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—a 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—or 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—" 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?"

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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—including 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—selfish, 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.”

—–

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—not out of kindness, but necessity. Food, water, clean clothes, and a midwife—they 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?