The storm raged like a living beast outside the wooden walls, its claws of wind tearing at the thatched roof. Rain hammered the earth with relentless fury, and thunder rolled across the sky like the drums of an approaching war. Inside the dimly lit room, the air was thick with sweat, candle smoke, and the metallic tang of blood.
Agatha, the village matron, knelt beside the bed, her hands trembling as she wiped the newborn's limp body with a damp cloth. Her breath caught in her throat. The child was cold—too cold. No cry, no movement. She pressed her ear to the tiny chest, praying for a heartbeat. Nothing.
"No… it can't be!" Agatha's voice cracked, barely louder than the storm's whisper. Her mind reeled, a torrent of questions crashing against the walls of her faith. What happened? Why is he lifeless? Did the Goddess abandon us?
Michelle Sensuum lay exhausted, her face pale, her hair plastered to her forehead. Her lips moved, forming a prayer so faint it was almost lost to the storm. "Yourina… please… mercy…"
And then, it happened.
A flicker of light—white and black intertwined—slipped through the shutter cracks like a phantom. It danced across the room, a silent serpent of radiance and shadow, before plunging into the child's chest. The candle flames bent toward it as if bowing to a sovereign presence. The air grew heavy, charged with something ancient and terrible.
The baby gasped.
Agatha jerked back, her heart slamming against her ribs. The child's chest rose and fell, slow at first, then steady. A cry pierced the silence—a raw, defiant sound that cut through the storm like a blade.
Agatha's knees buckled. "By the heavens… how is he alive?!"
Michelle's cracked lips curved into a trembling smile. "Her Goddess… Yourina… has saved him." Her voice was hoarse yet filled with fragile hope.
Agatha stared at her sister, torn between awe and dread. "Saved him? Michelle… this-s-this is no ordinary blessing." Her whisper was sharp, urgent. "I saw that light. It wasn't just holy! it was… wrong. Twisted."
Michelle clutched the child to her chest, shielding him from Agatha's gaze. "I don't care what you saw. He's alive. That's all that matters."
The matron's eyes narrowed. For a long moment, the storm outside seemed to echo the tension between them. Finally, Agatha exhaled, her voice low and grim. "I'll keep this secret. But hear me, sister, if that child shows signs of danger, if he brings ruin upon this house, I will report you to the head of the clan."
Michelle nodded weakly. "I understand… thank you."
Agatha rose, her shadow stretching long across the flickering floorboards. She opened the door and called softly, "You may come in, Joseph."
The doorway framed a towering figure—Joseph Sensuum. His broad shoulders nearly filled the entrance, his black hair damp from the storm. He carried the weight of years in his stance, the quiet strength of a man who had once walked the Path of the Warrior. His eyes, however, softened as they fell upon the tiny bundle in Michelle's arms.
Behind him, two smaller figures peeked in, Mark, nine years old, his blond hair tousled, eyes bright with curiosity; and Alice, six, clutching a worn doll, her gaze wide and wondering.
Joseph stepped forward, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. "Michelle… are you all, right? I heard murmurs."
Michelle forced a smile. "It's nothing. Just… excitement."
Mark edged closer, his voice eager. "What's his name?"
Michelle looked down at the child, at the fragile life that had clawed its way back from death. She met Joseph's gaze, and for a moment, the storm outside seemed to hush. "Paul," she whispered. "His name will be Paul."
A thunderclap shattered the silence, rattling the shutters. Alice grinned faintly. "What a lovely name."
Michelle held the child tighter, feeling the strange warmth radiating from his tiny body, a warmth that was not entirely human. Outside, the storm roared on, as if heralding the birth of something that would one day shake the foundations of the continent.
Paul Sensuum had entered the world, a name destined to carve itself into the bones of history.