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Life has a peculiar way of throwing surprises when one least expects them.

For Turo, it came as resistance from the most unlikely source. He had braced himself for reluctance from his father, Marnoell, who might hesitate to name him the next chief. He had even braced himself for Nox’s fury—the outrage of being outmaneuvered in a way he could never have foreseen. But that was supposed to happen after Turo had slain Samora’s monster. By then, with the beast's bones as proof of his triumph, Turo would force his father and the village to see reason. They’d see the justice in his actions and the naivety of placing their faith in Nox.

What he hadn’t expected—what he could never have imagined—was that Samora would flee in the eleventh hour.

The women inside the house were huddled in shock when Turo burst through the doorway. His eyes darted around, catching sight of Daya slumped on the floor, her forehead drenched in blood. The sharp, metallic smell of it stung his nostrils. The stone bowl, smeared with crimson, rolled lazily on its side, spinning on the cold, hard floor. The cot where Samora should have been lay empty, the bedding crumpled and damp with sweat and blood.

Turo didn’t need more than a second to piece it together.

What else?

His one hope in life was slipping away, running out the back door, forever beyond his reach.

Turo's fist clenched at the sight of the two women still sitting on the floor, dazed, their heavy eyelids betraying the drowsiness that clung to them. His disgust flared. He wanted to spit on their faces. Useless. Helpless. These women.

He remembered the one time his father had spoken of women as sinful creatures, unlike men. Weak. Defenseless. Lacking the intellect that men possessed. They suffered physically, their pain a god-given punishment for their inherent sinfulness. In that moment, Turo had found himself agreeing. These women—sinful creatures—had failed at the one job they were assigned. And now, they were putting his bright future in jeopardy, ruining everything he had worked for. How much had they cost the tribe? Resources, time, energy—all squandered for what? This! Even the cattle they tended were more useful than these women.

"Foolish woman,” he spat.

His hand tightened around the hilt of the white dagger at his side. The firelight gleamed on its polished surface, casting thin streaks of light across the room. His eyes flicked to Daya, who groaned weakly, her body slumping further onto the floor. The other women huddled together, their faces pale and their eyes wide, too afraid to speak.

“Where did she go?” Turo demanded.

The women exchanged glances, but none dared to answer. Daya stirred slightly, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came out.

Turo’s patience was thin. He stepped closer, looming over her. “Where?” he barked.

Daya’s trembling hand rose feebly, gesturing toward the back door. Her eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, locking onto his. She whispered something inaudible, her voice too faint to carry.

Turo didn’t hesitate. He turned sharply on his heel, striding toward the door Daya had indicated. This was his house, after all. If Samora was familiar with it, then he knew it even better—like the back of his hand.

The night air slapped him as he stepped outside, cold and damp. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring at the pungent stench of cow dung from the manure pit in the backyard, clogged with rainwater. His eyes locked on a figure shuffling awkwardly past the cow shed—a woman, her stomach swollen with the load she carried.

A trail of bloody footprints mingled with the wet mud in her path.

“What the…” he muttered, momentarily stunned by the sight. Was she bleeding? How could she walk in that condition? Women weren’t supposed to be that strong.

The women inside had crumbled from exhaustion and a mere blow to the head. Yet here was Samora, striding through the rain as if pain and injury were trivial, everyday occurrences. It didn’t make sense. Could the monster inside her be giving her this unnatural strength?

These thoughts flashed through Turo’s mind in a split second, but they didn’t matter. Why would they? Why should they? Samora’s child was doomed to die anyway. This was simply an opportunity—his opportunity—to deliver justice. To prove himself.

As he watched, Samora turned slightly, just enough to glance over her shoulder and spot him. Her pace quickened.

But Turo was a teenager, his long, slender limbs built for speed. The wind seemed to carry him forward effortlessly. Samora, on the other hand, was a pregnant woman carrying the weight of two lives, teetering on the brink of labor.

It didn’t take much. Turo closed the gap in a few swift strides. His hand shot out, gripping her shoulder tightly. With a sharp tug, he spun her around to face him.

Samora spun around in surprise, her eyes wide with shock and fear. Her back collided with the fence of the neighboring house's cattle shed, and she flinched in pain. Instinctively, her hands moved to cradle her belly protectively.

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Turo’s gaze flicked between her trembling hands and her face, contorted with pain. Why? Why would she do this to herself? Why not simply hand over the child and rest safely in his house as planned? Why push herself like this, through such suffering, when it wasn’t in her nature—or her place—to endure? Persistence. Strength. Those were traits meant for men, not women.

For a fleeting moment, a pang of pity struck him. She was his cousin, after all. They had played together as children, back when life was simpler, their bonds untarnished by duty and ambition.

Her face, streaked with dirt and tears, was speckled with droplets of Daya's blood. How could a woman summon the courage to attack her captors? How could she be so brave, so cunning? Samora defied every belief he held about her kind. She was everything the women inside his house weren’t—strong, determined, and relentless.

If her defiance didn’t threaten his future, he might have admired her bravery. Perhaps even respected her. But admiration had no place here, not when her actions jeopardized everything he was meant to become. His grip tightened on the dagger, and he shifted into a defensive stance.

“Are you out of your mind?” he barked. “Where do you think you can go?”

Samora sniffled, tears streaking down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, her other hand gripping the fence behind her as though it were her last anchor.

“Anywhere but here,” she said feebly.

Turo sighed, shaking his head slowly as her words lingered in the air. “And where would that be? No matter where you go, we’ll find you.” His voice softened as he added, “Look, just come back inside.”

He slid the dagger back into its sheath, his gesture deliberate, meant to reassure. “Just get in and give me the baby. No one wants to hurt you. It’s only the child. You don’t have to be afraid.” He extended his hand toward her and took a cautious step forward.

But Samora tensed, her wide eyes flickering with panic. “Stay put!” she commanded, sharp and resolute, as though scolding a younger sibling. Turo froze, caught off guard by her authority.

“I thought you’d understand,” she said, her voice trembling. “But you too, Turo? He’s your nephew.” She stroked her belly tenderly, her hand moving with a protective instinct, her words laced with both love and anguish.

Turo hesitated. “I know, Samora,” he admitted quietly. “I would love nothing more than to hold him in my arms, to keep him on my lap and play with him all day.” His eyes glimmered momentarily with the warmth of that imagined reality. But then his expression darkened, and his voice hardened with desperation. “But I have to. I don’t have a choice.”

Samora’s gaze softened, a fleeting tenderness in her eyes. She could see the conflict tearing through him, and for a moment, she imagined the joy her child might have brought to her cousin. But that moment was one she could not let him have—not now, not like this.

“I know, Turo,” she murmured with resignation. “They wouldn’t forgive you if they thought you were on my side.” She wiped away a tear, mingled with the rain still trickling down her face.

The storm had faded to a light drizzle.

Turo mulled over her words for a moment. “That’s… the thing, you know. I’ve found a way to please them, to get what’s rightfully mine.” He placed a hand on his chest, his gaze lingering on Samora’s swollen belly. Samora, visibly shivering—whether from the cold or something else, Turo couldn’t be sure—watched him in silence.

“Nox has been deceiving them all,” Turo continued bitterly. “He’s been gathering their favor, setting himself up to take my place—my rightful place—as my father’s successor.”

Samora winced as she took a step forward, biting back the pain that flared up inside her. She reached out and gently cupped his cheek, her touch filled with concern. “Why are you talking like this?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Who put these thoughts in your head? Who told you that Nox has been using you, using everyone else?”

Turo leaned into her touch, feeling the warmth and affection radiating from her skin, his heart momentarily easing in her presence.

“Who?” Samora repeated, urgency creeping into her voice. She didn’t have much time. She had to get away—far away—from here.

Turo blinked, his mind briefly traveling back to a long-forgotten conversation. “Your husband did.”

Samora’s eyes widened in disbelief and horror. “And you believed him?”

Turo nodded innocently, his gaze unwavering. “He’s your husband. My cousin.”

“So is Nox,” Samora retorted, her voice rising with frustration. “Turo, everyone knows about my husband. How could you possibly trust him over Nox?” She grabbed him by the shoulders, her tone urgent. “Look, forget whatever he told you. He doesn’t have your best interests at heart. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

Turo’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “You shouldn’t be talking bad about your husband, right? Isn’t that a sin?”

Samora’s words became more frantic, her urgency escalating. “I don’t have much time. I need to leave. But don’t trust my husband. He’s not good for you.” She took a few steps back, her hand resting protectively on her belly. “Stick with Nox. Trust your father, and stick with Nox. Stay as far away from my husband.”

But Turo, still fixated on his own goal, focused on something else entirely. “Wait. You can’t leave. What about me?”

Samora’s brows furrowed in confusion, her features etched with worry. “What about you?” By now, the tightening sensation in her lower abdomen had grown stronger, and she wasn’t sure if she could even make it to Lavalthon before it was too late.

Turo’s voice grew desperate. “I need the baby. I need to hunt that monster to prove I’m worthy of the title.”

Samora staggered backward, the pain intensifying with every movement. “You’re here to kill my baby because you’re power-hungry,” she spat defiantly.

“Samora, listen. Your baby, my nephew, he’s doomed to die either way. Let him serve a greater purpose before he does.” Turo unsheathed the dagger, its cold gleam catching the dim light.

Samora staggered further back, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “No,” she mouthed, but no sound escaped her lips.

“I don’t want to hurt you. But that baby is my last hope,” Turo pleaded, his voice growing more desperate. “Don’t ruin my life, Samora. Get inside.” He gestured toward the house, his tone a warning.

Ignoring the tightening pain in her lower abdomen, which was growing more intense with every passing moment, Samora turned on her heel and began to walk away.

“Stop!” Turo shouted from behind. But Samora was already moving, faster than he expected.

With two long strides, Turo reached her again and spun her around to face him. Samora struggled in his grip, fear flashing in her eyes. Suddenly, something hot and wet dripped between them. Samora glanced down in horror to find the dagger buried deep in her belly, blood dripping from the gaping wound. Her eyes widened, panic and disbelief seizing her.

Turo’s face paled in shock. “I didn’t want to hurt you. It’s just the baby,” he stuttered, his voice trembling with regret.

Summoning every ounce of strength she had left, Samora shoved Turo with all her might. He flew backward, over the fence of the neighboring house, and landed with a wet splash into the manure pit.

Samora staggered away into the night, clutching her bleeding abdomen, the dagger still lodged deep inside her.