0.07

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—the one thing anchoring her sanity—was 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—a 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—of bearing more children for him—filled 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—his voice, his face, the false promises he’d made before everything chaged for the worst—the 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—only 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—this was her first time—but 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.

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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—or 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—any place—to 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—a ball of something, likely the baby’s head—bearing 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—agreeing to give up her child—worked 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—freedom.

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—sharp, 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.