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Finally, freedom.

Samora thought she had finally attained it as the coracle drifted away from the shore, the gap between her and Tuscanvalle widening with each push on the lakebed with the palm stem. Turo stood rooted in disbelief like a vengeful ghost on the water’s edge.

She reached for her side, her trembling fingers brushing against the stab wound. They came away wet and slick with blood. The bleeding hadn’t stopped; if anything, it seemed worse. The narrow gap between the dagger’s handle and her body was gone—during their struggle at the lakeshore, the blade must have been driven deeper into her flesh.

Her hand hovered near the hilt, caressing the cold, unyielding bone the dagger was made of. For a fleeting moment, she considered pulling it out, freeing herself from its cruel presence.

But no.

She remembered an incident years ago, when her husband, Malok, had been in a drunken scuffle with his mates. In the heat of the fight, he had stabbed one of them in the thigh. The injured man had been carried to the tribal medic, his face pale, his leg drenched in blood.

Tuscanvalle was a small village, and news of the injury spread quickly. Concerned neighbors gathered at the medic’s doorstep, murmuring among themselves as they waited for help. The medic was away, tending to another villager, and Nox had been sent to fetch him. In the meantime, someone in the crowd suggested removing the dagger to relieve the man’s pain.

They had acted on impulse, yanking the blade from the wound. The man’s scream had cut through the village, blood pouring from the gash like water from a broken dam. The flow wouldn’t stop. By the time the medic arrived, the poor man was barely conscious.

Samora could still hear the medic’s frustration as he tended to the wound. He scolded the onlookers for their recklessness, explaining that removing the blade without proper care had worsened the injury. The dagger, he said, had acted like a plug, sealing the wound and slowing the bleeding. Its removal had unleashed the full extent of the damage, nearly costing the man his life.

That memory lingered in her mind. The medic had warned: Do not pull the blade out unless you are prepared to treat the wound immediately.

Samora tightened her grip on the coracle’s edge, her breathing labored. She could feel the dagger in her side. For now, it would stay where it was.

Samora’s fingers trembled as they stroked the flesh surrounding the wound. She thought: If I pull this out, I might bleed to death. No. Not yet. Not until my baby is safely out of this dying body.

She glanced back toward the shore one last time. Turo’s figure was shrinking, the more the coracle swayed away. The pain in her side flared with every movement.

The coracle swayed in chaotic circles, the storm’s fury dictating its course. The wind howled, pushing the tiny vessel wherever it pleased. It took Samora a moment to realize that she needed to row, to fight the storm's whims, or she might drift endlessly across the lake, directionless and doomed.

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She chided herself. She knew nothing about rowing or oars—yet here she was, gambling everything on this makeshift escape. Then she noticed the object clutched in her hand and remembered: the palm stem. She was still gripping it, the same jagged branch she’d used to shove Turo into the water.

She dipped the palm stem into the lake and began to paddle. She aimed for the faint silhouette of the Maverielle mountains under the stormy horizon.

At first, her efforts were clumsy, the coracle spinning wildly in the water. She lacked the technique, her motions too erratic. But necessity was a harsh teacher, and soon she began to understand. With each stroke, she learned how to maneuver, how to steer the vessel toward her goal. It was exhausting. But it was progress nonetheless.

The palm stem bit into her hands, its jagged edges scratching her palms and piercing her flesh. Blood mingled with rainwater, staining her grip. The stinging pain burned with every stroke, but Samora did not care.

The contractions were far worse. Each one surged through her body, the pain radiating from her lower back and wrapping around her hips. It was nothing like the dull, familiar ache of her monthly pains—this was sharper, relentless, as if her very bones were being wrenched apart.

She clenched her jaw, her breath hitching with each jolt of agony. She had never imagined childbirth could be this excruciating.

Still, she was prepared for her escapade.

For months, she had quietly built the coracle alone. She could still see Turo’s face in her mind when he first saw it—a satisfying blend of disbelief and fury.

The men of Tuscanvalle would never, in a million years, imagine a woman crafting such a vessel. A coracle, sturdy enough to cross Lavalthon, built by her own two hands. They wouldn’t believe it, even if they saw it with their own eyes.

Samora had learned basket weaving from her mother, as had all the women in her family. It was a skill passed down through generations, and she had mastered it. She had also noticed how baskets floated on water as long as the load inside wasn’t too heavy. This idea stayed with her, and when the time came to plan her escape, it became the foundation of her plan. To reach the other side of the lake and the forbidden land beyond, she needed a vessel.

Her first thought was simple: build a basket large and strong enough to carry her. But her initial attempts fell apart. The structures collapsed under their own weight or couldn’t hold their shape. Each failure forced her to rethink her approach, but she refused to give up. She worked tirelessly, weaving and reweaving until she found a solution. The answer was in the frame—it needed more strength than palm leaves and reeds alone could provide. She used hollow bamboo trunks, bending and securing them into a stable frame, and then wove the body of the coracle with palm fronds and reeds.

When people saw her weaving the oversized basket, they dismissed it as just an eccentric hobby of a crazy hag. No one in Tuscanvalle could imagine what she was building. The village ponds were shallow enough to cross on foot, and even the river flowing from Lavalthon to the coconut pond near the cremation grounds was easily navigable. The villagers had only ever built simple rafts for transporting coconuts. Rafts were practical for their needs, but no one ever used them for sailing.

What Samora was building was nothing like the rafts her people knew.

They might have figured out her intentions if they had cared enough to pay attention. But they didn’t. They underestimated her, thinking, What could a pregnant woman, abandoned by her husband and family, and already living on the streets, possibly do?

Samora had turned their indifference into her strength. Right under their noses, she prepared the vessel that would carry her to freedom. She kept it hidden beneath the water’s surface, waiting for the day she could use it to escape to the other side—after her baby was born, after the ordeal of childbirth was behind her.

But things hadn’t gone as planned. She had been forced to elope before the childbirth, during labor itself.

She had prepared for so much. She had thought of every possibility, every risk.

She had been ready. Almost.

But nothing had prepared her for the wicked stab wound.

Nothing had prepared her for Turo’s betrayal.