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Taking life had never seemed as difficult as giving birth.

Yet the men of her tribe always boasted of their hunting prowess, parading their scars as symbols of their strength. They claimed to endure the worst of pain, while calling women the weaker, sinful ones—dependent on their protection, their grace, just to survive. But how? How could someone who endures so much pain and still lives be considered weak? How could the power to create life be deemed sinful?

Samora had often watched the men return from their hunts, proudly displaying the cuts and bruises they earned. They made their wounds sound like badges of honor, testaments to their endurance. Their muscles would glisten with sweat and blood, moving with a purpose she and the other women admired in secret. To her, they had always seemed invincible, their strength unattainable. Like everyone else in Tuscanvalle, she had believed that if she were in their place, she would surely perish from the pain.

But today, everything was different.

When Turo plunged the dagger into her belly, the sensation barely registered. It wasn’t the blade that consumed her attention, but the crushing, unrelenting pressure deep inside her—like her hip bones were being forced apart, shattered from within. Compared to that, the sting of the dagger seemed almost trivial. Only when warm blood began to drip onto her feet, pooling around her toes, did she even notice the wound.

Even now, as she crouched in the shadow of a house, leaning against its wooden walls to ride out the contraction, the sting of the dagger barely registered. Instead, all she could think about was the baby. Had the blade hurt her child? The ache in her heart was far heavier than anything else she had ever felt. She needed to do something—anything—to ensure her baby was alive and healthy. But how? Until the baby was out of her broken, bleeding body, there was no way to know. For that to happen, she had to make it to the other bank of the Lavalthon.

As the contraction ebbed, another pain took its place. Slowly, yet persistently, the sting of the dagger began to gnaw at her awareness. It was an unwelcome, foreign thing—like a sharp stick embedded deep in her flesh, moving with every slight shift of her body. Or maybe it didn’t move at all; perhaps her mind conjured the sensation. The blood around the wound was drying in tacky streaks, but the gash was too deep to fully clot. Fresh blood seeped out in fits and starts, slicking her palms as she pressed them against the wound.

She closed her eyes, trying to will herself to forgive Turo. He was naive, a boy shaped by the evil of her husband. But the silence within her womb made forgiveness feel impossible.

Her lips trembled, caught between pain, fear, cold, and anger. Anger. At who? Her husband? Turo? The people who stood by? Herself? She couldn’t say. But one thing was clear: she was stronger. Stronger than they had ever made her believe. Stronger than she had thought herself to be. Stronger than she had ever been. She wasn’t dead yet, was she?

Despite everything—despite the blood, the blade, and the agony ripping through her—she tried to stand. Her legs wobbled, and her breath came out in a pained gasp. Still, she rose, tears spilling freely down her cheeks.

Screaming might give her a tiny relief. But it would also give her hiding place away. She could her Nox's voice calling for Turo, his footsteps slapping against the wet, muddy roads of Tuscanvalle.

The sound told her two important things. First, that Turo hadn’t given up. He was still out there, prowling through the night like a predator, searching for her with a determination that matched her desperation. He had every advantage she didn’t—unscathed, unhindered by pain or labor. And second, that Nox had sensed something was wrong. It wouldn’t be long before he abandoned his search for Turo and went to the elders for help. When that happened, the village would be alight with torches, its people combing every shadow, every corner. She wouldn’t stand a chance then. She had to make it to the Lavalthon first.

Gripping the wooden wall of the house behind her, she slowly dragged herself to her feet. A sharp jolt of pain radiated from the wound in her belly, nearly buckling her knees. She pressed a blood-slick hand against the gash, stifling a groan. Rain. She needed the rain to return—heavier this time, to drown her trail of blood and footprints in the mud.

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As if in answer, the sky flashed with lightning, illuminating the jagged outlines of the houses around her. The ominous crackle echoed in her chest like a cruel promise.

She staggered forward, every step an effort to stay upright, each movement a battle against exhaustion and agony. Her bare feet sank into the muck, cold and wet, but quieter than they might have been. She moved from shadow to shadow, clinging to the darkness beyond the lantern light, her breaths shallow and controlled.

Turo wasn’t far. She could hear the slap of his gaiters—a dull, wet sound as the animal hide flopped with each stride he took. His careless movements betrayed his position. Samora held onto that small mercy, using it to guide her through the night. Her body screamed in protest with every step, the wound pulsing like a cruel reminder of her frailty.

She clenched her teeth, swallowing her pain, forcing her legs to move. The Lavalthon wasn’t far now. It couldn’t be.

As she crossed the threshold where the last of the houses gave way to the wide expanse of Lavalthon’s coastal stretch, Samora froze. Her eyes darted in every direction, scanning for any sign of movement. The land before her was a stretch of sodden earth, soft and uneven underfoot, dotted with tufts of short, toe-high grass that clung stubbornly to the damp ground. Scattered palm trees swayed in the wind, their spindly trunks and fronds silhouetted against the storm-lit sky.

There was nowhere to hide. Not anymore. The empty expanse offered no shelter, only open vulnerability. Her pain had dulled slightly, but the contractions were coming closer together now, each one stealing her breath and warning her that time was slipping away. She had to move quickly—before the next wave of pain struck, before Turo or anyone else spotted her making her escape toward the shore.

Samora placed a trembling hand on her belly, stroking it with a mother’s desperate affection. “Just a few more steps to freedom, baby,” she whispered, her voice weak and quivering. “Mommy won’t let you die.”

With a deep, steadying breath, she stepped out of the shadows and into the open. The uneven terrain sucked at her feet, each step a struggle through mud. She stumbled forward, clutching her wound as she moved, her other hand instinctively cradling her belly. The sound of Turo’s gaiters slapping against the muddy ground had faded, distant enough to offer a glimmer of hope.

Maybe, just maybe, she had a chance.

But then the sky erupted with light. A searing bolt of lightning carved through the heavens, illuminating the clearing in a stark, blinding flash. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, the entire expanse was laid bare—her small, struggling figure caught in the merciless spotlight. Then, just as quickly, darkness reclaimed the world, plunging her into an even deeper abyss.

Samora squeezed her eyes shut, then blinked rapidly, trying to readjust to the oppressive blackness. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest. Lightning wasn’t just her enemy now—it was her betrayer, a traitorous burst of brilliance that could expose her to anyone watching. If someone had seen her in that flash, it wouldn’t take long for them to follow.

The thought sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She couldn’t afford to hesitate. Pain and exhaustion be damned—she had to keep moving, faster than ever before.

Samora shuffled through the endless stretch of sodden earth, her breaths ragged and labored. Each step sent a fresh wave of agony rippling through her body, the knife lodged in her side a cruel passenger, shifting with every movement. It felt as though the blade was alive, twisting deeper each time her foot touched the ground.

When another contraction gripped her, she staggered to the nearest palm tree, clutching its rough trunk for support, or dropped to the ground, crouching low like a wounded animal. Her trembling fingers tore at fistfuls of wet grass, as though holding onto them might anchor her to life itself. The pain was unbearable, but when it receded, she forced herself upright again. She shuffled forward, one agonizing step at a time, driven by a will that defied the limits of her shattered body. When she could no longer stand upright, she crawled on all fours— slowly with determination.

Every movement was torment, every step a small death. And yet, Samora kept moving, dying and rising again, clawing her way closer to the shoreline. By the time she was mere feet away, it felt as though she had lived through countless deaths, each one leaving her more hollow and broken than the last.

She pressed southward, away from the Great Banyan, away from her homeland, away from her tormenters towards the towering Maverielle Mountains and the still waters of the lake. A jagged streak of lightning tore through the sky, flooding the world with a harsh, white brilliance. Squinting against the glare, Samora turned slightly to her left. There, outlined against the storm-lit horizon, she spotted her salvation: the cluster of three palm trees marking the shoreline.

Her heart surged. That was her destination. If she could reach it, she would be safe.

But just as she prepared to take another step, a voice cut through the night like a blade.

“Samora!”

Turo’s voice.

It came from behind her, closer than she had feared.

Samora froze, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t dare turn around. Instead, she pivoted sharply, changing her course to head directly eastward toward the cluster of palms. Her feet stumbled over the uneven ground, but she forced herself forward, clutching her belly as if the act could shield her child from the chaos closing in around her.

Behind her, Turo’s footsteps splashed against the muddy earth, faster now, growing louder with each passing second.

He was closing in.