That night carried the weight of an old mourning, as if the sky itself had decided to collapse onto the roof. The air inside the house was too warm, too thick, almost alive. Every breath scraped her throat, as though her own body were trying to stop her from staying.
The first contraction tore through her like a rip.
She arched, fingers searching for support where there was none.
The second came as a warning.
She heard the sound escape her throat—short, restrained, far too contained.
The third… a verdict.
The room spun for a moment.
The metallic scent of blood overtook everything. Too much blood. Her blood. The sheets were soaked, and no one spoke. The healers burned herbs that stung the throat; their hands trembled even as they tried to appear steady. The prayers were whispered, ancient enough to offer no real comfort.
She knew.
Before them.
Before any words murmured between fear and desperation.
Something was wrong.
Not just with the birth.
The night felt too present, pressed inside the house, breathing along with them, waiting.
She groped across the bed until she found his hand and squeezed hard, as if it were the only solid thing left in the room. He felt it and answered without thinking, gripping back.
He was there. Whole. Present.
As long as she felt the warmth of his skin, she was still alive.
"Don't… don't leave me alone…" she begged. Her voice sounded weak, far too small for someone fighting not to die.
He leaned closer, as if his body alone could shield her.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said, more to himself than to her.
She hated herself for needing to hear it.
The world dimmed for a moment—a brief, treacherous blackout. When she came back, the looks had changed. He noticed before she did—the healers avoided her eyes.
"The child isn't responding…" one of them murmured, as if speaking might make it worse.
Her chest tightened.
He felt it in the way her fingers clenched harder around his.
Their daughter.
The pain returned, sharper. More blood. Her body seemed to open itself to something she didn't understand. Still, she wanted to stay. If only to see the child's face.
If only to call her by the name she'd kept in silence.
He sensed the tremor before the sound outside.
At first it wasn't a clear noise, but a feeling—something heavy shifting beyond the walls. A wet, uneven drag, like flesh pulled across wood.
The healers froze.
One of them covered her mouth.
The sound came again, closer now, scraping along the wall. Rough. Wet. Wrong.
The smell arrived before the impact: blood, damp wood, something too rotten to be natural.
The door shuddered. The wood cracked under the pressure.
She felt the air change before she understood why. It grew too dense for her lungs. The window slammed violently. The candles flickered, throwing unstable shadows. A damp cold spread through the room.
"Don't… let it… in…" she tried to say. The words barely surfaced.
Even her blood felt wrong—too hot, too present. Every drop seemed to summon something.
"Feral…" someone whispered.
He released her hand for just an instant—long enough to reach the blade hanging on the wall. Old. Worn. More memory than weapon. The silver caught his reflection: tense, pale.
"Don't look at the door," he said, unable to look away himself. "I'm still here."
The first blow struck like thunder. The entire house shook. She screamed. The healers recoiled like leaves driven by wind.
At the second hit, the wood groaned, cracks splitting wide.
At the third, the air shifted.
She instinctively brought her hands to her belly. Fear left no room for strength.
He saw the eye appear in the fissure—black, alert.
"Get her back!" he shouted.
There was hesitation. One second too long.
The door exploded.
The creature fell in with the splintered wood. Exposed muscle. Open ribs. Something dark moving between the bones. Too many teeth. A shape too wrong.
The impact hurled him backward. He rolled across the floor before he could react. The creature crashed onto him, heavy, suffocating.
Claws tore into his abdomen.
His body opened. The heat of his own blood choked him. Pain flared beneath the skin, spreading fast.
Even so, he moved.
He grabbed a shard of the broken door and drove it into the creature. The feral roared—deep, ancient—and recoiled.
He shoved the wood deeper, felt resistance give way.
The creature's breathing faltered. Its body wavered.
Then stopped.
Silence fell, crushing.
He tried to rise. There was no triumph in him.
He lifted his face—and saw she was fading far too quickly.
The silence was worse than the roar.
Her pain changed. It was no longer a cut—it was rupture.
"Now!" one of the healers ordered.
She tried to obey. She truly did.
"I can't…" she whispered.
Hands pressed into her belly. There was no gentleness. Only urgency.
The room dissolved into stains—light, shadow, blood.
And then the child was born.
She felt it before she understood.
Her daughter.
He heard no cry.
What reached him was silence. Sudden. Heavy.
She was small. Warm. Slick with blood. Silent.
"She isn't crying…" someone murmured.
The candles wavered. The air thickened.
The child's eyes opened.
Too deep. Too aware.
She wanted to touch her. Needed to.
The healer brought the baby close to her chest. The child stared without blinking.
She smiled with what little she had left.
"My… little one… I'm sorry… I won't stay…"
Weariness came like rest.
She died looking at her daughter.
He felt the moment she stopped.
He tried to rise. Blood poured too fast.
Even so, he dragged himself to the bed.
She lay still.
And beside her—the child.
Breathing.
He reached out. Fell short.
Collapsed beside the bed.
The last thing he saw was the faint rise and fall of the child's chest.
That was enough.
The room did not react to their deaths.
The silence remained open, too heavy to close on its own.
The child did not cry.
Did not move.
For a few moments, she seemed only too small for the space—too fragile for the weight left behind.
Then the glow appeared.
It did not light the room.
It cast no shadows.
It was an uneven thread, brief, sliding through the still-warm blood on the child's skin, like a reflection that came from neither candle nor fire. It did not grow. Did not spread. It was simply there.
Too brief to deny.
Too long to forget.
The room stayed still.
The glow remained as the healers exchanged glances. No one spoke. Every breath was held, as though any sound might tear something unseen.
One of them stepped forward, but her voice failed before it formed.
"Did you… see that?"
No one answered.
The makeshift cradle creaked softly—damp wood against wood—and the sound felt too loud in the suspended quiet.
The footsteps came after.
Heavy. Uneven. Carrying through the debris of the shattered door, mixing with the smell of blood and burned herbs.
The Order crossed the threshold without rigid formation. They entered like those who arrive too late to something already finished.
They stopped when they saw the child.
The glow still lingered—faint, irregular, like something unsure whether it should continue existing.
No immediate gestures. No words.
One of the men removed his helmet slowly, as if he needed his own eyes to confirm what the others already felt.
"Why were we called?" he asked, without harshness.
A healer pointed toward the makeshift cradle. Her hand shook.
"Because… this happened."
She said nothing more. She didn't need to.
The man stepped closer. Then another step. He stopped before touching the child.
"Have you ever seen anything like this before?"
Silence.
"Anything similar?"
Nothing.
He drew a breath.
"Then we don't know what this is."
It didn't sound like a conclusion. It sounded like a weight accepted.
"She didn't cry," someone said behind him, almost as if thinking aloud.
The oldest healer stepped forward instinctively, as if to shield something she no longer understood.
"She's just been born," she said. "She can't—"
The man raised a hand. Not in authority. In need of thought.
His eyes never left the child.
"If this is an anomaly…" he began.
He stopped.
The silence finished the sentence.
"If it is," he continued, lower, "we cannot decide now."
He looked at the other members of the Order. None seemed at ease. None looked away.
"She will grow under observation—by the church and the Order," he said at last. "There will be constant vigilance."
The dark cloth was spread.
While the child remained uncovered, the glow persisted—weak, uneven, sliding over the dried blood on her skin, as if unsure how to vanish.
No one touched her for several seconds.
When they finally wrapped her completely, covering the small, warm body, the glow ceased.
At once.
Without reaction.
Without resistance.
Without reply.
It brought no relief.
The child remained quiet.
When she was lifted into the arms of one of the men, she opened her eyes—far too aware—and turned toward the night beyond the broken door, as if that darkness were already familiar.
The healer dropped to her knees.
No one helped her rise.
The Order left without haste.
The house was left behind.
The blood still warm in the sheets.
The motionless bodies.
The candles dying one by one.
Outside, the night resumed its own rhythm.
Valmora moved on.