0.12
The bonfire flickered ominously.
Its light barely pierced through the encroaching darkness. Each raindrop that hissed upon the flames sounded like the warning of an unseen predator. Phyto sat hunched near the fire, rubbing his calloused palms together for warmth. A yawn escaped his lips, though his body remained tense. He was a farmer—a hard-working man who had spent the morning toiling in the fields and would need to do the same at first light. Yet here he was, bracing against the cold night, awaiting the birth of a monster—or perhaps its death. He knew why he was there. If they faltered, even for a moment, there might not be a tomorrow to wake up to.
Phyto's mind drifted to his fields.
Would Lavalthon hold this year?
He shook his head grimly. The last two years had been disasters, with flooding that left the roots of his crops to rot. Severe famine swept through Tuscanvalle like never before. Some farmers had abandoned their ancestral lands for higher ground, but not Phyto. Those fields had been passed down from his father, and his father before him. They weren’t just land; they were legacy. And so he stayed, praying for the lake to hold, for the weather to return to its nurturing ways, for his crops to thrive.
He pulled his thick fur blanket tighter around his shoulders and scanned the gathering. Shadows cast by the dim fire danced across the Great Banyan, turning its sprawling roots into creepy, grotesque, writhing shapes. The men sat around the fire—hunched, silent, and waiting. Even the younger lads, who had started the night with snickers and jests, had lapsed into a bored silence. The air smelled of mud and vegetation.
Chief Marnoell paced at the centre of the grove, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His face, usually stoic and composed, struggled to barely conceal his anxiety. His eyes darted frequently toward the distant birthing chamber, hidden beyond the grove.
"Why aren’t the boys back yet?" the tribal medic, Kaius, muttered, his voice breaking the silence.
Marnoell halted mid-step, his brow furrowing as though he had been pondering the same question. He nodded to himself before turning toward the fire.
“Maybe one of us should go check on them… and the women,” Phyto offered hesitantly.
The chief's face darkened as he considered the suggestion. Risking his men in the birthing chamber was no small matter. With all that had been happening in Tuscanvalle, adding a potential curse to their burdens could tip the fragile balance. But he had no other option. Something must be done before it's too late. What if the boys were in trouble. His gaze swept across the men, finally landing on Malok and Hiyan. He raised his hand, motioning for them to stand.
The two men obeyed silently, stepping forward into the firelight.
“Malok, Hiyan,” Marnoell began, his voice low. “Go and see what’s keeping the boys. Take your weapons, but do not use them unless absolutely necessary. And under no circumstance are you to enter the birthing chamber.” He turned his attention fully to Malok, his expression hardening with concern. “I know your wife and child are inside. You might feel tempted to check on them, to reassure yourself that they are safe. We’ve all felt that temptation at some point in life, but you must resist. Do you understand? Never—and I mean never—look inside.”
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Malok nodded stiffly, his face unreadable. He avoided looking directly into his uncle's eyes, whether out of respect or something else, only he knew. Hiyan, however, allowed a smirk to curl his lips. He knew Malok wouldn’t yield to sentiment. Malok had already cast aside Samora and the child she carried. Only Hiyan knew the truth: Malok had a plan, one that would flip around everything the tribe believed in and reshape it to his liking. One that no one else had dreamed off. Malok had bigger plans, dangerous ones.
The two men turned and disappeared into the dark maze of prop roots and tangled vines, their figures swallowed by the night. They had barely gone a few paces when they stopped abruptly and stepped aside. A figure emerged from the shadows, drenched and shivering beneath a soaked cloak.
It was Nox.
A collective sigh of relief rippled through the gathered men. Kaius stood quickly, his skeletal frame trembling with exhaustion, age and a sudden burst of emotion. He stepped forward, reaching for Nox as if to embrace him.
“Thank the gods, you’re back!” the old medic exclaimed, his voice cracking. “We thought something had happened to you.”
The elder grasped Nox’s shoulders to steady himself, his bony fingers digging slightly into the younger man’s rain-soaked cloak as he scanned him from head to toe. The rest of the men murmured softly among themselves, their earlier tension momentarily eased. The boys perked upright at the sight of him. Nox was their beacon—of everything.
Chief Marnoell was though visibly relieved to see Nox. But his scrunched forehead betrayed his tension and anxiety. His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, scrutinizing the young man. Something was wrong. Something no one else had noticed.
“Where’s Turo?” Marnoell’s voice cut through the silence, jolting everyone's attention back to him.
Nox didn’t respond. His head hung low, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Rainwater dripped steadily from the edge of his hood.
Marnoell crossed the fire, his gaiters crunching on the damp ground. Kaius stepped aside, allowing the chief to approach. The men around the bonfire fell silent, their unease returning tenfold. Their eyes darted from Marnoell to Nox and then back to Marnoell, anticipating Nox's response.
The chief placed a demanding hand on Nox’s shoulder, giving it a slight shake. “Nox,” he said, his voice softer but more urgent. “Where is he? What happened?”
Nox’s lips trembled and his nose flared in frustration and regret. His shoulders rose and fell with each labored breath, but still, he said nothing.
Frustration flared in Marnoell’s eyes. He shook Nox harder, his voice rising. “Tell me! Why isn’t Turo with you? Did you check on the women? Was there trouble?” Each question wrapped in it a kind of urgency that only a father would understand.
Nox nodded hesitantly, his movement barely perceptible.
He looked so weak, so vulnerable. So unlike himself. No one in Tuscanvalle has ever seen Nox in such a broken state.
Marnoell’s heart sank. “Is the baby born?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly.
Nox shook his head. “No,” he whispered.
The chief’s frustration turned to fear. His grip tightened on Nox’s shoulder. “Then what happened? Where is my son?”
All eyes were on Nox. The silence was suffocating. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible over the crackle of the fire.
“He’s sailing beyond Lavalthon.”
A chill swept through the gathering. It took a moment more for the men to grasp weight of his words, the meaning, the consequences of it.
Marnoell’s hand fell from Nox’s shoulder as he stumbled back onto a root the protruded from the ground, his butt heavily landing onto its hard structure. The wood creaked slightly. He looked up at Nox with a blend of confusion and dread. The bonfire hissed louder as the rain began to fall harder, as if nature itself was mourning the fate that was about to befall on them.
Turo was sailing across Lavalthon.
His son was sailing across Lavalthon.
Over the cursed waters. Into the forbidden territory.
Why?