From the far South, where sunlight never reached and the three moons always shone pale and haunting, there lived a humble couple. They were neither nobles nor royals, but simple folk whose greatest wish was a child to carry their legacy.
For years, their home remained silent, their hearts heavy with disappointment. Friends and neighbors whispered about their misfortune, but still, they held hope in the quiet hours, whispering prayers into the cool night air.
Then, one day, the woman felt a strange warmth pulsing deep within her. A sensation unlike any before. Nervous yet filled with hope, they sought out the old healer who dwelled in the marshes, where the moonlight turned the fog silver.
The healer's eyes widened as her palm pressed gently against the woman's swollen belly.
"There are two Ken cores inside you," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Perfectly formed… strong… ancient."
The woman gasped, tears spilling down her cheeks. She clutched her husband's hand, trembling with joy.
"We'll have twins… after all these years."
He smiled softly, his eyes shining with relief and wonder. "Yes… finally. We will."
The couple celebrated the miraculous news, inviting friends and family to share in the long-awaited joy. Laughter and feasting filled the home, but beneath the celebration, an unease lingered.
As the months passed, the pregnancy became unusual. The woman's stomach grew faster than normal, unnaturally so, and she felt two distinct presences moving within her—one calm, one fierce, each asserting its will in silent struggle.
Each night, when the house was still and the three moons hung low in the sky, she felt the twins shift and twist, as if each were aware of the other, locked in an unseen battle. She would wake, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, a whisper of fear brushing her thoughts.
Then, two days before the expected birth, blood stained her sheets. Panic tore through the household. They rushed her to the nearest clinic, the three moons casting pale light through the windows, bathing the hall in ghostly silver.
The doctor worked frantically. "Keep pushing, ma'am!" he shouted, sweat glistening on his brow.
With one final, desperate effort, the first child emerged—a healthy, crying boy. Tears of relief streamed down the mother's face as she reached for him, rocking him gently.
"We did it… we have our child," the father whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
But the second child… was a nightmare.
With one final push, the infant emerged dead. Its tiny arms were gone. Its stomach hollowed, as though something had devoured it from within. The nurses screamed. The mother's body went limp as she fainted, and the father's knees buckled beneath him, horror etched into his face.
The doctor's voice shook as he muttered, "…Its insides… devoured… before birth."
Outside, the wind howled through the marshes. The three moons gleamed unnaturally bright, as if witnessing the birth of a tragedy written in shadow.
The surviving child cried briefly, then paused. A cold, unnatural grin spread across his tiny face. His eyes fluttered closed as he fell asleep, peaceful yet impossibly still.
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Seven Years Later
The couple had moved on, pouring all their love into the surviving child. The boy grew strong and healthy, laughing as he chased the soft shadows of the three moons across the grassy yard.
He ate voraciously, devouring his meals with a focus that seemed almost unnatural. Occasionally, he would pause mid-bite, tilting his head and staring at his mother or his father, lingering on small movements, small expressions. It was nothing anyone could name, just… a little too intense, too deliberate.
He played with other children in the village, but sometimes he lingered at the edges, silent, his gaze sharp, watching more than playing, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Other children would giggle and shout, yet he seemed… detached, even when he joined them.
"Geye, let's go home now!" his mother called, her voice gentle, almost coaxing.
"Yes, Mother…" he replied, blinking as though only just noticing her words, his tone obedient, calm, yet slightly measured, like he had already considered every possible response.
She smiled and took his small hand, guiding him home. The air was still, only the distant cry of a night bird breaking the silence, and the shadows of the three moons stretched long across the path. Something about the way he walked—too precise, too careful—made the hair on the back of her neck prickle, though she could not explain why.
Once inside, Geye darted to his room, shutting the door quietly behind him. He changed his clothes silently, the fabric rustling softly in the quiet.
Then he stopped before the mirror. He pressed his forehead against the glass, tilting his head slightly, and a faint, unreadable smile touched his lips.
The room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that makes a mother check the locks twice, the kind of stillness that makes the air feel heavier.
No one in the house suspected a thing. To them, the boy was simply alive, happy, healthy.
But the air seemed subtly… different around him. Shadows clung a little longer to corners, objects shifted slightly when unobserved, and even the light of the three moons felt a fraction colder when it touched him.
And though no one could explain it, a feeling lingered in the air: something about the boy was… wrong... something no one can explain...
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