CHAPTER 3: THE OMEN

A flash of light tore across the midnight sky, forming a massive column of radiance that connected the heavens and the earth. The beam shimmered with swirling hues of gold and silver, pulsating as though alive. Its brilliance was so intense that the villagers instinctively shielded their eyes. Beneath their feet, the ground trembled violently, and a deafening hum filled the air, as though the world itself were straining under an immense weight. Dust erupted into the atmosphere, cloaking the small village of Cheldea in a thick, choking veil. When the energy subsided, a massive explosion followed, leaving behind a charred, smoking crater that radiated heat and raw power.

"A teleportation? Here?" Old man Grewe muttered, his voice barely audible over the crackling remnants of energy. "What would come to such a place?"

The villagers froze in shock, their hearts pounding. The oppressive quiet that followed the blast was even more unnerving than the explosion itself. Whispers rippled through the crowd, hushed and fearful:

“Did you see that light? What could it mean?”

“No one human could survive that blast… could they?”

“Is this a warning from the gods?”

“Or something far worse?”

As the dust began to settle, a faint silhouette emerged from the glow. The figure stumbled forward, unsteady, cloaked in tattered, blood-stained fabric. It wasn’t something—it was someone. A man, weary and broken, cradled a child in his arms.

The child clutched a small cradle, its frail arms trembling as it held on tightly. The cradle, though simple and delicate, seemed imbued with an inexplicable importance. The man, though covered in wounds and barely standing, moved with a fierce determination, his eyes glinting with a defiance that refused to yield to his battered state.

The villagers edged closer, keeping a wary distance. No one dared to speak. The man’s legs finally gave way, and he collapsed to his knees. His body trembled as he shielded the child with his arms, as though protecting it from unseen dangers. Blood seeped from the edges of his torn cloak, pooling beneath him. He raised his head weakly, lips cracked and dry, and whispered hoarsely:

"He's back..."

Before anyone could react, the man collapsed fully to the ground, still clutching the child. His words lingered in the air, sending chills down the spines of everyone who heard them. For a moment, no one moved, fear rooting them in place. The child, no older than five, knelt beside the fallen man, their wide, vacant eyes staring at the cradle in their trembling hands. A faint, ethereal glow emanated from it, casting eerie shadows on the faces of the gathered villagers.

Grewe, the village elder, was the first to step forward. His lined face betrayed both caution and concern. “Stay back,” he ordered softly, though his own hands trembled. He crouched beside the man, pressing two fingers to his neck.

“He’s alive,” Grewe announced, though his tone carried little reassurance. He turned to his wife, a skilled healer who had already begun preparing a salve. “We’ll need every bit of your skill. Quickly.”

The villagers remained silent, their unease palpable. Some whispered among themselves:

“Who is he?”

“What did he mean by ‘he’s back’?”

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“Is this an omen?”

The child didn’t react to the voices around them, sat motionless, cradling the newborn wrapped in the tattered cloak, its pale face emotionless. Grewe’s wife approached cautiously, her healer’s instincts taking over. She knelt beside the child, reaching out to touch the newborn within the cradle. Her fingers brushed against its cold skin, and she gasped.

“Grewe,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “This baby… it’s alive, but barely. Its skin is ice cold.”

Grewe’s brow furrowed. He reached for the cradle, his hands steady despite the unease gripping him. When he peered inside, he froze. The newborn lay completely still, its tiny body pale and fragile. Its skin had an almost translucent quality, as if it were carved from fragile glass. A faint glow radiated from its chest, like the flicker of a dying ember.

“What kind of child is this?” Grewe muttered to himself. He glanced at the older child, whose wide, unblinking eyes stared at him. “And why bring it here, to our village?”

The stranger stirred faintly, drawing Grewe’s attention. His breaths were shallow and labored, each one a struggle. Summoning the last of his strength, the man grasped Grewe’s arm. His grip was weak but insistent. With ragged breaths, he rasped:

“Protect… the child. The seal… is weakening. They… are coming…”

His hand fell limp, and his eyes closed for the last time. Grewe sat back, his mind racing with questions he couldn’t voice. The gathered villagers exchanged uneasy glances, the tension in the air growing thicker.

Grewe’s wife broke the silence. “We must take the children inside. They won’t survive the night in this cold.”

Grewe hesitated. He looked at the lifeless stranger, then at the trembling older child. Something in their hollow gaze struck him deeply. Finally, he nodded.

“We can’t leave them out here,” he said firmly.

“Whatever burden they carry, they’re here now. We must care for them.”

The villagers murmured in agreement, their fear tempered by compassion. The child lay silently, unable to express any feeling, yet there was a strange sense of safety emanating from the room. These people—strangers who didn’t know who or what the child was or where it had come from—had still opened their arms to protect it during this most vulnerable moment. The flickering light of the hearth cast shadows across their faces, shadows that seemed to carry the weight of unspoken questions and fears. Even in their uncertainty, they chose kindness over fear, their actions driven by an instinct to preserve life, no matter how strange or mysterious. In that small room, amidst the storm of doubt, a fragile yet powerful bond began to form—a promise of guardianship that none dared to voice aloud but all silently understood.

Grewe’s wife gently lifted the newborn from the cradle, cradling it against her chest.

“It’s alive,” she said softly, as though convincing herself. “As long as it breathes, we have a chance to help it.”

Grewe approached the older child, kneeling to meet their gaze. His voice was gentle but steady.

“Come with us,” he said. “We’ll take care for both of you.”

The child hesitated, clutching the empty cradle tightly. Its small hands trembled, but after a moment, it nodded faintly. Grewe reached out his hand, rough from years of work but steady. The child’s small hand shook as it hovered uncertainly before finally taking his. Their grip was weak and unsure, barely holding onto his fingers. Grewe held on gently but firmly, offering silent reassurance that they were safe and would not be left alone.

The three of them made their way to Grewe’s small cottage. The villagers watched in silence, their whispers fading as the group disappeared into the warm glow of the hearth light. Inside, Grewe’s wife busied herself tending to the children.

The older child sat quietly by the fire, its thin frame hunched forward as though the weight of the world rested on its small shoulders. The eyes, shadowed with exhaustion, were fixed on the newborn, unblinking and intense, as though nothing else in the world mattered. Every so often, its hands would twitch, clutching their knees, a subtle sign of nerves or fear that it could not put into words. Its breathing was shallow, uneven, as if they were holding in some invisible storm threatening to break free. Yet, in that moment, it remained still, bound by an unspoken responsibility that seemed far too heavy for someone so young.

Grewe and his wife exchanged a glance. Unspoken understanding passed between them—an acknowledgment that their lives had just changed irrevocably.

“We will protect them,” Grewe said quietly. “Whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”

Outside, the wind howled through the night, carrying with it the faint cry of a distant animal. The moon hung low in the sky, its pale light casting long shadows over the village. Though the warmth of the hearth filled the cottage, an unshakable sense of foreboding lingered in the air—a silent promise of the trials to come.