯s one of us, Turo. How could we abandon him? Would I leave if it were you lying there instead?¡± Turo''s scowl deepened. ¡°Are you saying I¡¯m about to die, too?¡± Nox groaned, rubbing his temples. "No. I didn¡¯t mean that." A few feet away, Bhola and Khotal hovered awkwardly, shivering in their wet clothes but staying close enough to eavesdrop. "No one¡¯s dying tonight,¡± Nox snapped. ¡°We¡¯re all getting back to Tuscanvalle. But for that, we need a raft.¡± He turned to Bhola and Khotal. Finally, he barked orders. ¡°Bhola! Khotal!¡± The two flinched but shuffled closer. ¡°Build another raft,¡± Nox commanded, his voice firm. ¡°Do it as fast as you can. I¡¯m going to find Samora. If I¡¯m not back by the time it¡¯s ready, take Turo and Dias back to Tuscanvalle. Don¡¯t wait for me. Dias needs a medic now.¡± Turo scoffed, folding his arms. ¡°You don¡¯t have to play the martyr, Nox. And why do I have to sit here, twiddling my thumbs, while you all get to be heroes?¡± Nox turned to him, his eyes flashing with frustration. ¡°Because I don¡¯t want to send another search party to find your corpse! You¡¯ll stay here until the raft is ready, and that¡¯s final. No more arguments.¡± He signaled Bhola and Khotal to move, ignoring Turo¡¯s glare. ¡°You¡¯re not ordering me around, Nox,¡± Turo growled. ¡°I¡¯m not a child.¡± Nox stopped and turned, his patience wearing thin. ¡°Then stop acting like one! What were you thinking, chasing Samora across the lake in the first place?¡± Turo stayed silent, his jaw tightening as he tried to bury the truth. What had he been thinking when he chased Samora? He¡¯d convinced himself it was about finally outdoing Nox¡ªproving once and for all that he was the better man. Yet here he was, nearly drowned and humiliated, saved by Nox yet again. He huffed in irritation. He had to do something. He couldn¡¯t let Nox win this time. If Nox succeeded in hunting the monster-baby Samora was about to birth, the title would be his for good. Turo clenched his fists, his thoughts spiraling, but Nox cut him off before he could speak.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. ¡°I promised Uncle Marnoell I¡¯d bring you back unscathed,¡± Nox confided. ¡°So cooperate.¡± He gave Turo a pointed look before turning on his heel and leaving with Bhola and Khotal. Turo sat fuming beside Dias. A short while later, the trio returned, their arms loaded with sticks, bark, and leaves. Turo watched silently as they laid everything down, creating a crude but functional bedding. Once it was ready, they shifted Dias onto it, his unconscious body limp and unresponsive. Without a word, they left again. When they returned, they carried thorny branches and vines, likely scavenged from nearby shrubs. They dropped their bundles with soft thuds, their movements hurried and clumsy, as though afraid to linger. This time, Nox stayed behind while Bhola and Khotal disappeared into the shadows once more. Nox worked methodically, weaving and tying the thorny branches with the vines into a sturdy perimeter around Turo and Dias. Bhola and Khotal occasionally returned with more supplies, tossing them at Nox¡¯s feet before retreating again. Turo watched it all, arms crossed, refusing to lift a finger. Once the fence was complete, Nox straightened up outside the makeshift barrier. He demonstrated opening a small patch in the fence. ¡°This will keep predators out,¡± he explained. ¡°If you need to leave, open it like this. But for God¡¯s sake, Turo, stay inside.¡± Nox gestured emphatically, his frustration seeping through. ¡°We don¡¯t know this part of the woods, and we¡¯re in enough trouble as it is. I don¡¯t want to have to organize another search party for you.¡± Turo didn¡¯t respond. Nox exhaled sharply, turning his attention to Bhola and Khotal, who lingered in the distance, their nervous glances darting between the shadows and the lake. ¡°What are you waiting for? Get to work on the raft!¡± he snapped. Bhola and Khotal glanced at each other, their faces pale, their shoulders hunched as if expecting a monster to lunge from the shadows. They muttered to themselves, eyes darting nervously. Nox scowled. ¡°Go on, then!¡± he barked. With visible hesitation, the pair trudged toward the lake shore. ¡°Stick to the shore!¡± Nox called after them. ¡°Don¡¯t wander into the woods. If you get lost, we won¡¯t find you.¡± Nox turned to Turo one last time, his eyes narrowing. "Why do I feel like you¡¯re going to cause more trouble tonight?" He rubbed his chest, as though the thought physically pained him. Shaking his head, he added, "Alright, stay here. Don¡¯t test me. I¡¯ll bring Samora back, and then we¡¯re leaving." With a final nod, he disappeared into the trees. As the darkness swallowed Nox, Turo began pacing inside the thorn fence, his agitation growing with every step. He cast a disgusted glance at Dias¡¯s limp form. The man was deadweight¡ªuseless. A waste of effort. Turo¡¯s mind churned. He needed to find Samora before Nox did. He had to hunt the cursed child first. This was his moment¡ªthe only chance to show his people, and his father, he deserved to lead. But how? Nox was already searching. And Turo was saddled with the task of guarding Dias. Could he really just leave him? The idea struck like lightning. Dias was slipping away, anyway, his body pale and limp. Blood still seeped from his wounds, pooling beneath him. Even if the raft was finished in time, would it matter? Dias didn''t seemed to be breathing anymore. He''s probably dead already. Why should Turo waste precious time guarding a corpse? Why should he throw away his chance to prove himself for a man who was already as good as dead? The thorn fence was enough. It had to be enough. Resolved, Turo crouched by the patch in the thorn fence, his heart hammering as he slid it open. The branches creaked, thorns snagging at his clothes. He slipped through and shut it behind him, careful not to leave a trace. While Nox had gone inland, Turo hugged the water¡¯s edge, his steps light and deliberate. He kept his senses sharp, scanning for any sign of predators that might come to drink, even at this late hour. He knew Samora had used an oversized basket to sail here. If he could find it, he might narrow down her location. Samora wouldn¡¯t have gone far¡ªinjured, in labor, and weakened as she was. She had to be nearby. Quickening his pace, Turo moved along the shoreline, his eyes darting between the sand and the murky water. The hunt was on. 1.37 - Who is the Real Enemy? ¡°Oh, Calla! For a moment, I almost believed we were talking about real evils.¡± Creda chuckled nervously, her hands clasping her knees. ¡°Of course, they¡¯re just concepts. Vices! What else could they be?¡± She let out a shaky breath, laughing at her own unease. ¡°But the way you tell it, Calla, it makes them feel so¡­ alive.¡± Calla¡¯s face darkened. The first hint of ignorance in Creda¡¯s words made her want to correct the girl immediately. She opened her mouth but thought better of it. Insistence often bred resistance, especially in someone as young as Creda. Calla settled back into silence. The truth, she reasoned, would reach Creda eventually. Meanwhile, Creda wrestled with the unease gnawing at her. Why did hearing about vices as evils make her so tense? Surely it was just Calla¡¯s storytelling, vivid and enthralling. She dismissed the feeling as she always did and let the silence between them stretch. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the chill lingered in the air. Calla pulled her beaver-fur blanket tighter around her shoulders, her gaze lost in the shadows on the walls. She seemed to be searching for something within them. Creda, by contrast, found warmth in Calla¡¯s presence. As a child, she had always adored the old woman¡¯s stories. Back then, she hadn¡¯t understood much of what Calla said, but that hadn¡¯t mattered. Children didn¡¯t need meaning, only a gentle elder who had the time and patience to listen. Someone who could indulge their endless questions and rambling thoughts. Someone who guided without judging. Calla had always been that for Creda¡ªand for every child in Tuscanvalle. It wasn¡¯t just affection the children felt for her; it was reverence. ¡°Calla?¡± Creda hesitated, fiddling with the fraying hem of her tunic. ¡°People say you¡¯ve¡­ struck a bargain with Death.¡± She chuckled at the absurdity of her own words. ¡°Is that true? Why do they say that?¡± Calla¡¯s lips curved into a knowing smile, her eyes glinting in the dim light. ¡°When I was a child, I drowned in Lavalthon,¡± she said. ¡°They thought I was dead. In fact, I was.¡± Her voice dropped with a matter-of-fact finality. ¡°But just before midnight, I woke up. Like nothing had happened. I¡¯m still here to this day. Perhaps that¡¯s why they say it.¡± Creda¡¯s eyebrows shot up in amazement. She shifted to sit cross-legged, leaning forward. ¡°But how? I don¡¯t understand.¡± Calla opened her mouth to answer. ¡°That¡¯s the most important thing in your world right now, Creda?¡± A sharp voice interrupted. Creda jumped, turning toward the doorway. There stood her mother, Bouma, her expression a thundercloud of anger. In one hand, she gripped the long stick she used to herd cattle. She stepped into the room, the small space suddenly suffocating under her bristling presence. ¡°Why did I send you here?¡± Bouma demanded. Before Creda could answer, Bouma struck her with the stick. Creda gasped, flinching as the blow landed. Her hands came up in a frantic gesture of defense, though she didn¡¯t truly try to stop her mother. ¡°Stop!¡± Calla¡¯s voice wavered, panic threading through it. ¡°Bouma, she¡¯s just a child¡ªplease¡ª¡± Neither mother nor daughter heeded Calla¡¯s words. Bouma¡¯s anger filled the room, overwhelming any attempt at reason. After a few blows, her fury seemed to ebb. Creda racked her mind, searching for an answer, then remembered. ¡°To herd the kids back home,¡± she said, her voice hesitant, shaking her head in confusion. ¡°I did that a long time ago.¡± ¡°Then why aren¡¯t you back home yourself?¡± Bouma gritted her teeth, gripping the stick, its menacing tip pointing toward Creda. ¡°But, Mother, I was just talking with Calla.¡± Creda¡¯s voice wavered as she cowered against the far wall. Though she had faced down strong men like Malok and Hiyan earlier that night, her mother¡¯s blend of concern, anger, and authority left her feeling cornered. ¡°That¡¯s not a crime, is it?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you dare talk back to me!¡± Bouma snapped. The stick in her hand swayed. Calla struggled to rise from her seat, leaning on her walking stick, desperate to intervene. But her frail body betrayed her urgency. ¡°Of course, it¡¯s a crime,¡± Bouma continued, her voice rising. ¡°You¡¯re a woman¡ªsomeone¡¯s betrothed. It¡¯s inappropriate for you to be out at this time of night.¡± Creda¡¯s face twisted in disbelief. ¡°But Mother, this is Calla¡¯s!¡± ¡°So what? Everyone comes to Calla¡¯s at all hours! That¡¯s all the more reason for you to act responsibly. Enough of this nonsense. From now on, you do exactly as I say. No questions. No arguments.¡± Bouma shook the stick for emphasis. Tears welled up in Creda¡¯s eyes. ¡°That¡¯s absurd. How can you¡ª¡± ¡°Shut up!¡± Bouma lashed the stick toward her daughter again, her anger spilling over in a volatile mix of frustration and helplessness. ¡°I said no more arguments! It¡¯s time you learned the values of a perfect woman and wife!¡± She raised the stick once more, but before the blow could land, Calla was on her feet. Though hunched with age, she stood firm, using her stick for support. She reached out, her frail hand grasping Bouma¡¯s wrist. The touch was light yet commanding, enough to halt Bouma in her tracks.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°Why are you hitting the child?¡± Calla¡¯s voice was soft. Her presence seemed to calm Bouma, whose breathing slowed from frantic gasps to something steadier. ¡°Is it a crime for an old woman to crave company, hmm? How long do you think I¡¯ll be alive? Do you think I want to spend what¡¯s left of my miserable life watching you hurt the poor child? God help me¡ªwas this why I was spared all those years ago?¡± The stick slipped from Bouma¡¯s hand, clattering to the floor. Her lips quivered, and tears began to stream down her cheeks. Her body swayed as though burdened by own emotions. Calla gently guided her to sit on the cot and then sat beside her, resting a comforting hand on her back. ¡°Calm down,¡± Calla murmured, her voice soft and soothing, like a lullaby. She stroked Bouma¡¯s back in slow, deliberate motions. ¡°Calm down, my dear. What¡¯s the matter?¡± Bouma sobbed into her hands, her cries low and guttural. Across the room, Creda leaned against the wall, sniffling and wiping her tears before they could spill over. ¡°Calm down,¡± Calla repeated, her voice as steady as her trembling hand. ¡°What¡¯s troubling you, my precious?¡± Bouma was once a child too, enchanted by Calla''s stories. She had adored her once, back when life was simpler and burdens were fewer. Now, under Calla¡¯s soothing touch, that memory flickered to life, softening her resolve. ¡°It¡¯s not about you, Calla,¡± Bouma murmured, her voice trembling. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­¡± Her words trailed off as another wave of uncontrollable sobs overtook her. ¡°It¡¯s about Samora!¡± Creda declared, her glare fixed on a distant point. Calla¡¯s eyes darted between them, confusion clouding her face. ¡°She thinks everything went downhill because Samora didn¡¯t stay to see her child die,¡± Creda added, her words tinged with bitterness. Bouma¡¯s head snapped up at Creda¡¯s defiance. ¡°What else could I think?¡± she shot back, her anger reigniting. Calla tightened her grip on Bouma¡¯s hand, grounding her. Bouma turned to Calla, seeking validation. ¡°Tell me, Calla. Why don¡¯t these girls understand? A woman is supposed to do what she¡¯s told! When will they learn the consequences of this defiance?¡± Her voice cracked with frustration before she turned back to Creda. ¡°Do you know what kind of trouble your sister has caused us? She has eloped into that forbidden land! She has brought shame to us! Ruin to us! And now you¡¯re following in her footsteps. I won¡¯t let you. I won¡¯t let you ruin yourself like she did.¡± Calla pressed Bouma¡¯s hand. ¡°Elope? Forbidden? Who? What are you talking about?¡± Creda rolled her eyes, her exasperation surfacing late but unmistakable. ¡°Samora didn¡¯t want her baby¡ªmy niece¡ªor nephew¡ªhunted like a monster by these stupid people, Calla,¡± she explained, her voice laced with anger. ¡°So, she left Tuscanvalle.¡± ¡°Left Tuscanvalle?¡± Calla¡¯s voice rose, incredulous. ¡°But where would she go? Wasn¡¯t she in labor? Poor soul!¡± ¡°She¡¯s sailing across Lavalthon, to the other side,¡± Creda clarified. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest as her words grew bolder. ¡°And Mother thinks she needs to control me to stop me from doing the something like that. But I say, if I were in Samora¡¯s situation, I¡¯d do exactly what she did. Why would I offer my child¡ªthe one I carried for months, enduring every hardship these people threw at me¡ªas a scapegoat for the same people who abandoned me when I needed them most?¡± Before Creda could finish, Bouma surged to her feet, rage boiling over. She didn¡¯t bother reaching for the stick. Instead, she seized Creda by the hair and delivered a hard slap across her cheek. ¡°You will, will you?¡± Bouma snarled, her voice trembling with fury. ¡°Let me see how you will! I¡¯ll kill you with these same hands that raised you!¡± The slaps came fast and harsh, a dozen in quick succession. Creda didn¡¯t cry out but braced herself, her face burning with pain and humiliation. ¡°Stop it, Bouma!¡± Calla¡¯s voice rang out, shrill and commanding. She staggered to her feet, using every ounce of strength she had left to shove herself between them. Her frail frame trembled as she pushed Bouma away from Creda. ¡°Have you gone mad?¡± Calla cried, her chest heaving from the effort, her body leaning into the stick to keep herself upright. For someone who was usually bedridden, requiring help to even stand upright, the sight of Calla standing fierce and protective was arresting. Bouma froze, her breathing ragged, her eyes darting between Calla and Creda. ¡°What are you doing, Bouma?¡± Calla¡¯s voice softened. ¡°You¡¯re not angry at her¡ªyou¡¯re angry at the world for failing you, for failing Samora. But this isn¡¯t the way. You¡¯re breaking your own child while trying to keep her from breaking herself.¡± Bouma¡¯s trembling hands fell to her sides, and she stepped back, her rage dissolving into anguish. Calla turned to Creda, her gaze tender but firm. ¡°And you,¡± she said, her voice now quiet, ¡°don¡¯t let anger cloud your heart. There¡¯s wisdom in pain, but only if you¡¯re willing to listen.¡± Bouma sobbed, her face twisted in a tumult of helplessness and anger. "You heard what she said! No one will marry her if she keeps saying these things. They''ll hurt her if they find out¡ª" "And you''re hurting your child right now. Stop it!" Calla said. She gestured for Bouma to calm down, her frail body trembling with the monumental effort of intervening. Creda moved closer, steadying Calla from behind. "What will this achieve, Bouma? You¡¯re punishing Creda for Samora¡¯s actions." Bouma opened her mouth to argue, but Calla silenced her with a firm nod, her tired eyes imploring. "I¡¯ll talk to her," she said, blinking slowly, a silent plea for compliance. "Go home. I¡¯ll send her later." Bouma exhaled shakily, her anger and resolve deflating under Calla¡¯s steady gaze. She blinked away the tears threatening to fall and cast one last look at Calla and Creda. Then, without another word, she turned and walked out. As soon as Bouma left, Calla swayed, unable to remain upright. Creda quickly helped her to the cot and guided her to lie down. The elder looked utterly drained, her face pale, her breath shallow. Creda, meanwhile, bore the marks of her mother¡¯s rage: red streaks on her cheeks and tears pooling in her swollen eyes. She sniffed quietly, blinking back her emotions, and schooled her expression into neutrality. Then, she sank down beside Calla¡¯s cot, resuming the position she was in before Bouma¡¯s intrusion. The room wax silent. Creda stared blankly at the floor while Calla gazed at the ceiling, both lost in their own thoughts. After a long pause, Creda broke the silence. ¡°What are you thinking about, Calla?¡± she asked, her voice flat, drained of emotion. Calla didn''t respond for a moment longer, her thoughts distant. ¡°Are you thinking that Samora will bring more trouble by going to the forbidden part of the lake?¡± Creda pressed, a hint of challenge in her tone. ¡°Do you believe in that nonsense?¡± Calla¡¯s gaze shifted, meeting Creda¡¯s with a somber intensity. ¡°Forbidden?¡± she repeated. ¡°It¡¯s just the other side of the lake. There¡¯s nothing forbidden about it. The actual problem¡­ it¡¯s not her going there.¡± There was so much packed into that one statement that Creda faltered, unsure where to begin. There¡¯s nothing forbidden about it? Then why the ruckus? Why the fear, the drama? Why hadn¡¯t anyone dared to go there before? And then there was the other part: The actual problem is¡­ ¡°What¡¯s the actual problem, Calla?¡± she asked, her voice hesitant, unsure if she wanted to know the answer. Calla stayed quiet for a while, her brows knitting together as if grappling with an unsettling thought. When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper, laced with dread. ¡°I think he¡¯s here.¡± Creda felt a chill run down her spine. ¡°Who?¡± she asked, her voice barely audible. Calla¡¯s eyes darkened. ¡°Ignorance.¡±
1.38 - Her Soul Was Free—Until Vengeance Took Over "Death?" Samora asked with a tinge of confusion. "Why are you here already? I¡¯m not dead yet. Speaking of which, why am I not dead?" The figure loomed before her, silent and unmoving. If this truly was Death, surely he had the answers. The thought of meeting him felt strange, even ironic. She had never believed in such encounters while alive. The tiniest bit of humor in her realization might have made her smile¡ªif not for the sharp pain searing through her abdomen. A deep, hearty laugh filled the space. It wasn¡¯t from his lips; his voice seemed to reverberate from inside her very mind. When the sound faded, he tilted his head slightly. "You¡¯ve been dead for a while now. I thought I might be late. Yet here you are, enjoying your own company, singing songs to keep yourself entertained while waiting to be freed." His words carried a sliver of mockery and amusement. Dead for a while? The statement hit her like a wave, stirring disappointment despite her earlier suspicions. It explained the stiffness, the inability to move her lips to speak. Yet¡ªsomehow, she spoke. Perhaps it was her mind reaching out, much like how Death communicated with her. Was this what being dead felt like? "Freed?" Samora asked, wary. "What does that mean?" "To release your soul from this body, which can no longer serve you," Raeglon replied, his tone patient, almost like it was a routine. "It¡¯s my role." Samora frowned. "But isn¡¯t death¡­ final? Don¡¯t you just fall into a void? That¡¯s what I thought, and my elders say our souls would await judgment." Raeglon''s lips curled into a faint, impressed smile beneath his hood. "You humans know more than you should. Impressive," he said with a brief nod. "Yes, those things happen¡ªbut only after I sever the ties keeping you trapped in this body." "But¡­" Samora hesitated. "What happens after I¡¯m freed? Will I fall into a void? Will I forget everything?" Raeglon nodded, his tone patient. "First of all, I¡¯m not here to push you into any kind of void. Don¡¯t worry. My job is to sever the ties keeping you tethered to this broken body and take you safely to the world of shadows. I¡¯ve done this since the dawn of creation. Trust me¡ªI know my role better than you know your own hand." "The world of shadows?" "That¡¯s where souls reside until judgment day. If they¡¯re not granted rebirth, they stay there forever." Samora¡¯s breath hitched. "Souls¡­ reside in shadows?" Her voice faltered as a childhood memory surfaced in her mind. She had feared her own shadow as a toddler, certain it concealed something watching, waiting. It wasn¡¯t just her. Shadows seemed to hold an unspoken dread, especially for children. Could it be that they sensed something there¡ªsomething real, something ancient? The idea struck her as unsettling and strangely plausible. Could humanity¡¯s fear of darkness and shadows have been born from an innate awareness of the souls trapped within them? "Yes," Raeglon confirmed her unspoken question. "Those shadows are your ancestors, watching over you." Samora tried to shake her head, though her body refused to obey. "You¡¯re mistaken. I¡¯m not dead." She insisted. "I can still feel pain. Why would I feel pain if I¡¯m already dead?" Raeglon studied her for a moment. "It happens," he said, thoughtfully. "When a mortal dies violently or under extreme distress, the final sensations can linger. Judging by your body¡¯s state, I¡¯d say you¡¯ve endured a terrible death." He frowned. "But don¡¯t worry¡ªit will all fade once I sever the bonds holding you here. You¡¯ll be free." He stepped forward, his first movement since emerging from the shadows. "Wait!" Samora cried out. "You said you¡¯ll sever all ties. Will I¡­" She hesitated. "Will I forget everything?" Her thoughts drifted to the fragile, writhing body she¡¯d glimpsed before the mysterious man had disappeared¡ªthe tiny form of her son, Runo. Raeglon tilted his head, considering. "Not immediately. Once you enter the world of shadows, you¡¯ll feel disoriented at first. Most souls rest in isolation for a while. Over time, the memories fade."If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. He crouched, his arms outstretched toward her. Samora felt an unnatural pull, like something draining from her. "Stop!" she screamed. "No! I don¡¯t want this. Leave me alone." Her plea was desperate. Raeglon froze, his expression shifting to surprise. He scanned her from head to toe, lips slightly parted. "Look at yourself," he said, almost incredulous. "Once I sever your ties to this world, the pain will disappear." "No," Samora said firmly. "Why not? Do you think I¡¯ll hurt you?" His voice softened. Samora didn¡¯t answer. "Don¡¯t worry," Raeglon said with faint humor. "It¡¯s no worse than cutting a strand of hair." "No," Samora repeated, her voice trembling. "I¡¯d rather stay in this body, with this pain. I won¡¯t let anyone take me from it." Tears welled in her voice. Raeglon paused, then slowly extended a hand toward her crown. "Don¡¯t touch me! Leave me alone!" Samora screamed inwardly, her voice echoing in the hollow space of her mind. Her body refused to respond; she couldn¡¯t flinch or pull away. Raeglon ignored her protests. His hand settled gently on her crown, unmoving. And then it began. The last few months of her life unraveled in his mind like a film reel. He saw her kinsfolk abandon her when they believed her child would be a monster. He saw her husband accuse her of infidelity. He saw her wandering the streets, pregnant and destitute, scorned as a beggar. The Tuscanian elders'' secret meetings to kill her baby before it could take its first breath. Her desperate flight from the village. Turo¡¯s relentless pursuit across the lake, his knife dripping with her blood. Her agonizing labor, alone and defenseless. Her body faltering, right in the middle of giving birth. The mysterious man tearing into her flesh to dig out her child. Her soul¡¯s helpless yearning to cradle her baby, to protect him, even as he had slipped away from her lifeless self. And through it all, her soul lingered, trapped and suffering, unaware of its own death. She had waited for him¡ªDeath¡ªwhile enduring the unbearable memories of violence, betrayal, and injustice. When it was over, Raeglon lifted his hand. A single tear, almost like a wisp of smoke, slid down his cheek. He stood silently for a moment, his shoulders slumped. "Your sacrifice was immense," he rasped after a while, his voice low with reverence. "I salute you." He exhaled, as though the act of speaking was a burden. "You will be rewarded. Your next life will be one of peace and abundance, free from the trials you endured in this one. But your resilience has touched me. For that, I will grant you one request¡ªanything within my power. Ask, and it shall be yours." Samora¡¯s thoughts churned. "Anything?" she asked cautiously. "You have my word," Raeglon reassured her. Her answer was ready. "I don¡¯t want to go into the shadows¡ªnot while my son is alive." Raeglon''s eyes widened, his composure cracking for the first time. "That¡¯s dangerous," he said. "Souls aren¡¯t meant to wander. It won¡¯t take long for you to become a vengeful spirit. And even if you don¡¯t, you¡¯ll be invisible and lonely. You won¡¯t be able to touch your son or speak to him. You¡¯ll be nothing but a presence, unseen and unheard. You¡¯ll be alone. And it wouldn''t be worth it. These desires are fleeting, volatile. Insignificant against what''s awaiting for you. Why would you choose that for yourself?" "I won¡¯t be alone," Samora insisted. "Not as long as I¡¯m with my son. No matter my form." Raeglon shook his head. "No. I can¡¯t grant you that. Souls must follow their path. Ask for something else." "That¡¯s all I want," she said. "But it¡¯s fine if you want to go back on your word." A bitter smirk found it''s way into her heart. Afterall, she had been abandoned and deceived several times already, what would one more matter? Raeglon hesitated. He stood unmoving, contemplating. A moment stretched into what felt like eternity. "You understand the consequences, don''t you?" Raeglon''s voice was a murmur, speaking almost to himself, as though debating whether or not to proceed. "Once you wander like this, once you break the boundaries of what is meant¡­ your soul will never be the same." He warned. "If you seek vengeance, even in the faintest way, you risk becoming something¡­ different. Something dangerous. Your rebirth could be ruined." He exhaled slowly. "But also, I gave you my word. I can''t go back on it." A long pause. Then, with a visible shift in his posture, he met Samora''s gaze. "Alright," he said, almost reluctantly, "but only as long as your son is alive." Samora felt a flutter in her chest¡ªif such a thing were even possible for a soul. "Thank you," she whispered. Raeglon released her from her body. Samora felt herself shimmer in the lantern light, rising upwards, weightless and free from all pain. She drifted toward the stone structure¡¯s edge, her only thought on finding her son. "Wait!" Raeglon called her. Samora stopped, hovering near the entrance and turned to see him. "You''re prone to feel all the pain and anger you felt while dying if you ever see anyone related to your death," Raeglon warned. "Remember, one act of vengeance is all it takes to turn you into a vengeful soul. Don¡¯t ruin your chance at a perfect rebirth." The mention of ¡°anyone related to your death¡± itself sent a jolt through her soul. Turo. Malok. Her breath, if she still had lungs, would have frozen. The pain, the betrayal, the desperation¡ªeverything came rushing back like a tide, and with it, an uncontrollable need to lash out. I have to find them, the thought hit her with a force she couldn¡¯t deny. Turo. Malok. She wasn¡¯t thinking of Runo anymore. She wasn''t choosing to think anymore. The memory of her child, her son, faded into the background. This burning need¡ªthis anger¡ªhad to be quenched. Turo. Malok. Their faces seared into her mind, taunting her, daring her to act. Runo could wait. Her vengeance couldn¡¯t. 1.39 - A Secret Wrapped in Silk "Ignorance?" Creda frowned. "That''s just a vice, isn''t it? Why speak of it as if it were a person?" She pressed her palms to the cold, unyielding floor, her unease growing with every flicker of the dim lamp hanging above them. The oil was nearly spent, sending soot spiralling up the beam. The light wavered, threatening to plunge them into utter darkness. Creda noticed but hesitated to act, tethered to Calla''s side by something in her demeanour. "I don''t understand," she added softly. "Neither do I," Calla murmured, almost to herself. Her voice was thin, like the flickering flame above them. Her eyes glimmered, a sheen of unshed tears catching the weak light. "Was it Samora¡­ or was it us who brought him here?" "Calla?" Creda reached out, her fingers brushing Calla¡¯s cold arm. But Calla didn¡¯t flinch, didn¡¯t move. She lay still on the cot, her pale face tilted toward the beam, her gaze fixed on the dying flame. "She fled across Lavalthon," Calla lamented. "They say that place will bring ruin. But I know it¡¯s not cursed." "What are you saying?" Creda pressed, her voice tight. "The other side of the lake¡ªit¡¯s not cursed?" "It¡¯s not," Calla replied, her voice trembling. She refused to meet Creda¡¯s gaze. "It¡¯s us who are cursed, not the place." Creda''s heart lurched. She recalled Calla''s tales¡ªthe fairy who saved a village, the Great Hero who sacrificed everything to defeat the evil, the tomb built to honour his departure. Of the people still waiting, centuries later, for the Great Hero¡¯s return. But Calla had never spoken of a curse. Could it be true? Were the Tuscanians cursed? "So, if Samora didn¡¯t bring him here¡­ was it us?" Calla¡¯s voice grew sharper, her wide eyes still fixed on the beam. "Have we been blind all this time? What if, in trying to avoid the prophecy, we¡¯ve made it come true? What if the child wasn¡¯t a monster? What if we¡¯ve misinterpreted everything?" Creda¡¯s breath caught. The oracle¡¯s words echoed in her mind: The child born at the start of winter will bring ruin to Tuscanvalle. No mention of the child being a monster, no clear meaning beyond the timing. Had they all been wrong? Had Samora suffered because of their ignorance? Calla inhaled a shaky breath. "After all these years, after everything I¡¯ve done¡­" Her voice wavered. Creda reached for her again. The lamp sputtered, its wick burning too low, sending a final puff of soot to the beam. "Have I failed?" Calla whispered. The lamp went out and¡ªdarkness swallowed them.
Nox moved through the dense woods, his steps brisk but cautious. The air was damp and heavy with the scent of earth and moss. He snapped the twigs on nearby shrubs partially as he passed, leaving a trail he could follow back. This part of the forest was unfamiliar. His mind raced with unease. What predators lurked here? A jaguar or leopard could be watching him now, hidden among the shadows, waiting to strike. And worse, he reeked of Dias''s blood as if he was inviting them for a feast. He cursed under his breath for not masking the scent at the campsite before leaving. But there was no time to go back now¡ªSamora needed him. Or did she? Was she injured? Had the baby come yet? If she was still in labour, could he even manage to get her back to the campsite, let alone across the lake to Tuscanvalle? He clenched his fists, forcing himself to stop spiralling. First, he had to find her. The rest could wait. Yet, the enormity of the task gnawed at him. He was wandering blindly through a vast wilderness, hoping for a sign of his cousin''s whereabouts. Even if he found a trail, how could he tell in this dim moonlight whether it belonged to a human or an animal? The partial canopy above offered little help, the fragmented light playing tricks on his eyes. His search felt futile, like hunting for a particular strand of hay in an entire haystack. "If only there were a magical way to narrow down her location," he muttered bitterly. And then, the realization hit him like a slap to the face¡ªliterally. He smacked his forehead and winced at the sting. Samora had been heading across Lavalthon, just as they had been. She must be near the shore; she wouldn¡¯t have gone far inland in her state. Frustrated at his own oversight, he slapped the nearest tree trunk with more force than he intended. He¡¯d been heading in the wrong direction.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. Turning sharply on his heels, he retraced his steps, eyes squinting for the broken twigs he¡¯d left behind in patches of moonlight and feeling for them in the darkness. The sounds of the forest felt louder now¡ªthe chirp of crickets, the occasional rustle of leaves. Each noise grated against his nerves. Then he heard it. A deliberate movement, faint but unmistakable, somewhere ahead of him. He froze, his heart pounding. Someone¡ªor something¡ªwas approaching. Slowly. Purposefully. Samora? No, it couldn¡¯t be her. She was hurt, likely struggling to move. Was it an animal, perhaps drawn by the smell of blood clinging to him? His pulse quickened. A predator would be faster than him, and in an unfamiliar woods like this, running would only hasten his death. But this wasn¡¯t the sound of paws. It was footsteps. Nox ducked behind a thick tree trunk just as the figure came into view. His breath hitched. A man. The stranger¡¯s appearance was jarring. He wore peculiar clothing¡ªhis chest was covered to the neck, something Nox had only seen women do. Married women, at that. But this was unmistakably a man, with broad shoulders and a rough, unkempt face and matted hair. His lower body was draped in similar cloth, dyed and elaborate. The garments looked restrictive and uncomfortable. Chains hung from his neck and were sewn into his attire, and his fingers glinted with rings that caught the moonlight. Nox studied him intently, his gaze shifting to the bundle the man clutched against his chest. It was wrapped in the same kind of fabric, held as though it were something of immense value. The man¡¯s attention was fixed on the bundle, his focus so singular it was as though the forest around him didn¡¯t exist. What could be inside that bundle? What was so important that the man would carry it so protectively, even through the treacherous woods? Nox¡¯s breath steadied as he remained hidden, eyes narrowing in suspicion. The man wasn¡¯t paying attention to the terrain or his surroundings which was an advantage to Nox. But who was he? And why was he here, of all places? Nox waited, holding his breath as the man passed his hiding spot. The stranger¡¯s purposeful stride faded into the distance, and Nox couldn¡¯t suppress his curiosity. What¡¯s in that bundle? A strange instinct told him whatever it was, it mattered far more to him than to the man carrying it. He hesitated for only a moment before slipping out from behind the tree. If the man was heading toward the lake, following him would serve Nox¡¯s purpose as well. Clutching his makeshift spear tightly, he crept after him, moving as silently as he could. The man¡¯s pace was steady¡ªneither hurried nor lingering¡ªbut Nox was grateful he didn¡¯t seem to be in any immediate danger. His earlier fears of predators still gnawed at him, though. He tightened his grip on the spear, muttering a silent prayer that Turo wouldn¡¯t have to use the one Nox had left him. Luck had been with him so far tonight, but would it extend to his comrades? Soon, the dense woods gave way to the shore. Nox crouched behind the thickets where the tree line ended, watching as the man approached the lake. He scanned the shoreline, then moved deliberately toward a cluster of neck-high weeds growing thick along the shallow water. The man reached into the weeds, tugging at something hidden within, but after a few moments, he seemed to give up. He turned back to the shore and placed his bundle on a piece of bark, stripped clean and carried to the shore by the recent storm. Then, without a glance behind him, he returned to the weeds. Nox¡¯s attention flickered between the man and the bundle. Something about the bundle tugged at his chest, a strange pull he couldn¡¯t explain. His curiosity warred with caution. He could check the bundle now, while the man¡¯s attention was elsewhere, but should he risk it? As if in answer, the bundle moved. Nox froze. Did it just wiggle? Was it alive¡ªor was his mind playing tricks on him? The cloth shimmered in the moonlight as it shifted again. His breath quickened. There was no mistaking it this time. Something inside was moving. Before he could decide what to do, the rustling weeds drew his attention back to the man. Whatever he had been struggling with earlier finally came loose. With a firm tug, the man pulled out a floating vessel¡ªunlike anything Nox had seen before. It was a cross between Samora¡¯s oversized basket and their traditional rafts, with an elongated body and raised edges to keep the sailor from toppling into the water. Nox¡¯s heart leapt with hope. Could this man help them cross the lake? But the thought vanished as quickly as it came. The man stepped closer to the vessel, extending his hand. His palm faced upward, and he began chanting in a language that sent a chill down Nox¡¯s spine. The words were guttural and unnatural, resonating with an otherworldly cadence. The air around the man glowed with an eerie red glow. When the glow subsided, an ornate lantern materialized in his outstretched hand, its pale yellow light casting strange shadows across his face. Nox gasped, barely stifling the sound. Magic. He had conjured a lantern out of thin air. The man seemed oblivious to Nox¡¯s presence. He retrieved the bundle, placed it carefully at the base of the vessel, and climbed in. With slow, deliberate strokes, he paddled northward, moving farther from the shore and from Tuscanvalle. A wave of inexplicable loss washed over Nox, suffocating and unwelcome. It was as though he were watching something precious slip away, something he was meant to protect. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. Samora was still out there, possibly hurt¡ªor worse. He stepped out from the thickets, the man¡¯s vessel drifting into the distance. Please let the raft be ready, he prayed silently. Let Dias hold on a little longer, and let Turo be safe. Yet, a dark foreboding crept over him, taunting him that nothing would go as planned. His thoughts were shattered by a sound that made his blood run cold¡ªa gut-wrenching scream, sharp and raw, cutting through the silence of the night. Nox¡¯s heart lurched. Turo? The scream came from somewhere to his left. Without a second thought, Nox sprinted in its direction, the forest closing in around him once more. 1.40 - The Ghost Who Hungers The empty toddy pot rolled over the wood of the dock. Hiyan stared at Malok, who lay on his back, rolling drunkenly, disgust and terror swirling in his chest. Had Malok always been this cruel? Had Hiyan been blind to it¡ªor just as cruel himself until today? Malok was celebrating the deaths of innocent people. All for a title. Sure, Hiyan always knew Malok was ambitious, but capable of killing for it? He silently prayed the lifeline had held long enough for the raft to reach the far shore¡ªor that it had snapped sooner, giving them a chance to swim back to Tuscanvalle. He wasn¡¯t ready to voice these thoughts, though. Years of standing by Malok¡¯s schemes had become a habit too deeply rooted to break easily. Even the idea of defiance made his stomach churn. ¡°Ah¡­¡± Malok moaned, swaying lazily on his back. One knee bent, the other leg waved in the air. ¡°I¡¯ll have it all. The power, the people, the girl¡­¡± Hiyan¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°Which girl?¡± he snapped, his courage bolstered by Malok¡¯s drunkenness. Malok mumbled incoherently, then chuckled, his hand slipping under his head and propping it up as he grinned to himself. ¡°Which girl, Malok?¡± Hiyan pressed. Malok¡¯s grin faded as he squinted up at him, his expression briefly serious as if trying to remember the question itself. ¡°Creda. My lovely sister-in-law.¡± He dropped back onto the floor, pulling his hand from under his head and pressing it to his lips like a child shushing himself. ¡°Ah¡­ my future wife. That¡¯s who she is.¡± Hiyan let out a frustrated breath, rubbing his temples. Why did Malok keep saying that? Creda was still betrothed to Turo. ¡°How?¡± he demanded. "She''s Turo''s." ¡°Turo will be dead by morning,¡± Malok sang, his voice dripping with glee. ¡°And Creda will be free from their betrothal.¡± Hiyan frowned. ¡°Even then, why would she marry you? You¡¯re her sister¡¯s husband. Besides, Nox has the first right over¡ª¡± His voice faltered as realization struck. Sweat prickled his skin despite the night¡¯s chill. Malok had severed the lifeline of the raft, hadn¡¯t he? Nox would drown before reaching the shore. Without him, Samora would be stranded, vulnerable to predators. She wouldn¡¯t survive. And without Nox, Turo had no chance either. Turo gone. Samora dead. Nox drowned. Hiyan¡¯s heart thundered. With Turo dead, Creda¡¯s betrothal would dissolve. With Samora gone, Malok would be free of his marriage. And with Nox gone, Bouma would be cornered, with no choice but to hand over her daughter to the only living nephew¡ªMalok. How long had he been planning this? Malok wagged a finger at him, his silly, drunken grin daring Hiyan to call him out. You¡¯ve finally caught up, that grin seemed to say. The first light of dawn crept across the eastern horizon. ¡ª ¡°Did you hear that?¡± Bhola gasped, his eyes darting fearfully around. ¡°Hear what? There¡¯s nothing to hear,¡± Khotal muttered, fumbling with the vines as he tried to lash the logs into a raft. His trembling hands betrayed him, the vines slipping through his fingers while the logs clanked together, slowing his progress. He cursed under his breath, willing the gods to hasten Nox¡¯s return. Nox had promised to be back soon, but Khotal¡¯s faith wavered with every passing second. What if he didn¡¯t return? Sure, Nox had said they didn¡¯t need to wait for him, that once the raft was built, they should take Dias and Turo back to Tuscanvalle. But Khotal couldn¡¯t bring himself to leave Nox behind¡ªnot in this cursed place. Ayan was already dead, and Dias had barely survived whatever had attacked them. Nox dismissed it as a crocodile, not a monster, but Khotal¡¯s growing fear didn¡¯t care for such reasoning. ¡°That!¡± Bhola shrieked, clawing at Khotal¡¯s back. Khotal jerked away, shoving Bhola¡¯s hand off him. ¡°Keep your filthy hands off me!¡± he snapped, glaring. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with you, man? There¡¯s nothing out there. Now stop pestering me.¡± He turned back to the raft, his focus as unsteady as his fingers.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Bhola clutched his trembling arms close to his chest, his wide eyes darting around the darkened forest. He began humming nervously, his voice wavering like a broken tune. ¡°I hear it. Why do I hear it and you don¡¯t?¡± ¡°Because it¡¯s coming for you, not me,¡± Khotal growled, trying to mask his own fear. Bhola whimpered, scooting closer for comfort. ¡°What do you mean by that?¡± ¡°Stop talking nonsense! You¡¯re just scaring me¡ªand yourself. If you¡¯re so worried, help me with this!¡± Khotal thrust a bundle of vines into Bhola¡¯s hands, gesturing at the raft. ¡°Dias is dying, remember?¡± Bhola hesitated, then grabbed the vines, though his trembling fingers were of little use. ¡°But I keep hearing it,¡± he insisted. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t¡ª¡± Khotal¡¯s words cut off as a low growl rumbled in the distance, followed by the faint clatter of wood. His head snapped up, his ears straining. ¡°Wait. What¡¯s that?¡± Bhola¡¯s face lit with vindication. ¡°You heard it, didn¡¯t you? Then it¡¯s not just me!¡± "Shh!¡± Khotal hissed, waving him silent. More clattering followed. A low growl. The scrape of something heavy being dragged. Khotal¡¯s stomach churned. ¡°It¡¯s coming from the camp,¡± he muttered, scrambling to his feet. Bhola grabbed his wrist in a panic. ¡°Don¡¯t go! What if it¡¯s a wolf? Or¡­ or a spirit? It¡¯ll kill us!¡± Khotal yanked at his arm, trying to break free. ¡°Are you mad? Dias is bleeding out. He''s possibly reeking for miles, and Turo¡¯s just a kid! If it¡¯s a predator, they won¡¯t stand a chance. We have to protect them!¡± ¡°But what if it¡¯s not a predator? What if it¡¯s a mourning spirit? What if it eats us alive?¡± Bhola whined, his grip tightening. ¡°We won¡¯t know unless we go!¡± Khotal shot back. ¡°Stay here if you¡¯re too scared, but Chief Marnoell trusted me. I can¡¯t sit here trembling while his son dies.¡± Shrugging off Bhola¡¯s grip, Khotal bolted toward the camp. ¡°N¡­ no! Don¡¯t leave me alone!¡± Bhola wailed, scanning the dark forest before sprinting after him. When they reached the campsite, panting and clutching their makeshift spears, their hearts sank. The thorn fence they¡¯d hastily constructed lay shattered, vines and thorns scattered across the ground. Slowly, they stepped closer, dread pooling in their chests. Inside the fence, there was nothing. No Dias. No Turo. A bloody trail cut through the dirt, leading from the broken fence into the forest¡¯s darkest depths. It didn¡¯t take much imagination to see it: Dias¡¯s dying, bleeding body had been dragged into the night. ¡ª Turo marched into the woods, the clearing of the lake fading behind him. The trail was clear¡ªSamora had dragged herself inland, her hands and body carving desperate grooves into the soil. Blood darkened patches of dirt, glistening faintly under the moonlight. Blood from the stab wound he had inflicted. She couldn¡¯t have gone far, he thought. Yet the trail stretched endlessly, cutting deeper into the forest. Leaning on his spear for support, Turo pressed on through the uneven terrain. Samora¡¯s soul surged through the woods, wild and unrestrained. Wrath burned within her. The relentless force seemed to be seeking release. She darted between trees, phasing through trunks, drunk on the strange new power coursing through her. The freedom was intoxicating. She felt untethered¡ªno pain, no flesh, only fury. And then, she saw him. Turo stumbled forward like a dog chasing breadcrumbs, oblivious to what lay ahead. Samora halted, her presence invisible but haunting. Turo froze as if sensing her. His eyes darted wildly, searching the shadows. Though she remained unseen, Samora felt his fear bloom¡ªraw and sweet, spilling into the air like nectar. She savored it. Zipping around him in erratic patterns, she fed on his terror. Turo thrashed at the empty space, his spear slicing through the shadows. Every frantic slash amused her. Every panicked breath fueled her. She wove through the darkness, silent and relentless, until an idea took shape. She wanted him to see. To know. Turo¡¯s pulse thundered. Something was there, watching. He tried to shake off the feeling, but his gut churned with dread. Then it happened. At first, it was a flicker¡ªbarely there, almost imagined. But then the figure began to take shape, slow and deliberate. Hovering midair, translucent and glowing faintly in the dark, Samora began to take form. Her hair hung in ghostly waves, her pale face framed by strands that dripped with blood. Her lips were a deep, unnatural purple, her chest bare, her body mutilated. And her abdomen¡ªgaping, torn open, its flesh shredded and raw. Blood clung to the edges of her wounds, and from within, the insides of her womb glistened, exposed to sight. Turo¡¯s knees buckled. His spear slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. His breath caught in his throat as he stumbled back, legs trembling. The boy prayed desperately to the gods, pleading for mercy, but no words left his lips. Samora¡¯s eyes locked onto his, empty and unyielding. Turo tried to scream, but fear strangled him, trapping the sound in his throat. His body refused to move. Then she struck. Samora reached out¡ªnot with her hands, but with the hunger. She felt his fear like a tangible force, called it forth, and it obeyed. His terror spilled out in torrents, pouring from his mouth, eyes, nose, and every trembling pore of his body. She drank it in, its essence rich and intoxicating, dulling the memory of her pain. Turo¡¯s body shriveled as his life drained away, his skin stretched thin over the bones, his features contorted in frozen horror. Even as his essence drained, a strangled scream clawed its way from his drying throat. Samora felt the energy coursing through her, clearing the fog of rage that had consumed her. Her awareness returned, sharp and sudden. Runo. The name echoed in her mind, vibrating through her very being. Her child was out there. Runo. Without hesitation, she vanished into the woods, the name a relentless drumbeat within her. Runo. Runo. Runo. 1.41 - Turos Death Was Just the Beginning Nox had failed. He had promised his uncle that he would bring Turo back safely. But he had failed miserably. What would he tell him now? That his long-awaited son was dead? How could the old man bear such news? Turo¡¯s weightless body rested on Nox¡¯s shoulder, his lifeless hands brushing against Nox¡¯s sides as if mocking his grief. The boy felt feather-light now, his frame shriveled, as though whatever had taken his life had also drained the substance from his flesh. Tears pooled in Nox¡¯s eyes. He swallowed hard, sniffing, and wiped his face with the crook of his elbow. He wished, desperately, for a way to undo this¡ªto bring Turo back, to trade his own life if it meant sparing his cousin. But none of that was possible. He didn¡¯t even know what had happened. What could have happened? He had heard Turo scream and sprinted toward the sound, panic guiding his every step. When he found him lying there¡ªstill, crumpled, drained¡ªhe couldn¡¯t believe it. For a long moment, he had just stared, convinced his eyes were lying to him. Then he tried to shake Turo awake, calling his name, pleading, even shouting. But Turo didn¡¯t move. No animal attack could explain the shriveled state of his body. No wound, no predator. Whatever had done this was beyond Nox¡¯s understanding. But none of it mattered now. Turo was dead, and no answers could change that. Nox walked through the forest, his steps aimless. Branches brushed against his shoulders, thorns scraped his skin, but he didn¡¯t care. Each step felt heavier than the last, though Turo¡¯s body was so light it might have been a bundle of dried leaves. The strain wasn¡¯t in his muscles¡ªit was in his heart, in the burden of his failure. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have gone like this,¡± Nox muttered under his breath. His voice was thick and cracking with grief. ¡°You should¡¯ve stayed at the campsite.¡± He pressed his spear into the ground, heaving himself forward. The texture of Turo¡¯s lifeless skin against his own felt like a blade scraping against him, raw and unbearable. ¡°What will I tell your father, you fool?¡± His voice rose, trembling with anger and sorrow. Tears spilled from his eyes. He wiped them away quickly, though it didn¡¯t matter. His vision blurred anyway. ¡°What were you thinking? The fence was there to keep you safe!¡± He sniffed hard, rubbing his arm across his face, but the tears kept coming. He clutched Turo¡¯s lifeless frame tighter, his pace slowing as his legs burned. The ache in his body was almost welcome¡ªhe hoped it would drown out the grief gnawing at him. But it didn¡¯t. It only deepened it. Every step felt futile, every thought led him back to the same questions. Why did you leave? Why didn¡¯t you listen? Why did this happen? He clenched his jaw, swallowing back another wave of sobs. Turo had always followed him, ever since they were children. Wherever Nox went, Turo wasn¡¯t far behind. But now, Turo wasn¡¯t following¡ªNox was carrying him, his body hollow and cold. He didn¡¯t know where he was going anymore. The forest stretched endlessly before him, each tree blending into the next. He just walked, his mind spiraling into the same thoughts, his heart weighed down by guilt and sorrow. And then he saw it¡ªa faint yellow glow behind the mass of trees and branches. So dim it seemed it might vanish if he blinked. Yet, despite the grief and despair, Nox felt drawn to it. A new, heavier dread began to coil in his chest, tightening with each step he took. He tried to ignore it. He pressed forward and emerged into what appeared to be a clearing. No¡ªnot quite a clearing. The overgrown grass and bushes hinted that it might once have been open, but time had reclaimed the space. Around its edges, stubbed trees stood unevenly, their truncated trunks sprouting new massive growth. Something about it was unsettling. Nox scanned the area and realized what felt wrong¡ªthis wasn¡¯t natural. Someone had cut these trees long ago, hastily and crudely, to force the clearing to be larger. Who would do this? Nox wondered, his pulse quickening. And why here, in this part of the forest? His unease only deepened when his eyes landed on the structure at the center. It was made of stone, weathered and crumbling, battered by the elements and the relentless growth of greenery creeping into its cracks. It loomed in the suffocating darkness, its silhouette ominous yet faintly illuminated. The glow. That faint yellow light was seeping out from within, flickering like the flame of a lantern. Was someone inside? The dread in his chest surged as Nox moved closer. He could almost hear his instincts screaming at him to turn back, but he pushed on. Whatever lay ahead, it couldn¡¯t be worse than what he had already endured¡ªcould it?Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. The entrance to the structure was low, partially blocked by a fallen stone beam that had once been part of the ceiling. Nox hesitated. He couldn¡¯t enter while carrying Turo on his shoulder; the body would hit the beam, and it felt too disrespectful to risk jarring it. He set Turo down on the damp grass, guilt prickling at him as if even laying the body on the ground was an offense to his cousin¡¯s memory. But curiosity outweighed hesitation. He ducked beneath the beam and stepped into the structure. The moment he straightened, he wished he hadn¡¯t. It was Samora. Her naked body lay sprawled in the dirt, bloody and bruised, her flesh torn in places. Her lifeless eyes stared directly at him, wide and empty, locking onto his very soul. Her fingers were splintered, mangled, as though she¡¯d tried to claw her way out of something¡ªor into it. But her abdomen. Nox¡¯s breath caught in his throat as he stared. Her abdomen was shredded. Torn wide open, her innards spilling out in grotesque chaos, a mixture of blood and dirt and viscera. It was horrific, inhuman¡ªa sight so gruesome it struck something primal in him, shaking even his warrior¡¯s resolve. He gagged, a bitter, acrid taste rising in his throat. His body reacted faster than his mind; he clamped his hand over his mouth and stumbled out of the structure, barely making it past the threshold before vomiting violently. The sickening splash echoed in the silence, but the sound turned to something horrific as he realized what had happened. He had vomited on Turo. The bile and fluids had splattered across Turo¡¯s lifeless body, defiling it in a way that sent a fresh wave of nausea and shame through Nox. He staggered back, his mind reeling. What have I done? His knees buckled. He collapsed to the ground beside Turo, choking on his sobs, his body heaving as he cried. His hands trembled, his face crumpled under the weight of everything he¡¯d seen and done. He had failed Turo. He had failed Samora. He sat cross-legged on the forest floor, grief pouring out in uncontrollable wails. He clutched at his chest, as if he could physically hold himself together while his soul was being ripped apart. ¡°What was that?¡± he whispered through clenched teeth, his voice breaking. ¡°What the fuck was that?¡± And then he remembered. The baby. Samora¡¯s baby. Nox froze, his breath caught in his throat. He didn¡¯t remember seeing a baby beside Samora¡ªor did he? His mind raced, but no sound, no cry, no trace came to him. Where could the baby have gone? It didn¡¯t make sense, none of it did. Grief clouded his thoughts, dulling his senses further, making him feel as though he was forgetting something crucial. Something obvious. Then it hit him. The gaping hole in Samora¡¯s belly. A thought¡ªabsurd yet monstrous¡ªcrossed his mind. Could it have been the baby? Could it have clawed its way out of Samora¡¯s body? Was it possible¡­ that it had killed Turo? The back of his neck prickled. A creeping, cold sensation crawled over his skin as though unseen eyes were watching him, waiting for the moment to pounce. His fingers instinctively tightened around the spear he had left beside Turo. Grabbing it, he turned sharply, his posture defensive, his breath quick and shallow. The stone structure loomed silently in front of him, the faint yellow glow of the lantern flickering inside. Maybe the monster is still in there. Nox inhaled shakily, steeling himself. He wouldn¡¯t let it escape. Not after what it had done to Turo and Samora. Not after it had destroyed his family. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped toward the entrance. But his steps faltered. Earlier, he had entered without knowing what lay inside. Now, he knew. And the sight was burned into his memory, impossible to forget even with his eyes closed. Still, he pushed forward. The spear trembled slightly in his grip, but his resolve hardened with every step. As he ducked under the fallen stone beam and entered the structure again, he forced himself not to look at Samora. But his resolve betrayed him. His eyes drifted to her torn, bloodied body despite his efforts. Her lifeless eyes stared at him as if accusing him, asking why he hadn¡¯t come earlier to save her. Guilt twisted like a knife in his chest, but he forced himself to focus. The monster. He had to find it. He scanned every nook and shadowed corner of the small structure with the lantern¡¯s faint glow. His breath echoed in the silence, but nothing moved. There was no one. Just him and Samora¡¯s broken corpse. The silence was deafening. It pressed against him, suffocating, as though the world itself had died. If the monster isn¡¯t here¡­ then where is it? A sudden realization struck him like a blow. Without pausing to think, Nox sprinted out of the structure and into the forest. His comrades were still out there. What if the monster had gone after them? He couldn¡¯t bear it. Losing Turo and Samora was already more than he could handle. He wouldn¡¯t¡ªcouldn¡¯t¡ªlose anyone else. The forest blurred around him as he ran, but it wasn¡¯t long before panic set in. He was running in circles, disoriented and aimless. The trees all looked the same. Frustration boiled over. He punched a nearby trunk, the bark scraping his knuckles, and stomped hard against the ground. But no amount of fury would guide him. Exhaustion crept in. His feet ached, muscles burning with every step. Just as he was about to give up, he noticed something: a branch hanging partially snapped, still clinging to the tree. His heart leapt. It was his trail¡ªhis marker to find his way back to camp. He thanked the gods under his breath and began to follow the broken branches, his steps quickening. Relief swelled in his chest as he approached the campsite, but it shattered the moment he saw what lay before him. The fence. The fence he had built to keep Turo and Dias safe¡ªit had been torn apart. Bhola and Khotal stood at the edge of the wreckage, their faces pale, their hands wringing with unease. Nox¡¯s heart sank. His throat tightened as he swallowed the rising dread. He forced himself forward, stepping past the remnants of the torn fence. His eyes darted toward the centre, even though he already knew the answer. Dias was gone. 1.42 - Mourning Hearts Under Morning Sky "Careful! Careful!" Nox warned as Bhola and Khotal lifted Samora¡¯s shredded body from the stone structure onto the makeshift bier. Grief consumed them all. Samora¡¯s corpse was so mangled they had to gather large leaves and vines to hold her spilled abdomen together before moving her. The hardest part was scooping the innards by hand and pressing them back in place, all while trying not to vomit in revulsion. Nox had pulled the dagger from her abdomen long before allowing Bhola and Khotal near her. He had tucked the blade into his waistband, deciding it was better if no one discovered that Turo had stabbed her before everything fell apart. He planned to discard the weapon, perhaps in the lake, long before they reached Tuscanvalle. A bloodstained weapon would only serve as evidence of Turo¡¯s desperate act against his own family. Samora¡¯s body hung limp as Bhola and Khotal hoisted her from the bloodied ground onto the bier. They worked quickly to secure her with vines and creepers, ensuring the makeshift bandage wouldn¡¯t slip and let her insides spill along the way. Losing parts of her in the darkness of the forest would turn their grim task into an even greater horror. The first light of dawn peeked over the Maverielle Mountains, but they didn¡¯t dare rely on its weak glow to guide them. Once they secured the bier, Bhola and Khotal carried it outside. Nox followed and paused, his gaze locking onto Turo¡¯s body lying in the dirt. The stench of vomit and urine from the corpses hung heavy in the air around him. Earlier, back at the campsite, Bhola and Khotal had tried to reassure him that Dias had been taken by an animal, not the monster. They pointed out the drag marks leading inland. The lack of any signs of struggle made them believe Dias had already died before the predator found him. They¡¯d also shown him a trail of human footprints heading along the shoreline, insisting they belonged to Turo and that he had escaped the animal¡¯s attack. But Nox had told them the truth then: Turo was dead. The revelation had struck Bhola and Khotal hard. Their usual lightheartedness had vanished, replaced by a grim grief of seriousness that made Nox wonder if they were the same men he¡¯d known before. Now, as they prepared to move on, Nox¡¯s mind circled back to a troubling thought. If the predator had been drawn to Dias¡¯s blood, why hadn¡¯t it approached Samora or Turo when he was gone? ¡°Maybe it was the smell,¡± Bhola offered, his voice low as he glanced at Turo¡¯s body. ¡°Or something about the fluids that kept it away. Animals can be strange like that.¡± Nox stared at the ground, trying to make sense of it. The explanation made sense, but the unease in his chest refused to settle. Whatever the reason, Nox felt a grim relief that he could at least bring their bodies back to Tuscanvalle. If even that small dignity had been denied, he would have been mortified beyond words. He hefted Turo¡¯s lifeless body onto his shoulders, the weight digging into him as much as the grief. Dawn crept closer, pale light spreading over the forest, but it did nothing to ease the suffocating dread in his chest. Samora and Turo¡¯s deaths didn¡¯t feel like an ending¡ªthey felt like the prologue to something even darker. He shook his head, forcing the thought aside. ¡°The terrain¡¯s rough,¡± he warned Bhola and Khotal, who carried the makeshift bier. ¡°Keep it steady. I don¡¯t want to scrape her off the forest floor again.¡± The three moved through the dense woods, their silence heavy with exhaustion and despair. Nox scanned the ground for tracks, for anything that might explain what had torn Turo and Samora apart. But the area was too disturbed¡ªtheir own movements had trampled any clues into oblivion. He clenched his fist in frustration. Minutes later, the lake¡¯s shore came into view, along with the raft Bhola and Khotal had hastily built to get them home. Nox stepped into the shallows, his gaiters sinking into the mud, and carefully laid Turo¡¯s body onto the raft. The wooden platform bobbed mournfully in the water, almost as if it shared their grief.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Bhola and Khotal followed, carrying Samora¡¯s bier. They edged into the water with tentative steps, careful not to lose their grip or let her body dip below the surface. Nox reached out to help, gripping one side of the bier as Khotal offered the other. Together, they eased it onto the raft. But as the raft rocked, Khotal stepped aboard too soon, sending a ripple through the water that tilted the platform. Nox and Bhola shot him a sharp glare, but said nothing. The raft settled soon. They laid Samora¡¯s corpse beside Turo¡¯s. Bhola paused suddenly, his expression frozen with an unspoken thought. Without a word, he turned and sprinted back into the thicket. ¡°Bhola!¡± Nox called in confusion. Khotal shouted after him too, but Bhola didn¡¯t stop to explain. They waited in silence as Nox sat beside Turo¡¯s shrunken, lifeless form, his hands resting on the corpse¡¯s cold, shriveled palms. Khotal slumped down next to him, lips parted, his empty gaze fixed on the slowly brightening sky. When Bhola returned, he held a bundle of vines. ¡°To tie them down,¡± he muttered, out of breath. ¡°What if the raft rocks too much, and they¡ª¡± He trailed off, the words hanging heavy in the air. Nox started to protest, to point out that tying them down might trap their bodies if the raft sank like it did earlier, but he swallowed the comment. Now wasn¡¯t the time for criticism. He nodded instead, grateful for Bhola¡¯s consideration, and the three of them worked in silence to secure Turo and Samora to the raft. Once the bodies were tied, Khotal untied the rope that moored the raft to the shore. He crouched at the back, gripping his oar, while Nox and Bhola took theirs and began paddling. The raft glided into the lake, the thin line of Tuscanvalle¡¯s greenery just visible on the horizon. They fell into a tense, suffocating silence. None of them could find the words to comfort each other, nor did they dare try. Each was consumed by their own fear, pain, and grief. What could they even say to Chief Marnoell when he asked where his son was? How would they meet Bouma¡¯s gaze and tell her that they had brought back her daughter as a lifeless corpse? And no one dared to ask aloud what had become of the baby. Nox had suggested it must have clawed its way out of Samora¡¯s womb. It was a chilling explanation that made too much sense given the prophecy. The baby was said to be a monster, after all. But the idea gnawed at them¡ªsomething about it felt too grotesque, too wrong. It wasn¡¯t just the grief weighing on them now. It was the heavy, inescapable dread that the worst was yet to come. The closer they drifted toward Tuscanvalle¡¯s shore, the stronger the foreboding grew. Just last night, they had longed to return home, to escape the horrors of the forbidden land. Now, the thought of reaching the shore filled them with unease. The land ahead seemed almost hostile, unwelcoming. For a fleeting moment, Nox considered turning the raft back toward the forbidden land. It seemed less terrifying than what awaited them in Tuscanvalle. As the shore came into view, their unease deepened. The men who had once stood beneath the great banyan tree had moved closer to the rocky part of the shoreline. Some sat on the jagged rocks, their postures tense, while others stood, staring out at the water. Chief Marnoell paced restlessly along the shore, his movements sharp with impatience. They hadn¡¯t yet realized what the raft carried. Nox¡¯s stomach churned with guilt. They had been tasked with bringing Turo and Samora back alive. What they brought instead would shatter the village. Nox gestured silently to Bhola and Khotal to steer the raft away from the rocks. The last thing they needed was for the raft to tip. When they finally reached the shallows, the group onshore began to stir. The men moved along the shoreline toward them, while the women, who had gathered beneath the scattered palms, hesitantly stepped closer. Nox kept his gaze fixed on the water, avoiding their eyes. ¡°Careful,¡± he murmured to Bhola and Khotal, his voice hoarse. Together, they worked to lower the bodies from the raft to the ground. The boys and younger men reached them first, stopping dead in their tracks as their eyes fell on the gruesome sight. Their mouths hung open, silent except for the sharp intakes of breath. Soon, the older men and women caught up, the murmurs of confusion giving way to gasps and cries of horror as they took in the scene. Chief Marnoell parted the crowd, striding forward with a sharp urgency. Without sparing a glance at the others, he reached Nox and pulled him into a tight embrace. ¡°You¡¯re back,¡± he said, his voice light with relief. ¡°We were worried sick.¡± He stepped back, holding Nox at arm¡¯s length and noticed the tremors racking the younger man¡¯s body. Nox¡¯s shoulders heaved as he began to sob uncontrollably, the sound raw and broken. Marnoell¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°What¡¯s wrong, Nox? Why are you crying?¡± he asked, his tone deflated in worry. Then, as if struck by a sudden realization, his expression changed. ¡°Where are they?¡± Nox didn¡¯t answer. He couldn¡¯t. He simply stepped aside, his head bowed. Bhola and Khotal followed suit, revealing the two mangled corpses laid on the ground. The silence that followed was unbearable. Chief Marnoell froze, his eyes fixed on the bodies, his mind refusing to accept what he saw. Then, slowly, tears welled in his eyes. His lips parted, trembling as if he wanted to speak, but no words came. ¡°Samora!¡± Bouma¡¯s anguished scream shattered the stillness, piercing the air like a blade. Her cries echoed through the dawn as streaks of red and orange bled across the eastern sky. 1.43 - The cremation ground is all yours! "This is injustice!" Bouma screeched, her voice cracking in grief. Her eyes were swollen and puffy from crying, her throat raw from hours of mourning. Beside her, Creda sat silently by Samora''s corpse, tears streaming down her face. She sobbed quietly, her gaze fixed on her sister''s lifeless form as though willing her to breathe again. Every so often, a broken whimper escaped her trembling lips, but her focus remained split¡ªpartly on Samora and partly on the tense exchange between Bouma and Marnoell. "This is injustice," Bouma repeated, her voice faltering, but her resolve unshaken. "You can''t deny her a place in the cremation grounds. She''s your niece!" Her tone shifted from rage to desperate pleading as she gestured toward Samora''s body, bound with vines, her once vibrant face now pale and still. Marnoell stood rigid, arms crossed defensively over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil as they darted away from Bouma''s piercing glare. He planted himself firmly between the ceremoniously adorned Turo¡¯s body and the grieving Bouma, as if his stance alone could deflect her accusations. The villagers encircled them in somber silence, their faces etched with fear and uncertainty. No one dared to step forward or voice their opinion, each one acutely aware of the volatile emotions simmering in the air. Malok and Hiyan stood among the crowd, Malok leaning heavily against Hiyan¡¯s frail frame for support. The news that Nox had returned alive had struck Malok hard, almost sobering him. But the aged toddy he¡¯d consumed earlier clung stubbornly to his senses, clouding his thoughts like a dense fog. "I have to plan my next move based on what Nox has to say," Malok had slurred earlier, insisting that Hiyan bring him to the lakeshore despite his drunken state. Now, he swayed unsteadily, listening intently as Nox recounted the harrowing events of the past night. Nox''s voice had trembled as he described the raft¡¯s collapse, the crocodile attack on Dias and Ayan, Dias¡¯s gruesome death, and Turo¡¯s unnatural demise. He spoke of how Samora had died, of their horrifying conclusion that the baby had clawed its way out of her womb, killing her in the process. He had shared his belief that Turo¡¯s death was linked to the cursed child. Marnoell had accepted Nox¡¯s account without question, placing implicit trust in him¡ªmuch to Malok¡¯s simmering contempt. But Malok, still muddled by drink, had held his tongue, knowing he wouldn¡¯t be able to speak with any semblance of coherence. He waited, biding his time until his mind cleared enough to act. Now, Nox stood awkwardly behind Marnoell, his unease evident. As soon as he had finished his grim recounting, the villagers'' mutterings had turned against Samora. It began with Tessa, who reminded everyone of how Samora had lashed out the night before. "She struck Daya on the head and ran off into the night like a madwoman!" Tessa had spat. Others quickly followed, voices rising to paint Samora as the root of all their misfortunes. They blamed her for Turo¡¯s death, for Dias¡¯s tragic end, for everything that had gone wrong. The whispers of blame grew into a tide of condemnation that engulfed the crowd. Marnoell, swayed by their accusations, had turned against Samora as well. Nox watched in silent dismay as his uncle¡¯s expression hardened. He could see the waves of grief and anger tipping Marnoell¡¯s judgment. Slowly, Marnoell began to believe what the others were saying¡ªthat if Samora hadn¡¯t fled that night, Turo might still be alive. "Injustice?" Marnoell¡¯s voice cut through Bouma¡¯s laments, sharp and unyielding. "How is this injustice in any way? Your daughter made her choice¡ªshe decided to leave us. Had she stayed, things would have been different." His voice faltered for a moment, betraying a sliver of emotion, but he quickly cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. He clasped his hands behind his back, assuming a posture of authority before continuing. "Had she stayed, I would have talked sense into Malok, convinced him to take her back as his wife. I¡¯ve been discussing it with Phyto for weeks. Ask him if you don¡¯t believe me." Marnoell nodded toward Phyto, who returned the gesture with a solemn nod. "Yes," Phyto confirmed, his voice steady. "We were only waiting for this issue to pass so we could help the couple rebuild their life. But your daughter ruined everything. And look at the price we¡¯ve all paid. She lost her life, and not just hers¡ªshe¡¯s taken our future with her. She¡¯s the reason Turo is dead." Bouma¡¯s gaze darted helplessly from Phyto to Marnoell, then to Nox. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she searched for even a shred of support. ¡°But, Uncle¡­¡± Nox took a tentative step forward. "We can¡¯t deny her a space in the cremation grounds. She¡¯s one of us,¡± he argued softly, his voice tinged with pleading. ¡°She¡¯s not one of us anymore,¡± Marnoell interjected, his tone like cold steel. ¡°The moment she chose to leave this land, she became an outsider. I have no obligation to offer cremation space to an outsider. Especially one who betrayed us¡ªone who killed Turo.¡± The accusation struck Nox like a blade. His stomach churned as his fingers instinctively brushed against the hidden bulge at his waistband¡ªthe dagger he¡¯d taken from Turo¡¯s body before they left the forbidden land. He had planned to discard it along the way but hadn¡¯t yet found the chance. Now, the weight of the weapon felt unbearable. Samora didn¡¯t kill Turo, he thought. If anything, Turo was the one who stabbed her. Nox opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He wanted to defend Samora, to tell them she¡¯d likely been running for her life. But to do so would cast Turo in a damning light¡ªand the truth was, he didn¡¯t know what had truly happened that night. None of them did. ¡°No!¡± Marnoell¡¯s voice rose with finality. ¡°I won¡¯t let you burn her corpse alongside my son¡¯s. She doesn¡¯t deserve such dignity.¡± Bouma¡¯s chest heaved as a deep, mournful wail tore from her throat. ¡°Brother!¡± she cried, falling to her knees and clutching at Marnoell¡¯s feet. Her grief poured out in unrestrained sobs, shaking her small frame. Marnoell shifted uncomfortably, the rawness of her gesture momentarily shaking his composure. But he quickly steeled himself, his face hardening again. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°Don¡¯t do this to us,¡± Bouma pleaded, her voice breaking. ¡°Please, you can¡¯t let my child rot like this. She¡¯s already ripped apart.¡± Her trembling hand gestured toward Samora¡¯s body, bound with vines and leaves that had begun to wither and shrink, exposing the gore beneath. The villagers averted their gazes, some murmuring silent prayers. Flies buzzed around the corpse, drawn to the festering wounds, as though she were nothing more than a feast for them. Marnoell took a step back, shaking Bouma¡¯s grip from his feet. The sudden movement caused Bouma to stumble forward, landing on the ground with a muted cry of despair. Creda, who had been quietly sobbing beside her sister¡¯s lifeless body, rose to her feet with a suddenness that startled the crowd. Her red-rimmed eyes glared at Marnoell, blazing with fury. She looked small and fragile compared to the towering men gathered around her, yet her wrath loomed larger than any of them. Her chest heaved with the force of her anger, her entire being trembling. ¡°Mother!¡± she shrieked, her voice sharp with indignation. ¡°Why would you lower yourself to his feet? Do you think he has a heart to melt at the sight of your suffering?¡± Marnoell¡¯s gaze flickered with disbelief at her audacity. His stern composure faltered for a moment as he met the burning rage in Creda¡¯s eyes. Creda¡¯s chest rose and fell as her voice wavered, a mix of grief and scorn. ¡°He doesn¡¯t even have a heart. It¡¯s just a stone lodged in his chest.¡± Bouma turned toward her daughter, shaking her head in warning. Her voice trembled as she tried to hush her. ¡°Creda, stay quiet,¡± she pleaded, but the strength of her authority had long since drained away. Creda ignored her. She turned her fiery gaze toward the crowd, her voice rising as she gestured at Malok, who was still leaning heavily on Hiyan for support. ¡°They abandoned Samora long ago, when this disgrace of a man¡±¡ªshe spat the words, her disgust plain¡ª¡°accused her of a sin that he himself has been committing under all your noses.¡± A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. Bouma¡¯s brow furrowed in confusion, but the rest of the villagers, including Marnoell and Nox, turned their full attention to Creda. Even the women, who had been whispering among themselves, went silent, their gazes fixed on her. ¡°Yes!¡± Creda declared, her voice ringing with bitter conviction. ¡°He¡¯s been sleeping with that hag, Tessa¡ªhis own friend¡¯s wife!¡± The collective gasp from the crowd was audible. Hiyan¡¯s jaw dropped as he slowly turned to look at Malok, who remained drowsy and unsteady but alert enough to sense the growing hostility directed at him. Tessa¡¯s face turned a pale, sickly shade as her eyes darted nervously around, scanning the faces of the villagers and, most of all, her husband, Hiyan. Bouma scrambled to her feet and lunged toward Creda, clasping her hand tightly over her daughter¡¯s mouth in a desperate bid to stop her from speaking further. ¡°What madness are you spouting, Creda?¡± she hissed. ¡°Stay quiet!¡± Hiyan¡¯s face contorted in rage as he heaved Malok off his shoulder, letting him stumble to the ground. Malok sprawled at his feet, too weak and inebriated to defend himself. Creda wrenched her mother¡¯s hand from her face and pushed her away gently. ¡°What are you doing, Mother?¡± she demanded, her voice cutting through Bouma¡¯s desperate whispers. ¡°He threw your daughter into the streets and went on bedding another woman like it meant nothing. And now you stop me from exposing him? You¡¯re defending him?¡± ¡°What choice do we have?¡± Bouma murmured, her voice cracking. She moved closer, embracing Creda in an attempt to calm her. ¡°Creda, men can be like that sometimes.¡± ¡°Men can be like that?¡± Creda¡¯s voice dripped with incredulity. She pushed back against her mother¡¯s arms, her expression a mix of shock and fury. ¡°That¡¯s the same filthy accusation he used to ruin your daughter¡¯s life! What kind of mother are you?¡± ¡°Creda, please,¡± Bouma whispered, tightening her hold on her daughter. ¡°Calm down.¡± Throughout the exchange, Marnoell stood quietly, watching the drama unfold with an impassive expression. His gaze lingered on the sun, now slipping westward. Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice sharp and impatient. ¡°If you¡¯re done with your hysterics and baseless accusations, step aside,¡± he said coldly. ¡°We have to see to my son¡¯s funeral before the sun sets.¡± ¡°Hysterics?¡± Creda protested, her voice rising. ¡°Did you not hear what I just said?¡± ¡°I heard you perfectly, my good daughter-in-law,¡± Marnoell replied, his tone maddeningly calm. ¡°And I choose to interpret your words as grief-driven spite, understandable given your sister¡¯s tragic demise.¡± He nodded as if offering a measure of grace, though his words only deepened the tension. ¡°As you are a member of both our families, your position here is delicate.¡± ¡°What?¡± Creda¡¯s scowl deepened, while Bouma¡¯s eyes brimmed with fresh tears. Marnoell pressed on, ignoring their reactions. ¡°You were betrothed to my son. Now that he¡¯s dead, you are his widow. You remain my responsibility, and I will not punish you for your grief.¡± The words hit like a thunderclap. Creda¡¯s face twisted in incredulous fury, and Bouma clutched her chest as if the intensity of Marnoell¡¯s declaration had physically struck her. ¡°But,¡± Marnoell continued, his calm demeanor hardening, ¡°I cannot permit your sister¡¯s body to be cremated alongside my son¡¯s. You may do as you wish for your sister, but I expect you back home before sunset. There is a ceremony¡­ for widows.¡± He hesitated, the harshness of his words seemingly weighing on him, though not enough to stop him from uttering them. ¡°Your mother can explain,¡± he added, sparing himself the indignity of elaborating further. With that, he gestured for the mourners to lift Turo¡¯s bier from the ground. The men moved obediently, preparing to carry it toward the cremation grounds. But Creda wasn¡¯t done. Breaking free from her mother¡¯s grip, she stepped forward, her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed into a defiant line. ¡°Chief Marnoell!¡± she called out, her voice cutting through the shuffling of the gathered mourners. Marnoell turned back to her with thinly veiled impatience, the crowd¡¯s attention following his gaze. ¡°First of all,¡± Creda began, her voice steady and cold, ¡°I am not some ¡®common¡¯ member of both families. I refuse to accept the title of Turo¡¯s widow.¡± The crowd gasped audibly at her words. ¡°We weren¡¯t married, were we?¡± she continued, scanning the onlookers for confirmation. No one dared to contradict her. ¡°I am my mother¡¯s daughter. No one¡¯s daughter-in-law.¡± Marnoell opened his mouth to retort, but no argument came. His lips closed in frustration as Creda pressed on. ¡°Second,¡± she declared, her voice ringing louder now, ¡°it has never been mandatory to seek the chief¡¯s permission to cremate our dead. When has this rule ever existed?¡± She turned her gaze to the crowd, challenging them. Silence met her words; no one spoke. ¡°Let it be,¡± Creda softened her tone, though her stance remained firm. ¡°You all decided Samora was a nobody the moment she left this land. Fine. I will not argue against that. But she is still my sister. And I am still one of Tuscanvale. I have the right to cremate my family in our cremation grounds, and I need no one¡¯s permission to do so.¡± A hush fell over the gathering. Marnoell opened his mouth again, his lips forming the beginnings of a counter-argument, but no words came. Frustrated, he drew a deep breath and cleared his throat. ¡°You are correct, Creda,¡± he said finally, his tone low but tinged with a sharp edge. ¡°I cannot forbid you from cremating your family member. But you are too young and naive to think you can challenge my authority so easily.¡± His voice dropped into an unnervingly calm cadence as he turned to address the crowd. ¡°However, I do hold the authority to forbid every man in this village from touching that disgusting bunch of flesh.¡± He gestured at Samora¡¯s body lying in the dirt, his disgust apparent. ¡°Yes,¡± he repeated, louder this time. ¡°Any man who helps with the cremation of that corpse¡ªhe and his family will be cast out from this land.¡± The crowd stirred uneasily, some shifting in discomfort while others averted their eyes. Marnoell turned back to Creda, his expression cool and unyielding. ¡°Now,¡± he said, his tone dripping with finality, ¡°let¡¯s see how you manage to cremate your sister with no man to light her pyre. The cremation ground is all yours.¡± 1.44 -Ashes Of The Unforgotten Back at Tuscanvalle, the men trudged away, carrying Turo''s bier with heads bowed to avoid the accusing glare of Creda and the silent anguish of Bouma. None of them wanted to comply fully with Marnoell¡¯s cruel orders, but none had the courage to defy him either. The women shifted aside, retreating closer to their homes with a collective sigh of resignation. Creda¡¯s face twisted in disgust. ¡°Are you sure he¡¯s your brother? How can someone treat their own sister like this? He¡¯s unbelievable,¡± she muttered, knowing full well her mother was in no state to entertain her anger. Bouma remained on the ground, cradling Samora¡¯s tattered corpse with trembling hands, her grief raw and unrestrained. What mother wouldn¡¯t? Losing a child was a torment few could endure, but losing them like this¡ªviolently, unjustly¡ªwas unbearable. And then, as if their pain wasn¡¯t already enough, Marnoell¡¯s petty, heartless decree made it almost impossible to perform the final rites. Tuscanian tradition forbade women from entering the cremation grounds¡ªa rule so ancient no one even remembered its origin. Now, with the men forbidden by Marnoell to assist, they were left stranded. It was as cruel as barring them outright. Worse still, the sun was sinking fast. According to custom, a body must be cremated before sunset, or they¡¯d have to wait until morning. And even that was taboo. Leaving a corpse uncremated overnight was believed to invite malevolent spirits to haunt the living. By what Nox had said, Samora had died the previous night. That meant she would go uncremated for two nights, her spirit left dishonored, her memory left stained, simply because of Marnoell¡¯s vile spite. Creda knew this was his plan all along, a calculated move to deepen their suffering. What good came of this cruelty? What kind of chief acted like this? A few women approached Bouma, their hands resting on her shoulders in silent consolation. But the gesture only stoked Creda¡¯s fury further. Where was this sympathy when it mattered? Why didn¡¯t any of them have the spine to stand up to Marnoell¡¯s injustice? Their hollow kindness made her clench her fists and turn away in disgust. ¡°Stay strong, Bouma,¡± one of the women murmured. ¡°He¡¯ll see reason eventually.¡± It grated on Creda¡¯s nerves. How would he see reason if no one dared to speak against him? Marnoell only saw his own twisted logic. ¡°He will come around,¡± Daya added. Her head was still wrapped in bandages from the injury Samora had inflicted the night before. ¡°He has to, right? It¡¯s not good for any of us to keep a body like this overnight.¡± ¡°A body?¡± Creda snapped, whirling on her. ¡°She¡¯s my sister!¡± ¡°I know, dear,¡± Daya said, nodding gently. ¡°But¡­ she¡¯s gone now.¡± ¡°Gone to you, maybe,¡± Creda retorted, her voice shaking. She pointed a trembling finger at the group. ¡°Not to us. She¡¯s still here, watching this injustice.¡± Her eyes searched the dimming horizon, desperate for something¡ªanything¡ªto ease the gnawing hopelessness in her chest. Daya sighed, her expression weary. "You need to let go of this arrogance if you want to have even a decent life. It¡¯s not good for a woman to be this stubborn. Look where it¡¯s brought you and your sister. If you had kept your mouth shut, maybe our chief would have shown mercy." "Mercy?" Creda¡¯s eyes narrowed, burning with fury. "Who needs his mercy?" She was seething inside, her anger stoked further by their dismissive remarks. "You think we can¡¯t give my sister her last rites just because he forbade the men from helping us? Never mind. I¡¯ll do it myself. I¡¯ll do what a man is supposed to do. I¡¯ll cremate my sister, and I won¡¯t let her be disgraced like this." Bouma¡¯s brow furrowed in confusion, her grief momentarily interrupted by Creda¡¯s words. But Creda didn¡¯t wait to explain. She stepped toward her mother and placed a hand on her shoulder. ¡°Mother, come on. Let¡¯s take her to the cremation grounds.¡± Bouma stared at her in horror. So did Daya and the other women. ¡°Are you out of your mind?¡± Daya exclaimed. ¡°Don¡¯t you know women aren¡¯t allowed to enter that forsaken place?¡± The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡°So what?¡± Creda shot back. ¡°If no man will come to our aid, I¡¯ll do it myself. I¡¯ll perform my sister¡¯s last rites.¡± She turned to Bouma again, her voice urgent. ¡°Mother, get up. The sun is going to set soon, and we have so much to do.¡± Bouma glanced hesitantly between Creda and the other women, her mouth agape in uncertainty. Creda let out an impatient sigh. ¡°Why are you looking at them? They¡¯re not family to us. None of them are. It¡¯s just you, me, and Samora. Now get up.¡± Bouma rose hesitantly, trembling. ¡°Quick, Mother. Let¡¯s lift her and take her to the cremation grounds before it¡¯s too late,¡± Creda urged. But just as Bouma reached for the bier, a hand grabbed her arm. It was Nox. Creda¡¯s expression darkened at the sight of him. ¡°What do you want? Why are you here?¡± she demanded. ¡°Did your uncle send you to cast more injustice on us? Are you here to stop us from doing what we¡¯re supposed to do?¡± Her words came out in rapid-fire anger. Nox, his face impassive, ignored her tirade. When she finally fell silent, he turned to Bouma instead. ¡°I¡¯ll lift the bier, Aunt Bouma,¡± he said. ¡°And I will too,¡± came another voice from behind them. They turned to see Bhola standing there, but Khotal held him back by the arm. ¡°What are you doing? Didn¡¯t you hear what the chief said?¡± Khotal hissed. ¡°We¡¯ll be punished for this.¡± ¡°So what?¡± Bhola retorted. ¡°We¡¯ve never been part of them anyway. They won''t even notice us missing. Come on, Khotal. Let¡¯s help them lift the bier.¡± Khotal hesitated, his face pale. ¡°I can¡¯t do this,¡± he whispered before backing away, shaking his head. He turned and walked off without looking back. Bhola¡¯s face fell for a moment, but he quickly composed himself. He turned to Creda with a sympathetic grin. ¡°Never mind him. We¡¯ll do this together. Here, let us help you,¡± he said, crouching down to lift the bier. But Creda grabbed his hand to stop him. ¡°No, thanks. I know how to pay my sister her last respects. We don¡¯t need anyone anymore,¡± she said sharply, deliberately avoiding Nox¡¯s gaze. ¡°We don¡¯t need a savior. Mother, come on. Let¡¯s go.¡± She crouched to lift the bier herself. Nox sighed, his voice heavy with sorrow. ¡°We¡¯re not here to play savior. We¡¯re here to pay our respects. I want to be part of her funeral.¡± But Creda, too consumed by her anger, refused to hear him. ¡°No, thanks. We¡¯ll see to it ourselves. I said we don¡¯t need anyone, and that¡¯s final.¡± She turned away from him, adding bitterly, ¡°And we certainly don¡¯t need anyone else at her funeral.¡± Bhola frowned. ¡°What¡¯s the difference between you and the chief, then? Aren¡¯t you the same as him? He¡¯s keeping you from paying your respects, and now you¡¯re pushing us away too.¡± Creda paused, contemplating her words. She knew Bhola was right¡ªshe was acting out of bitterness. But they could have saved her sister from dying, couldn''t they? Why didn¡¯t they? Nox nodded at Bhola to lift the bier, and together they did. This time, Creda did not interfere. Instead, she stepped toward her mother, seeking comfort, but Bouma refused to accompany them to the cremation grounds. She even tried to dissuade Creda from going, but Creda wouldn¡¯t listen. She wanted to be with her sister until she couldn''t, tradition be damned. Silently, she followed Nox and Bhola. Once they arrived at the cremation grounds, Bhola hesitated before speaking. ¡°Maybe we should set up her pyre here. They¡¯ve taken Turo near the river. We don¡¯t want to risk grating on their nerves until this is over.¡± Creda opened her mouth, ready to snap, to say she didn¡¯t care if it grated on anyone¡¯s nerves. But then she stopped herself. What was the point in defying everything when there was nothing left to hold onto? Nox nodded at Bhola¡¯s suggestion and set Samora¡¯s body down. Together, Turo and Bhola began building the pyre. Creda scanned the area before her¡ªthe scattered bones, the sun-bleached skulls. Though daylight still lingered, the place felt wrong, as if the air itself rejected her presence. She wasn¡¯t meant to be here. None of them were. She stood still as the pyre was prepared, watching in silence as Samora¡¯s body was placed upon it. Bhola lit a torch, his fingers tight around the handle. He hesitated, glancing at Nox. Nox hesitated, glancing at her. Creda swallowed the sob rising in her throat. ¡°I¡¯ll light the pyre,¡± she said. Nox exhaled. ¡°No. Let me.¡± His voice was quiet but firm. ¡°If you had a man in your family, he wouldn¡¯t have let a woman bear this alone. Consider me that man.¡± Before she could argue, he took the torch from Bhola and set the pyre alight. Flames caught, flickered, then roared to life, licking hungrily at every fold of Samora¡¯s shroud. Heat warped the air. The scent of burning wood filled her lungs. Creda¡¯s breath hitched. This was it. Her sister¡ªthe one she had grown up with, fought with, laughed with¡ªwas gone. And now, even her body would turn to ash. This fire was the last thread between them, and it was unraveling before her eyes. A low, keening wail built in her chest. Nox and Bhola stepped back from the growing heat, flanking her on either side as if shielding her from something unseen¡ªghosts, spirits or perhaps grief itself. For the first time, Creda wondered what it would have been like to have a father. A real one. One who would stroke her hair, hold her close, grieve beside her. Chief Marnoell could have been that, maybe, if only he hadn¡¯t been so cruel. Her fingers brushed against Nox¡¯s. She didn¡¯t turn, didn¡¯t look at him¡ªjust let her fingers linger, testing the warmth of his skin against hers. She wasn¡¯t sure why. Maybe to remind herself she wasn¡¯t entirely alone. Maybe to stop herself from shattering. He stiffened for a moment, then slowly, his fingers curled around hers. Rough. Warm. Grounding. The fire crackled, sending embers spiraling into the darkening sky. And Creda stood there, hand in hand with Nox watching her sister being turned into a pile of ash and bones. 1.45 -The Dead Dont Speak Turo''s pyre burned bright and hot. Marnoell stood before it, arms crossed tightly over his chest, lips pressed into a thin line. His tears had dried a while ago. He had carried his beloved son¡¯s lifeless body to this forsaken place with the utmost respect, set him on the pyre¡­ and then, he had searched for Nox. Losing his only son¡ªborn after years of prayers and hardships¡ªwas already unbearable. But lighting his own son¡¯s pyre? That was a cruelty no father should endure. It was supposed to be the other way around. He had believed, or at least hoped, that Nox would step forward, that he would do what a brother should. After all, Nox was more than just Turo¡¯s cousin¡ªhe was like a brother to him. So, when the time came, Marnoell had called for him, holding out the torch, offering him the honor of sending Turo off. But Nox never came. Panic crept into the gathered men. The sun was sinking fast, and the pyre had to be lit before nightfall. Yet Nox was nowhere to be found. Marnoell was confused but not angry¡ªat first. He reasoned that Nox must have had a good reason, that he had simply stayed behind for something urgent, that he would arrive soon. Then Khotal was pushed forward, Malok shoving him roughly by the neck. "Tell him," Malok ordered. "Tell him what you just said." Khotal hesitated, his eyes darting around as if searching for an escape. He had mumbled, "Nox¡­ he¡¯s not coming. He chose Samora over Turo." The words struck Marnoell like a blow. He had expected resistance when he forbade the men from helping with Samora¡¯s funeral¡ªhe wasn¡¯t naive enough to think everyone would obey without question. But in his mind, there had only been two possible outcomes. Either Bouma, faced with no options, would come begging to him¡ªat which point he would grant her permission, subtly reinforcing the lesson that defying tradition had consequences. Or someone would cave to her grief, help her in secret, and he would make an example of them¡ªexiling them and their family for atleast ten years so that others would learn the cost of disobedience. But never¡ªnever¡ªhad he imagined that the one to betray him would be Nox. Now, standing before Turo¡¯s burning pyre, he regretted ever issuing that decree. He had lost one son today. And if things continued this way, he would lose another. But words, once spoken, could not be taken back. So he had steadied himself, masked the turmoil in his chest, and reassured the men that there would be a hearing that night. Nox would have the chance to explain himself before any final decision was made. Still, as the fire crackled before him, grief pressed against his ribs, sharp and aching. Turo was gone. And soon, maybe, Nox would be too. Marnoell clutched his chest, flinching at the pain. Just then, Nox came running¡ªonly to stumble to a halt, his breath hitching as his gaze locked onto Turo¡¯s burning body. His heart shattered. He had missed his chance to see Turo¡¯s face one last time before the flames consumed him, before he was reduced to nothing but ashes. But Marnoell¡¯s anger flared once more, fierce and unrelenting. The regret, love, and longing he had felt just moments ago vanished in an instant. If he cared about Turo so much, why didn¡¯t he come earlier? The fury burning in his chest was not just anger¡ªit was love twisted by betrayal. He couldn¡¯t stand there any longer. With a sharp, pointed look at Nox, he ordered him to come to the Great Banyan for a hearing, then turned and walked away without another word. On his way, he gave swift orders to Malok and Hiyan. "Gather everyone from the village beneath the holy tree." He couldn¡¯t hold out any longer. He needed to know why Nox had chosen Samora over him. Now. Not that it would change anything. A short while later, the entire village had gathered beneath the sprawling branches of the Great Banyan. Among them stood Nox, Bhola, Khotal, and Creda. The latter looked drenched, her clothes clinging to her like a second skin. Marnoell guessed her mother had doused her with a barrel of water, an attempt to wash away the ''evils'' of the cremation grounds. But there had been no time to dry off or even change before the summons reached them. Marnoell settled onto the root-entangled mound at the center, motioning for the other elders¡ªPhyto, Kaius, and a few more¡ªto join him. The crowd murmured in hushed tones, gossiping about Nox¡¯s blatant defiance of the chief¡¯s orders. Some speculated about deeper conspiracies, whispered theories about why he would go against the decree. The sun had long since set, and the hearing, which should have taken place in daylight, was now unfolding under flickering torchlight. A bonfire crackled at the center, casting long, wavering shadows across grim faces. It was unusual for such matters to be settled at night. But Marnoell had insisted. The weight of it was too heavy, the betrayal too deep. He wouldn¡¯t¡ªcouldn¡¯t¡ªwait until morning. Phyto cleared his throat. ¡°We should begin. It¡¯s getting late, and we don¡¯t know how long this will take.¡± You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. ¡°Yes,¡± Kaius agreed. His sharp eyes landed on Nox. ¡°Step forward.¡± Nox obeyed without hesitation. Kaius studied him for a moment before speaking. ¡°Tell us, son. Do you know why we¡¯ve gathered here?¡± Nox nodded. ¡°I do. Because I went against Uncle¡¯s orders and¡ª¡± ¡°Relationships have no place in the face of justice,¡± someone cut him off. Nox inhaled sharply, steadying himself. ¡°¡­I went against the chief¡¯s orders,¡± he admitted. "Is there a reason for that, son?" Kaius prompted. "Do you have anything to say before judgment is passed?" Nox met his gaze, his voice unwavering. "No, Elder, I don¡¯t. Except that I fulfilled my duty to my family." Phyto scoffed. "Isn¡¯t it also your duty to obey the chief¡¯s orders, Nox? Or did you think you were an exception to the rules?" A murmur rippled through the crowd. The villagers gasped, some whispering amongst themselves. Creda exhaled sharply. "The rule was ridiculous in itself. You can¡¯t keep a corpse overnight¡ª" "Speak when it¡¯s your turn, young one." Marnoell¡¯s voice thundered over the gathering. "I¡¯m just expressing my opinion! How is that wrong?" she shot back. "It isn¡¯t," Marnoell said, his tone cold. "But speaking out of turn is. Stay silent until someone asks you a question. This is not your home, where you can spout whatever comes to mind." Creda pressed her lips together, falling into reluctant silence. All eyes shifted back to Nox. "It was¡­ complicated," Nox began, choosing his words carefully. "I couldn¡¯t disobey the chief¡¯s orders, but I also couldn¡¯t abandon my family when they needed me most. So I¡ª" "Did they ask you to help them?" Kaius cut in. "No," Nox admitted. "I volunteered." "Then you accept that you deliberately defied the order, don¡¯t you?" Phyto pressed. "No! It¡¯s not like that. I helped them because¡ª" "Because he wanted to woo Creda now that he¡¯s put Turo out of the way," Malok sneered. A stunned silence fell over the gathering. All attention turned to him. "Didn¡¯t you see how he called Turo family just last night?" Malok continued, voice dripping with disdain. "Yet when it came to choosing between him and Samora, he picked her. One day, Turo was his brother. The next, a stranger." Marnoell felt something shift inside him. A slow, unsettling realization, like a veil of smoke lifting. He had dismissed Malok¡¯s accusations every time before. But now¡­ now, the words dug into him. Had he been blind to something crucial? Still, he was cautious. He was the chief, the judge. He couldn¡¯t afford to be swayed by emotions alone. "Shut up, Malok," Creda snapped. "No one asked for your opinion." Marnoell¡¯s gaze snapped to her, sharp and unforgiving. "Creda, this is my final warning. Do not speak out of turn again." "Then why is he allowed to?" she challenged. "If I have to follow the rules, so should he." "He has my permission," Marnoell stated flatly. Then, turning back to Malok, he gave a slow nod. "You made a bold accusation. What makes you think that? Do you have any concrete evidence?" His voice was steady, but his grip on his knee tightened. "We don¡¯t deliver justice based on petty claims." "Not exactly, but I can prove it to you," Malok said. Marnoell shifted impatiently. "Truth isn¡¯t that difficult to prove. Turo himself has told me." Marnoell''s attention snapped back to him at the mention of his son''s name, his forehead scrunched in confusion. "What did Turo tell you?" Malok hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. "That¡­" he trailed off. "Go ahead," Marnoell encouraged. "That Nox doesn¡¯t have his best interests at heart. That Nox had tried to¡­" Malok paused again, casting a wary glance at Nox as if afraid of him. Marnoell cleared his throat to pull Malok¡¯s attention back. He nodded, gesturing for him to continue. "That Nox had tried to kill him¡ªseveral times." A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a wave of murmurs. Enraged, Nox lunged at Malok, gripping him by the neck. "How dare you?" he seethed. Several people had to drag him away, restraining him. The bloodstained dagger lodged in his waistband moved slightly. "If you¡¯re going to settle this between yourselves, then why do you think we¡¯re here, Nox? Out of boredom?" Kaius scolded, his voice cutting through the murmurs. Just as Nox opened his mouth to protest, Kaius silenced him with a raised hand. "Wait. He has the chief¡¯s permission to speak." He fixed Nox with a hard stare. "You¡¯ll get your turn to explain yourself." Malok took a shaky breath before continuing. "But Turo was too afraid to tell you. Because¡ªplease forgive me if this sounds like disrespect¡ªbut these are Turo¡¯s words, not mine. He said you favor Nox and that you wouldn¡¯t believe him. So I promised to watch his back. We had this¡­ silent pact to look out for each other. Everyone knew how much Turo used to follow Nox around. But lately, he¡¯s been avoiding him." A fresh murmur spread through the crowd as people exchanged glances. They all remembered¡ªTuro had indeed been fond of Nox. But recently, his behavior had changed. Many had dismissed it as the onset of adolescence, but now Malok¡¯s words gave a new meaning to those memories. Nox¡¯s mouth fell open in shock at the blatant accusation. "That¡¯s why I protested against you sending Nox to find Turo last night," Malok said. "Because I feared he might do something to Turo with no one there to watch him. And look at what happened¡ªTuro is no more." The crowd whispered among themselves, nodding, their expressions shifting between worry and doubt. Creda frowned. "That¡¯s stupid. Nox didn¡¯t do anything to Turo." Marnoell shot her a glare for speaking out of turn yet again, but she pressed on, undeterred. "Didn¡¯t you people see Turo¡¯s body? It was so drained of life. No man can do that. It must be something else," she argued. She had never believed in the supernatural¡ªjust like her sister. But nothing logical could explain the state Turo was in when they brought him back. He was a mere husk, after all. Perhaps she had been ignorant all this time. The conversation she had with Calla last night replayed in the back of her mind. She couldn¡¯t fully grasp what was happening, but one thing was certain¡ªit couldn¡¯t have been Nox. They were being ridiculous. Marnoell shifted slightly. "What do you say to that, Malok?" he challenged. As angry and disappointed as he was with Nox, he wasn¡¯t one to accept such a grave accusation without solid proof. "I agree," Malok admitted. "No man could have done that. It must be something else. But he could have intentionally left Turo unguarded at the wrong time, right?" "Malok!" Marnoell¡¯s voice carried a warning. "That¡¯s an opportunistic claim. Turo isn¡¯t here to attest to it, and there¡¯s no place for speculation. I thought you had concrete evidence. Do you, or do you not?" "Just a moment more, Chief," Malok pleaded, scrambling for another way to attack Nox¡¯s reputation. He scolded himself for not anticipating this kind of resistance. Nox had been the favorite of everyone for almost eighteen years¡ªdragging him down wouldn¡¯t be easy. Let alone replacing him. He needed a better strategy. Then it hit him. The pieces fell into place. "Chief, like I said, truth doesn¡¯t need digging. It¡¯s the lies that need covering up. We only need to peel back the layers." Nox stared at him in confusion. "Last night, you sent Turo with him to check on the women," Malok continued. "But only Nox came back. Not Turo." The murmurs started again, doubt seeping into the crowd. "He let Turo enter the birthing chamber knowing he would be cursed," Malok pressed. "Doesn¡¯t anyone find that strange? Don¡¯t you think Nox did it on purpose¡ªas if he wanted Turo to be cursed?" "What?" Nox mouthed, his shock evident. The crowd stirred restlessly. Marnoell¡¯s forehead creased in thought, and Malok knew¡ªhe was finally steering the conversation in the right direction. 1.46 - The Lies That Tied Nox’s Hands "I didn¡¯t know what else to do," Nox argued, his voice edged with frustration. "Like you said, he¡¯s been acting strange around me lately. And he wouldn¡¯t listen when I told him not to enter the birthing chamber." "See? He¡¯s admitting it himself." Malok seized the moment. "Turo feared him. He despised his presence." "What? I never said that!" Nox snapped, a chill crawling up his spine. He had the unsettling feeling that he''d just dug his own grave, but he couldn''t pinpoint how. Panic gnawed at him, but no one was listening. Too much had happened in the past two days¡ªtoo many unanswered questions. Everyone was desperate for explanations, and in their fear, they latched onto anything that made sense. Even if it wasn¡¯t the truth. Why else would someone allow another to enter the birthing chamber? Their own doubts twisted into conviction. Malok pressed on. "All we know is what Nox says¡ªnot what truly happened." His voice rang through the crowd. "I only want the chief to uncover the real truth, without¡ª" he glanced at Marnoell, "¡ªas Turo put it, showing favoritism toward Nox." Marnoell stiffened. His chest tightened with grief. Had his son really said that? Had Turo truly believed he was favoring Nox unfairly? He wanted to ask him directly, but he never would¡ªTuro was gone. And so, he had no choice but to seek the truth himself. His gaze settled on Nox, sharp and unwavering. "Tell me what really happened." Nox exhaled, frustration curling in his voice. "I¡¯ve already told you everything, Uncle¡ªChief. We heard a commotion inside the chamber. I didn¡¯t enter because you forbade me, but Turo did. I don¡¯t know what happened after that because I was outside." Malok pounced. "So you¡¯re saying you would never disobey the chief¡¯s orders, correct?" "Yes," Nox said, his voice steady. Marnoell narrowed his eyes slightly. The way Malok phrased that felt pointed¡ªleading. He didn¡¯t interrupt yet, but he made a mental note of it. Malok¡¯s lips curled into a knowing smirk. "Then why did you step onto the Forbidden Land, even after the chief expressly forbade it?" A hush fell over the gathering. Marnoell¡¯s gaze flicked to Nox, studying his reaction. He wanted the truth¡ªbut he wouldn''t let this turn into a trial by public opinion. Nox clenched his jaw. "I told you¡ªthe raft collapsed in the middle of the lake. We were closer to that shore, so we swam to it." His voice remained firm, but he was beginning to feel like a cornered animal. He wasn¡¯t a criminal, yet he was being treated like one. Anger flickered beneath his skin. "If you don¡¯t believe me, ask Bhola and Khotal," he added, not realizing he was unwittingly tightening the noose around his own neck. Bhola and Khotal nodded in unison. Marnoell turned his attention to Nox once more, but this time, he didn¡¯t need Malok¡¯s prompting. "How did the raft collapse? Did no one check the lifeline before boarding? This was a major undertaking. No one had ever set foot on Lavalthon before¡ªyou should¡¯ve double-checked everything." "We did," Bhola chimed in. Marnoell frowned but seemed willing to move past the question. That irritated Malok. He couldn¡¯t let this slip by. Not when he held the sharpest blade to cut Nox down. "Who checked the lifeline?" Malok asked, his voice smooth, deliberate. The crowd fell silent. Marnoell¡¯s eyes snapped to Malok. He wasn''t sure how relevant that question was. But he decided to wait Bhola and Khotal exchanged uneasy glances. Nox¡¯s brows furrowed in confusion. Marnoell sensed the shift. He took the bait. "Who checked the lifeline?" he echoed, pressing for an answer. Khotal hesitated, his voice almost reluctant. "It was Nox." This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. And just like that, everything snapped into place. Marnoell felt a pressing need to dig deeper. He turned to Bhola, his voice measured but firm. "What did you do after the raft collapsed?" Bhola straightened under the chief¡¯s gaze. "We swam to the shore," he said. "But then¡­ then we saw Dias crawling out of the water." His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Half his body was missing." He took a steadying breath and continued, carefully reiterating everything Nox had said that morning. He made sure not to contradict a single detail. Bhola might not have spent much time with Nox, Turo, or Malok¡ªhe kept to himself¡ªbut he wasn¡¯t a fool. He could see how Malok was steering this trial, laying his traps carefully, one after another. None of them knew where he would strike next. So Bhola remained alert. He knew what had happened that night. He wasn¡¯t in the dark like Marnoell, nor was he drowning in grief. He would not let his words be twisted to punish an innocent man. People had always seen his quiet, passive side, mistaking it for cowardice. But today, they will see my resolve. "He said a lake monster attacked him," Bhola went on, "and that it took Ayan with it. And then¡­ he fainted." "We carried him under a kapok tree," Khotal added. "Nox suggested we gather materials and build another raft so we could take Dias and Turo back to Tuscanvale." His brows furrowed slightly, as if recalling something. "Oh, right¡ªTuro was with us the whole time. We found him before the raft collapsed. He was unconscious, stuck against a palm trunk. Nox pulled him to shore with us." Bhola nodded and picked up where Khotal left off. "Nox said he¡¯d go search for Samora while we built the raft. He even told us to leave without him if he wasn¡¯t back by the time we finished." Malok scoffed. Khotal ignored him. "We started working on the raft, but first, we built a fence to keep Dias and Turo safe from predators. Then we heard a noise. When we ran back, both of them were gone." He hesitated, his voice thick with unease. "We found animal tracks¡­ so we assumed Dias had been dragged off. But there were also footprints along the shoreline." Marnoell¡¯s eyes narrowed. "You assumed they were Turo¡¯s?" His tone sharpened. "How do you know? What if they belonged to Nox? He went searching for Samora, didn¡¯t he?" Bhola and Khotal looked at each other. "Well¡­ we don¡¯t exactly know," Khotal admitted. "The footprints were steep, but we don¡¯t remember the size. They could have been Nox¡¯s, but we assumed they must¡¯ve been Turo¡¯s because Nox came back from inland. So naturally, we thought he must have come back the way he went, which meant the footprints along the shoreline weren¡¯t his." Marnoell felt something was amiss. His gaze sharpened as he turned back to Khotal. "You saw Nox coming back from inland?" he asked. "But did you see him going in?" Khotal hesitated. "No. We left before Nox did," he said without thinking. Malok¡¯s lips curled slightly. His job was nearly done. Marnoell was already moving in the direction he wanted. "So you don¡¯t know what happened after you left?" Marnoell asked, suspicion creeping into his tone for the first time. Khotal shook his head. Bhola stomped his foot, trying to stop him, but the damage was done. "And when you returned, Dias was gone? And Turo was missing as well?" "Yes," Khotal admitted. "And Nox came back from inland. He wasn¡¯t there either." Bhola, thinking he was helping, added, "And that¡¯s when we realized Turo and Samora were¡­ gone." The words had barely left his mouth when he sucked in a sharp breath. His mistake hit him a beat too late. "How did you know, son?" Kaius prompted. Bhola¡¯s mouth went dry. "Nox¡­ said so," he stammered, realizing too late that his words, whether he consented or not, were now evidence against Nox. Nox stood frozen, confusion clouding his thoughts. That¡¯s exactly what I told them this morning. What new insight did they gain now? His pulse pounded in his ears. Why are they treating me like a criminal? He had done everything in his power to bring them back alive. I failed¡ªmiserably, yes¡ªbut not intentionally. And yet, his own uncle was questioning him like this. The weight of it fogged his mind, making him unaware of the snare tightening around him. "You didn¡¯t know they were dead?" Marnoell pressed. "Not before Nox told you?" Bhola hesitated, then nodded, almost regretfully. He lacked Creda¡¯s courage to speak up, but he had wanted to help Nox. He had believed he could. And now, he had failed him. Malok¡¯s smirk deepened. "Yes, Chief. I think you see it now." He turned, addressing the gathered crowd, his voice dripping with conviction. "We know Turo willingly entered the birthing chamber. We know he followed Samora of his own will." He let the words hang in the air before driving in the blade. "Because Nox said so." Murmurs rippled through the crowd. "And now we know the baby tore its way out of Samora¡¯s womb, killing Turo before it escaped," Malok continued, his tone grave. "And do they have any explanation for that?" He gave a small, bitter laugh. "No. Because¡ª" He let the silence stretch, then delivered the final blow. "Because Nox said so." Gasps. Whispers. Malok turned back to Marnoell, feigning grief, his voice breaking just slightly. "He¡¯s clever, Chief. He killed my wife¡­ and then set the creature on Turo so it would kill him too. And now, with Turo gone, the path is clear. The title is his. And so is Creda." The accusation slammed into Nox like a physical blow. This wasn¡¯t just about him missing Turo¡¯s cremation or defying a meaningless order anymore. This was about murder. About betraying his own family for self-serving ambition. His blood boiled. Before he could stop himself, he lunged. His hands wrapped around Malok¡¯s throat. "You¡ª!" Nox snarled. "How dare you¡ªI''ll kill you!" Shouts erupted as bystanders rushed forward, trying to restrain him. Nox thrashed, blinded by rage. In the scuffle, something tumbled from his waistband and hit the ground with a muted thud. A dagger. Malok¡¯s eyes flicked downward. Recognition flashed across his face. Even bloodstained as it was, he knew that dagger. It was Turo¡¯s. Malok bent down slowly, picking it up from the ground. He turned it over in his hand, then held it up for all to see. "Is this what you killed my wife with?" he whispered, his voice trembling just enough to sound grief-stricken. Creda gasped. For the first time, doubt crept into her eyes. Had Nox really killed her sister? 1.47 - Deemed An Outcast Life had turned upside down in a matter of minutes. Malok had accused Nox of murdering his own family, and no one¡ªnot a single soul¡ªhad defended him. Why? Had they always thought him capable of something so monstrous? He had always been proud of his charm, the way he could capture hearts and never let go. Proud of how his people stood by him, unwavering, no matter what. Proud that, even if no one ever said it outright, they loved him more than his brother, Malok. But today¡ªtoday, they had listened to Malok. They had turned their backs on him. It was a bruise to his ego, a wound deeper than he could bear. His chest tightened, his blood boiled. Even if he tore down four trees with his bare hands, it wouldn¡¯t be enough to ease the rage consuming him. "Is this what you killed my wife with?" Malok¡¯s words cut deeper than any blade. Creda had gasped. So had the others¡ªhis kin, his people. The very ones he had once dreamed of leading. But none of that mattered now. Not the accusation, not the fact that he had stupidly forgotten to discard the dagger. His intentions had been good. Even now, he refused to reveal the truth¡ªthat it was Turo who had stabbed Samora. No. That would stain Turo¡¯s memory. And he wouldn¡¯t do that. Not when he was dead. But the worst part? It wasn¡¯t the accusation. It wasn¡¯t the dagger. It was the silence. The way no one had defended him. How easily they had accepted that he might be a killer. Are people truly this shallow? Do they not know the ones who grew up beside them? When had he ever been malicious? And yet, they believed Malok over him. That¡ªthat was the deepest insult of all. Chief Marnoell rose to his feet, his presence commanding silence. His gaze swept over the two brothers before settling on Nox. "What do you say for that?" he asked. Nox remained quiet. His mind was reeling, spinning with thoughts he couldn¡¯t piece together fast enough. Then¡ªit hit him. The lantern. Malok¡¯s accusation had thrown a new light on what he had so stupidly overlooked. The mysterious man by the lake. Could it have been him? Could he have been the one who killed Samora¡ªnot Turo? "Uncle, I saw a man in the woods," Nox said frantically, his words tumbling out in his desperation to be heard. "He looked different. Not like us. And he carried this tiny bundle in his hands. I followed him. He went to the lake, and there¡ªhe boarded a vessel, much like our rafts, but stronger, better built. And then¡­ he did something strange. He chanted, like we do in prayer, and¡ª" Nox swallowed, catching his breath. "I swear, I saw him materialize a lantern out of thin air." He paused, scanning their faces. "I saw the same lantern near Samora¡¯s body." The silence that followed was thick with disbelief¡ªuntil Malok¡¯s mocking voice cut through it. "Wow, Nox. You really are a storyteller," Malok sneered. "Maybe everyone should stop listening to Calla¡¯s stories and start listening to yours instead." His voice darkened with venom. "How cheap can you be? You didn¡¯t just kill my wife¡ªyou¡¯re making up wild tales now?" This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Something inside Nox snapped. "Your wife?" He spat the words in frustration. "Where was this concern when she was alive? When she toiled on the streets through rain and sun, did you care then?" He turned sharply to Marnoell, his last desperate chance slipping through his fingers. "Uncle, I can prove I¡¯m right. Come with me to the other shore¡ªI can show you the proof. Turo didn¡¯t have a lantern when he chased Samora. We did, but it drowned when our raft collapsed. That man¡¯s lantern had ornate carvings¡ªwe never disturbed it. It must still be there!" But Malok wasn¡¯t finished. "Clever, Nox. Really clever," he scoffed. "You didn¡¯t just kill Turo and Samora. Now you want to lure our uncle to the forbidden shore and kill him too? Is that it? So the title will be yours for good?" "That¡¯s enough blabbering for one day, Malok. And you, Nox. That''s the forbidden land and we''ve gotten into so much trouble for one trip already. So no one goes there, Nox. Not anymore. No one ever will." The elder''s voice was final, as if speaking an undeniable truth. The others nodded, their eyes heavy with a certainty Nox could not penetrate. Chief Marnoell¡¯s voice boomed over the crowd, silencing them all. His expression was unreadable. "I¡¯ve heard enough. Now it¡¯s our turn to deliver justice." And so, Chief Marnoell had delivered his verdict. Nox was to be an outcast for the next ten years. "No one shall offer him food, water, or shelter. No one from the village shall speak to him or have any relationship with him until his sentence is served," Marnoell declared, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd. His words struck like a blade. "There is no concrete proof that Nox committed the crimes Malok accuses him of. The claims against him are opportunistic¡ªspeculative at best." His gaze hardened as it landed on Malok. "I cannot punish a man based on speculation, no matter how clever the accusations seem." A murmur rippled through the villagers. "Right now, the only proven fact is that Nox defied my orders and went to aid Samora¡¯s family. And that is what I will punish him for." Nox¡¯s breath caught in his throat. An outcast. The weight of the sentence crashed over him. It was the worst fate imaginable¡ªworse than exile, worse than death. He would walk among his kin, see their faces every day, watch them go about their lives¡ªyet to them, he would be nothing. A ghost. Unseen. Unheard. Forgotten. Even after ten years, even after they allowed him back within the village walls, they would never see him the same way again. His heart pounded as Malok stepped forward, his voice sharp with protest. "But Chief¡ªTuro was your son! You''re favoring Nox!" The accusation hung in the air like a crack of thunder. But Marnoell did not falter. His sharp glare cut through Malok¡¯s outburst, silencing him in an instant. "Malok," he said coldly, "we all know what you''re trying to do. And there''s one thing you seem to have forgotten¡ª" he turned, his voice low but firm, "¡ªyour age will never measure up to my experience." With that, he turned to leave. And just like that, it was over. The chief''s words rang in Nox''s ears, dull and distant, as if they had been spoken underwater. The weight of them settled into his chest, cold and suffocating. He barely registered the shuffling of feet, the shifting of bodies¡ªuntil a voice, small but firm, cut through the silence. "Wait." Hiyan''s voice trembled, but he stepped forward. "I want justice," Hiyan slurred. "I refuse to live with my wife after knowing she was having an affair with Malok." He swayed like a man drowning in his own grief, his steps unsteady. Chief Marnoell eyed him with quiet scrutiny. "Do you have concrete proof of this claim?" he asked. "If not, we will not interfere in a husband and wife¡¯s matters based on mere suspicion." His voice was steady. "If you still wish to separate, meet me in the morning¡ªpreferably when you''re sober." But Nox wasn¡¯t in a state to care. His gaze drifted past the exchange, landing instead on Creda. She wasn¡¯t shouting. She wasn¡¯t weeping. She wasn¡¯t throwing accusations at him. She just stared¡ªsilent, tear-filled, accusing. That look was worse than any words. It was the quiet kind of hate¡ªthe kind that lingered. It told him that just when she had started to warm up to his presence, this disaster had turned him into the villain of her family. He never wished to marry her, not after she became Turo''s betrothed. He never dared to dream of such things. But he had at least hoped for peace between them, for some form of understanding. Even if she married another, he would have preferred a relationship unmarred by resentment. And Malok had stolen even that from him. His feet dragged across the swampy terrain, the thick mud sucking at his steps as he made his way toward the lake. His shoulders were hunched, his resolve shattered. Everything was over now. He had no one. No one to call his own. But why did this happen to him? And who was that mysterious man by the lake? Was he connected to Nox''s fate in some way? 1.48 - What is Nox Hiding? Creda blinked away her tears. She couldn¡¯t believe Nox could do this to them¡ªand still have the nerve to pretend he cared. ¡°And you two were defending him!¡± she snapped at Bhola and Khotal. They shuffled uncomfortably under her glare. ¡°He killed my sister and then¡­ he had the audacity to pretend to help us with her cremation,¡± she choked out, the words bitter in her throat. ¡°Creda, you¡¯ve misunderstood¡ª¡± Khotal began, his voice placating. ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± she cut him off. ¡°Don¡¯t try to convince me. I know exactly what you did. Don¡¯t think I can¡¯t see through your pretentiousness. You only helped him¡ªsaved him¡ªbecause he¡¯s your mate, isn¡¯t that right?¡± Bhola and Khotal exchanged glances. They had always kept to themselves, avoiding confrontations like this. This was the first time they were embroiled in something so immense, and they didn¡¯t know how to react. But Bhola, drawing in a deep breath, found his courage. ¡°What you think is wrong, Creda,¡± he declared, his voice confident despite his downcast eyes. His forehead was creased with defiance as he continued, ¡°Malok twisted the truth to frame Nox as a killer." If he kept quiet now, just because he''s not used to speaking up like the others, then he''ll be complicit in Malok''s lies. His silence would only make Malok¡¯s deceit seem true. He raised his voice slightly. ¡°What you think is wrong,¡± he repeated. ¡°And you say the Chief is being irrational for causing a scene back there. Yet there he is refusing to punish Nox without proof, without facts, despite Malok¡¯s manipulations. And here you are, doubting Nox just because someone accused him. Is that all it takes? When did you become like this, Creda?¡± His words hung in the air. Crickets chirped in the darkness. Frogs croaked. The massive banyan tree above them rustled softly in the breeze. ¡°I know you,¡± Bhola pressed on. ¡°You''re always quick to speak up, but I thought you were more mature than this. I thought you were stronger than to let someone like Malok sway you so easily.¡± ¡°Leave it, Bhola,¡± Khotal muttered, his voice tinged with resignation. ¡°She¡¯s already made up her mind. She won¡¯t listen to us. She won¡¯t listen to anyone.¡± He scoffed and gestured to the empty space around them. ¡°And look at everyone else. They too act like they know exactly what happened. But we were there. We saw it. Yet no one believes us when we say Nox isn¡¯t guilty.¡± ¡°Exactly,¡± Bhola agreed, his frustration spilling out. ¡°They¡¯re acting like they don¡¯t even know Nox. Like he¡¯s a stranger to them. How can they believe Malok so easily? Nox would never do something like this! He¡¯s always been so damn good¡ªtoo good for his own sake! He¡¯s loyal to the Chief, even to the point where he¡¯d gladly lay down his life if asked.¡± Bhola looked pointedly at Creda. ¡°And now? Now he¡¯s an outcast. Not because of some crime, but because he refused to leave you and your mother alone. Because he wanted your sister to be cremated with respect, in line with tradition. That¡¯s what he¡¯s being punished for. But what do you care?¡± The silence that followed was suffocating. Only the sounds of the night filled the void as Creda stared at the ground, her anger and grief battling Bhola¡¯s words in her mind. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. Khotal grabbed Bhola¡¯s shoulder. "Don¡¯t waste your breath trying to convince her," he said with a dismissive tone. "It¡¯s like talking to a wall. She knows the truth, but she chooses to ignore it. Probably thinks her grief over losing her sister will somehow excuse her selfishness." He tugged at Bhola¡¯s arm. "Come on, let¡¯s go check on Nox. I don¡¯t regret not helping with her sister¡¯s cremation earlier, but I do regret leaving Nox alone in all this mess." Together, they walked away, leaving Creda standing alone beneath the ancient banyan tree. Her hands clenched into fists, trembling with barely-contained fury. Their words echoed in her mind, a painful sting she couldn¡¯t ignore. Selfish. They thought she was masking selfishness with grief? Did they truly believe her sorrow wasn¡¯t real? Did they think she was pretending to mourn her sister? Her teeth ground together as anger bubbled beneath the surface. "And what about the bloodstained dagger?" she muttered to herself. The words felt like fire on her tongue. She wanted to demand an answer, to confront them and have the last word. Without thinking, she turned on her heel and stormed off in the direction they had taken. Emerging from the tangled roots of the banyan tree, Creda spotted Bhola and Khotal in the distance, heading toward the lake. She opened her mouth to shout at them, but the silence of the night stopped her. Everyone in the village was already settled, and the haunting stillness of the night pressed down on her. She didn¡¯t want to wake the others or cause a scene again¡ªit was between her and them now. Determined, she quickened her pace, even jogging at times, but the two young men moved faster, their longer strides making it impossible for her to catch up. When she finally reached the lakeshore, she saw Bhola and Khotal standing by Nox, who was seated on a large boulder, gazing out at the water. Nox turned as they approached, and to Creda¡¯s surprise, his face lit up faintly at the sight of them. He looked tired, but there was relief in his expression. She crouched behind the thick brush, hiding in the shadows to observe them without being seen. The three men spoke in low voices, their words muffled by the night breeze. Nox placed a hand on each of their shoulders, nodding with a faint smile before gesturing toward the village. Bhola and Khotal hesitated for a moment but eventually turned back toward the settlement. As they began to leave, Creda stepped out of the greenery, startling them. "What are you doing here?" Khotal demanded, his voice sharp with suspicion. "Spying on us?" Creda scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. "Spy on you? Please. I¡¯ve got better things to do." Her glare was unwavering. "Actually, I wasn¡¯t finished talking to you when you walked off, so I came after you." "And what do you want now?" Bhola asked impatiently. "The dagger," she said, her tone cold and matter-of-fact. "What about it?" Khotal asked, his brow furrowing. Creda¡¯s voice rose, frustration evident. "Turo¡¯s dagger¡ªit was bloodstained. And Nox had it hidden in his waistband." Khotal let out an incredulous laugh. "So that¡¯s your proof, huh? That¡¯s what you¡¯re basing all of this on?" He crossed his arms, a mocking smirk tugging at his lips. Creda met his gaze defiantly, daring him to deny it. "Look," Bhola said, raising a hand in a gesture of peace. "We don¡¯t even know if it was human blood. What proof do you have that it was your sister¡¯s? For all we know, Nox could¡¯ve been defending himself against a predator or something." But Creda wasn¡¯t listening anymore. Her attention had shifted, her gaze drifting past Khotal. She squinted into the darkness, her brow furrowed in suspicion. Khotal and Bhola turned to follow her gaze. Nox was walking along the shore, heading toward the shallow river. "Where¡¯s he going at this hour?" Creda muttered to herself, then directed her question to the men. "Did he say anything to you?" Bhola shook his head. "He just told us not to get into trouble over him," he replied reluctantly. "Said we should rest, that we were probably exhausted from last night." But Creda wasn¡¯t paying attention. She was already moving, following Nox toward the river. He was far ahead now, his silhouette blending into the night. Creda quickened her pace, her determination burning like a flame. "Wait! Where are you going?" Bhola called after her. "Go back home!" Creda turned her head briefly, still striding forward. "And lose him? Not a chance. I want to know what he¡¯s up to now." 1.49 - The Traveller’s Tomb Bhola and Khotal exchanged uneasy glances, a silent conversation passing between them. Finally, in unspoken agreement, they began to follow her. And so, the group moved on into the night¡ªNox leading the way, unaware he was being tailed; Creda, driven by questions she couldn¡¯t yet articulate; and Bhola and Khotal, their curiosity outweighing their trepidation. It felt like the night itself was holding its breath, as though something monumental was about to unfold. Nox¡¯s purposeful stride only deepened their suspicions. When they arrived near the river, they saw Nox turn north, heading toward the docks. By this point, Bhola and Khotal had caught up with Creda. The three of them followed in silence. As they reached the dock, Creda grabbed Bhola and Khotal by their arms and pulled them behind a bush. She gestured for them to stay quiet. From their hiding spot, they watched as Nox prepared a small raft, boarding it before paddling toward the vast expanse of Lavalthon Lake. "We can¡¯t let him do this," Bhola whispered urgently. He tried to step forward, but Creda held him back. "Are you crazy?" he hissed. "He¡¯s going out there alone! What if something happens to him?" "Not if we follow him," Creda replied. "What?" Khotal asked, his voice tinged with nervous disbelief. "There? Again?" "Yes." Creda¡¯s tone was resolute. "I want to see what happened to my sister. Now, come on." She grabbed their wrists and tried to pull them out of the bush. Both men resisted, digging their heels into the dirt. "No! We¡¯re not going back there!" Khotal whined. "It was tough enough coming back alive the first time. We¡¯re not doing it again!" Bhola bobbed his head in agreement. "That place is dangerous. You shouldn¡¯t go either!" Creda¡¯s grip tightened as she continued pulling at them, her frustration mounting. "I thought you were worried about Nox going back there all alone. And now you¡¯re too scared to help your own mate? Cowards!" "No, we¡¯re not cowards," Bhola snapped. "But we shouldn¡¯t go back there. That place is haunted." "Haunted?" Creda¡¯s voice dripped with sarcasm. "All the more reason to accompany Nox, don¡¯t you think?" She planted her feet firmly in the dirt, pulling at them with all her might. Her shoulders ached from the effort, but she refused to relent. "Besides, it¡¯s not haunted. Heck, it¡¯s not even close to haunted!" Bhola scoffed. "Who told you that? The lake monster took Ayan and chewed half of Dias! We saw it with our own two eyes!" Creda let go of their hands abruptly, sending both men stumbling backward onto the ground. "I don¡¯t care," she said coldly, crossing her arms, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "What I do know is that place isn¡¯t haunted. Calla told me so, and Calla knows everything. She¡¯s been around for longer than any of us." Bhola and Khotal exchanged uneasy glances. Creda smirked at their hesitation. "Fine," she said, spinning on her heel. "If you¡¯re too scared to help, I¡¯ll go by myself." She strode toward the dock, her steps bold and defiant. But before boarding, she called back over her shoulder, "Oh, by the way¡ªI don¡¯t know how to steer or paddle a raft. If I end up dead by morning, just know it¡¯s on you." Bhola and Khotal cursed under their breaths, scrambling to their feet. "Damn it," Bhola muttered. "Fine!" Khotal added grudgingly. "But if something happens to us, we¡¯re blaming you!" Creda smiled to herself, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes, though she didn¡¯t turn back. Together, they boarded the raft, their reluctant alliance sealed as they pushed off into the dark, uncharted waters of Lavalthon Lake. They stayed silent, paddling carefully, ensuring not to splash the water or make noise that might alert Nox. Creda had been adamant¡ªNox mustn¡¯t know they were following him. She needed to see what he was doing without his knowledge. Bhola and Khotal reluctantly agreed, cursing their luck that had dragged them across these forbidden waters yet again in a single day. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. By the time they reached the middle of the lake, Nox was already nearing the opposite shore. They watched as he landed, pulled his raft onto the bank, and disappeared inland. "Faster," Creda urged in a hushed voice. Her urgency pushed Bhola and Khotal to paddle harder, their arms burning from the effort. She refused to lose him in an unfamiliar territory. When they finally reached the shore, Bhola helped Creda onto the land before he and Khotal worked together to heave the raft out of the water. But Creda didn¡¯t wait for them to finish. Without a word, she darted off into the woods, heading in the direction Nox had gone. Bhola turned just in time to see her disappearing into the trees. "Hey!" He called, his forehead creased in annoyance. "What is this girl thinking, wandering in like she owns this forest?" he muttered under his breath. Khotal groaned. "Let¡¯s go before she gets herself killed." They abandoned the raft, half in water and half on land, and hurried after her. After trekking through the dense forest for what felt like an eternity, they emerged into a clearing¡ªand froze. There, standing near the entrance of an ancient stone structure, was Nox. His attention was fixed on something inside, his face lit by an eerie yellow glow emanating from within the tomb. Creda stopped at the edge of the clearing, her breath catching in her throat. She took in the scene, her wide eyes filled with disbelief. The hair on her arms stood on end. "Is that¡­?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. She stepped forward, her eyes locked on the structure. "Is that the Traveler¡¯s Tomb?" Khotal furrowed his brow. "The what?" "The Traveler¡¯s Tomb," Creda repeated, her voice tinged with awe and hesitation, as if she didn''t trust her own interpretation. "The one the great hero built before he left his homeland." Bhola and Khotal exchanged skeptical glances, as though she had gone mad. Creda rolled her eyes at their silent mockery. "It¡¯s from Calla¡¯s stories," she clarified. "She always said the great hero led his people to a new homeland near a massive lake¡ªa safe haven, a paradise on earth. And then, before leaving to find a way to undo the curse, he built the Traveler¡¯s Tomb on the opposite shore. The people prayed for his safe journey and believed he would one day return." Bhola shook his head. "So? What does that have to do with this?" Creda¡¯s voice dropped as she pieced together the fragments in her mind. ¡°Calla told me yesterday that this part of the land isn¡¯t cursed or forbidden. That it was us who were cursed,¡± Creda muttered, earning confused glances from Bhola and Khotal. ¡°What if¡­¡± she hesitated, the thought catching in her throat. ¡°What if it wasn¡¯t just a story? What if it were our history?¡± Her breath hitched, the pieces falling into place in her mind. Calla¡¯s stories never ended¡ªCalla always said, stories have an end, histories don¡¯t. Creda¡¯s eyes widened as realization gripped her. What if it wasn''t just a poetic notion of a passionate storyteller? What if Calla''s stories never ended because Calla didn¡¯t know the ending herself? Creda stepped into the clearing, gesturing at the stone structure before her. ¡°The great hero wasn¡¯t some random legend from made-up stories. He must have been our ancestor. That ¡®heavenly new homeland¡¯ in the story¡ªwhat if that was Tuscanvalle? And the opposite shore, where they built the Traveler¡¯s Tomb¡­ this place.¡± Her voice quivered as she pointed to the structure, her breaths coming fast and shallow. ¡°What if this is the Traveler¡¯s Tomb from Calla¡¯s stories?¡± She stared at the stone building, her thoughts spiraling. ¡°What if the curse was true?¡± she whispered. ¡°If it was, then why did the great hero never return? Does that mean there¡¯s no way to undo the curse?¡± Her heart pounded in her chest. She clenched her fists. ¡°And what if¡­ what if the prophecy wasn¡¯t just about Samora¡¯s child?¡± Her voice trembled with realization. ¡°What if the prophecy is directly connected to the curse itself?¡± Her heart raced as she crept closer, urging Bhola and Khotal to follow. The men, though hesitant, trailed behind her, their unease growing with every step. When they reached the entrance, Creda finally saw what had captivated Nox. On the ground lay the unmistakable evidence of what had happened the previous night. The earth was disturbed, bloodstained. It was the exact spot where her sister had died. Creda¡¯s chest tightened at the sight. But it wasn¡¯t the blood that sent a chill down her spine. Just beyond the bloodied patch, sitting on the ground, was the ornate lantern Nox had mentioned earlier. It still glowed faintly, with thin tendrils of smoke curling around it. It looked unnatural, ominous. Creda stepped closer, her breath hitching. Something about the lantern, about the smoke, felt deeply, terribly wrong. She tilted her head, trying to understand what she was seeing. The ornate carvings on the lantern¡¯s surface shimmered and warped. Its structure¡­ it wasn¡¯t burning from within as she¡¯d initially thought. It was melting. The lantern¡¯s intricate carvings and its very body seemed to dissolve, its edges blending into the shadows around it. It wasn¡¯t fast¡ªit was slow, deliberate, almost imperceptible. And then Creda realized it wasn¡¯t melting at all. It was disappearing. The lantern dissolved into an eerie cloud of shadow, its essence blending with the darkness beneath it. Creda¡¯s breath caught in her throat as the realization struck her. Magic! Bhola and Khotal stood frozen behind her, their eyes wide with disbelief. Creda¡¯s chest tightened as she stared at the lantern, its last traces fading into the ground. She understood now. This meant everything Nox had said before was true. Every single word. There was a stranger in this place. Someone who had brought this lantern. But why? What connection did they have to Samora? To the child? Creda¡¯s mind reeled as a horrifying possibility took shape. What if, by forcing Samora to cross the lake¡ªby driving her into this forbidden land¡ªthey had triggered the prophecy¡ªthe very manifestation of the ancient curse itself¡ªinstead of stopping it? What if in their attempt to prevent the birth of the monster child, they had set in motion the very chain of events that would make it come true? Her chest tightened as the implications of that possibility struck her. Creda realised now. They had unknowingly unleashed something far worse. Because the curse wasn¡¯t just a story, and this wasn¡¯t just a tomb. It was the beginning of something far bigger than she¡¯d ever imagined. Announcement Okay guys, It''s been a while since I posted the poll and I''m yet to recieve responses on it save from one reader. So I guess, I''ll take this silence as *sigh* indifference and invest in improving my writing skills. Until I come back with an alternate perspective or angle to attack this beast (possibly as a LitRPG), I''m putting this one on Hiatus. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Sorry, guys! But I''m not abandoning the story. Just rethinking a better way to present it in the most appealing way. That said, if you want to see this story continue as is, do let me know in the comments. I''ll consider posting my backlog if enough people are interested. Bye for now:(