Hearken Kalok’s warning, woman by the turbulent tide, for the entity gestating within thine womb is a monster marked by the Blazing Abyss! Beware, but wail not. End births beginnings, and darkness lives not without radiance, akin to the eternal entwining of Whesi and Whekatsi. So shall slayer sprout saviour within soil suitably sown! So heed the word, woman! Sow the seed! Heed the seed! The Seed!! Hahahahaha! The Seeeed! YES!! THE SEE– Eh? Who are you?! What do you wan–ow! Ah! No! Stop hitting me! Stop! Ouch! I have rights! Sto– OW!! YOU [redacted]!!

—transcript from the arrest of Ditso the Mad Prophet, city of Greyport, 2482 AK, under charges of blasphemy, swindling, and indecent exposure.

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Shadows 21, 2488 AK, Radiant Empire, Cleft Isles, Greyport.

Dusk had just fallen over ancient, windswept Greyport and the sheer cliffs it clung onto. The horizon bled red into an agitated ocean. Foaming waves threw themselves at the shore and storm clouds loomed low. The heavy weather carried gloom over the decrepit coastal city.

Suddenly, the sky splintered. Lightning struck the rolling waters; a bleak flash blanched the landscape; thunder roared, and the heavens tore open to weep upon the world.

Rain drummed its wet fingers on shingled roofs and flooded the paved streets. The wind howled through tortuous alleys like an angry wraith. Its icy breath rattled shutters, swept off chimney pots, and spun creaky old vanes. Cold, damp air snuck into dark homes—malicious wisps of winter chill that crawled around ill-fitted doors, cracked walls, and poorly sealed windows. Lightning cracked the weeping sky, and thunder rumbled like a divine chariot, scaring adults and children alike. Huddled by their home shrines, the frightened faithful prayed to the gods for mercy from the Elements’ fury.

In the deserted streets, one gangly youth braved the wrathful downpour. His hurried steps ascended the soaking, grass-grown cobblestones of Crescent Street. His clothes were drenched, and his battered oil lantern had died the moment he stepped outside, leaving only antiquated magic lampposts and sporadic lightning flashes to guide his path. Shivering and cursing the Void, the young man hugged the worn wooden façades, seeking shelter under their overhangs. Yet the gale laughed at his efforts, throwing water in his face and yanking at his coat.

Flynt was starting to fear for his health when his goal finally came into view. Beside a flickering street light, old Neela’s house stood out from its neighbours by the many crooked ornaments nailed to its door and window frames—small offerings from grateful townsfolk, all rattling eerily in the wind.

Lightning flared, and the youth flinched. As thunder roared overhead, he drummed his fist into the door, keeping an uneasy eye on the clattering decorations. “Nee– Neela!” he clamoured over the storm, out of breath from running all the way here. “Neela, wa–! Wake up! Annet–! Annet is going to–!”

“I’m awake!” croaked an old voice from inside. It was female, rough and creaking like ancient bark. “I’m already awake, you git! Forces and Elements! No need to knock the bloody house down!”

Chains, locks, and bolts clinked and clanked open, and the door swung inwards. A bleak flash exposed a bony hand reaching out—gnarly fingers curled around an even gnarlier staff—followed moments later by deafening thunder and an old woman stepping through. A thick, oiled raincoat wrapped her willowy figure bowed with age. Another lightning glare revealed under her hood a crooked nose, sunken eyes, and more wrinkles than a dried old prune.

The crone shoved a heavy bundle in Flynt’s arms. “Don’t drop that!” she warned. “Ah! What a time to pick! This one will be a wee pain in the arse, I tell you!” Neela glared at the storm as if it had personally offended her. She carefully locked her door and then, without warning, took off into the rain. “Come on, boy! Don’t just stand there like a brain-farted fencepost. You’ll take root! And don’t you dare let my bag get wet! Blasted, cursed weather! My old knees can’t stand this horseshit no more. A troublemaker! Mark my words! This one will be for sure. —Well? Come on! Hurry up!”

And hurry, they did. Though the crone hobbled and grumbled, she set a punishing pace, nearly leaving behind the side-stitched youth as they retraced his steps back to Cliffside, the poorest quarter of Greyport. They zigzagged through winding streets until, abruptly, the cobblestone ended. Before them, the city ceased to exist, and a deep, steep chasm opened in its stead. The canyon tore through Greyport in an unnaturally straight line, letting the ocean invade inland.

Legends claimed it was Dragon Demon King Zeipheron who split the world, in a last-ditch effort to defeat Kayden, the Gods’ Righteous Hero. Neela did not know whether to believe that old tale, but she knew this geographical aberration had earned the Cleft Isles their name.

A narrow path snaked down along the rock face, no more than a three-pace-wide, all the way to the docks far below. Barely visible in the downpour, the sails of dozens of moored ships pitched left and right atop turbulent waters. Over two millennia ago, these cliffs served as a quarry for rebuilding the city wall. Now, the pockmarks in the stone housed the most destitute in Greyport.

Across the chasm, in Greyport’s southern half, the city’s gentry and nobility clustered in opulence around the governor’s castle. The dukes of the Cleft Isles had spent lavishly importing white sunstone from the mainland to build their fortress. Through the opaque rain, the edifice appeared like an immense pale ghost looming over the city, poised to devour it. Two giant statues of the first duke and duchess flanked the gates, seated on stone thrones, their white eyes glaring blindly into the storm.

The storm had turned the Cliffside walkway into a slippery torrent, forcing Neela and Flynt to watch their step. Along the meandering path, they passed by many shoddy doors embedded into the cliff. Some dwellings only had a sorry piece of canvas blocking off the entrance. Halfway down, they spotted their destination. It was hard to miss.

A sprawling abstract fresco had overtaken the dull grey stone around the doorway, its joyful colours striking even through the dark and gloom. A kaleidoscope of rainbows bounced across what seemed like a fractal meadow full of dancing lights. Those could have been fairies, but everyone knew nothing good came from associating with the Fae. Bold brush strokes evoked strange trees bowing to the ground, heavy with unrecognisable fruits that nevertheless felt as if you could taste them. Unnamable animals frolicked in floating ponds and glittering waterfalls. What might have been a palace hung in the background, overlooked by three moons and two suns. Besides the painting, wildflower arrangements also lined the foot of the wall and clutched valiantly to a tiny windowsill against the storm’s onslaught.

Amidst the thunder and hammering rain, muffled screams could be heard coming from inside.

Neela barged in, slamming the door and pausing only to wipe her boots on an already-soaked straw mat. The cave-like interior comprised a single dark room with a bare stone floor and humble, worn furniture, lit by a lonely candle and embers from the cooking pit. Bright-patterned cloths hung from the walls, and overhead, a vertigo-inducing vortex of rainbow paint sprawled the curved ceiling.

The old crone zeroed in on the bed occupied by a heavily pregnant girl. The expectant mother was petite and emaciated, with pasty white skin and sunken features. Her sickly pallor highlighted her freckles, and her impressive mane of hazelnut curls made a bird’s nest for her head. In the grip of painful contractions, she bellowed like a goat to the slaughter while crushing the hand of the fair-skinned elf man kneeling by her bedside.

“There, there, Annet, sweetie. Settle down. I’m here now.” When Annet did not stop screaming, Neela slapped the girl. “Hey! None of that! Take deep breaths and get a grip, lassie! Mothers everywhere have been popping out brats for thousands of years. You’ll be fine! You’re no performer, so cut the dramatics and stop whining!” Somehow, this worked, Annet’s breathing evening out.

Unfortunately, it did little to pacify the disquiet that gripped Neela’s own soul.

For decades, she had acted as apothecary, healer and midwife to Greyport’s poorest, and Annet’s pregnancy was the most bizarre she had ever encountered. Sickness and pain struck the girl randomly; her temperature fluctuated wildly, and faintness took her without forewarning. Mood swings were to be expected, but Annet’s extreme fits of rage and depression were as frightening to behold as out of place for a girl often seen as too carefree. Nightmares plagued her nights, and she often awoke screaming in tongues. Annet never spoke of her dreams, but Neela could see the haunted look dwelling in her brown eyes that darkened and receded deeper into her palling face with each passing day.

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Had she not known better, Neela might have suspected a case of demonisation. But such things rarely affected anyone past the age of two, if ever, let alone grown adults. Nor did it ever afflict children in the womb. The lack of physical mutations discarded the possibility, anyway. When she nevertheless suggested calling in a priest, Annet had firmly objected. The girl always had a complicated relationship with her faith. Her late mother was surely to blame for that.

Not dallying any more, Neela clutched her staff and summoned her meagre magical abilities to check her patient’s health. A curse immediately slipped in the gaps between her teeth. Not good. Annet’s life force was fading at an alarming rate. But where is it going? Is– Is the child draining her? How is that– Aah, never mind! There’s no time!

Her gaze snapped to the entrance, where a sodden Flynt still hovered. “What are you doing, you daft boy?! Bring my bag over!” She snatched it from his hands, then pointed a bony finger at the fire pit. “Add more wood, fetch that pot over there, and get water boiling! And find me some clean cloth, dammit!” The young man frightfully jumped to obey. Neela rolled her eyes. Flynt—the poor sod—had always been sweet on Annet, but he sure was a few wheat stalks short of a full sheaf.

“Lenril, can you stay, or must you go back to your son?” she asked in a softer voice to the elf silently suffering at Annet’s bedside. In answer, Lenril pointed with his free hand to a dark corner of the room, where a tiny toddler played silently with wooden blocks. “Oh.” Neela had missed Lenril’s mix-raced son completely. Little Sarmin was always so quiet he blended with the background, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. Yet, his short, pointed ears twitched and swivelled to follow every noise, betraying his attentiveness.

Lenril then pointed at the ground, and Neela acknowledged his intent to stay. “Alright then.” Deaf-Mute as he might be, the stoic elf always found ways to understand and be understood. “Keep holding her hand. She will need an anchor so her spirit doesn’t go to Urabi too soon.” Lenril nodded seriously. Granted, he likely had no choice, considering Annet’s death grip on his fingers. Bless him. The elf did not even seem to care that his digits were turning blue.

“AAAAAAAAAAAH!!” Annet suddenly screamed like a strangled seagull. Her back abruptly arched painfully, her eyes rolled back, and she started foaming at the mouth.

“Void!” cursed Neela. She threw off her coat onto a stool and rolled up her sleeves. One of her knotty hands clutched her staff, and the other pressed against the wailing mother’s belly. “You’re not slipping away this easily, lassie! O Belhad, Force of Life, I beg of thee, protect this innocent soul.”

Her chant was no proper spell, more of a hopeful prayer. Talentless mages like her did not get a full schooling, only enough to prevent issues from arising. However, the prayer sufficed for her purpose: focusing her mind on the correct occult glyphs. Already, azure lights were sluggishly coalescing between her bony fingers and seeping into the girl’s body. Lenril’s surprised eyes flickered to Neela before returning to Annet’s blanching face.

Moments stretched into hours as the storm outside raged on. Sweat was pearling on Neela’s wrinkled forehead, and her twig-like limbs started trembling. Annet’s state, too, was worsening, her cries weakening, her breathing faltering, and her entire body gradually shutting down.

Suddenly, the crone jerked back. “Heavens!” For a heartbeat, she stood, petrified and wide-eyed, before blinking rapidly and hurriedly checking on Annet, who now lay still and silent on the bed. Neela’s shoulders slumped as tension flowed out of her. “She’s stable,” she breathed in relief, pale-faced, swaying on her feet and leaning on her staff for support.

Without another word, she let Lenril take over wiping the sweat off Annet's face and went to sit shakily on a stool. What in the Twelve’s names was that? Just now, an unknown force had tried to devour her life force, using her Life magic as a bridge. Unable to shake herself free, Neela had fought back as best as a piddling adept mage like her could, by attempting to brute-force through whatever cursed affliction this was.

Unfortunately, it had been a losing battle, her life disappearing too fast into what felt like an unquenchable abyss. She had been about to give up—when she suddenly crossed a threshold she had not been aware existed. Something woke up. Her memory then blurred and fragmented. An infinite wall of black scales. Flames. A colossal crimson eye with a vertical pupil. Staring at her. She recalled the crushing fear, a realisation of her insignificance, akin to an ant facing a giant. Unable to comprehend, her mind had started breaking down.

Then, a forlorn whisper had cast her out of that space.

“Enough.”

When Neela had regained her composure, the drain on her life force had ceased. Annet and her child, too, had stabilised—alive, if barely.

She had no time to dwell on what happened, though. The worst might have passed, but the child had yet to be delivered. Squaring her hunched shoulders, the crone picked balms and potions from her bag, gathered the hot water and clean cloth Flynt had prepared, and readied herself for the hours of gruelling toil her experience told her to expect, given the difficult circumstances.

Therefore, she was utterly baffled when the child slipped into the world easily, almost eagerly—turning from the worst pregnancy Neela had experienced into a most effortless delivery. What a bloody weird day, she thought tiredly as she wiped down the newborn’s wet and surprisingly dark skin. Such a peculiar, warm shade of bronze was exceedingly rare here in the Cleft Isles. It was less uncommon on the mainland, however, and no one knew for sure who the child’s father was—except Annet, hopefully. But the girl had a reputation for reckless behaviour. Maybe a passing sailor. That happened often enough around these parts.

“My baby… Is my baby alright?” Annet’s anxious murmurs rose feebly from the bed. “It’s not crying. Shouldn’t it cry? Is something wrong?” The girl was barely holding onto consciousness. Always attentive, Lenril folded his cloak behind Annet’s upper back to raise her.

The question snapped the old woman out of her exhausted musings. “It’s not–” But before her worry could resurface, the silent babe opened two red eyes, bright and scarily intense. Neela started involuntarily, almost dropping the child. Luckily, the feeling of dread faded as soon as it came, along with the memory that caused it.

Blinking confusedly, she looked back into the baby’s ruby eyes. Two round pupils met hers, perfectly human. Neela shook her head. Senility’s catching up to you, old bag. Still, the colour gave her pause. Since the Radiant Empire’s inception, red eyes carried a strong meaning… and it was not a positive one.

Eyes of the Beast, people called them.

Silence stretched as the newborn seemed to observe the elderly crone as much as the other way around. Eventually, Neela pushed down her lingering unease. She gave the baby a quick check and reassured the anxious mother. “Don’t worry, lassie. Your baby is all well.” All other oddities aside, nothing appeared physically wrong with the child.

“Congratulations. It’s a beautiful baby girl.”

Only then did Annet’s daughter suddenly start wailing at the top of her lungs, startling almost everyone in the room. Not minding the baby’s cries, the exhausted mother reached up weakly, and after one last brief hesitation, Neela passed the child to her.

As soon as Annet held her daughter, a blissful grin bloomed on her sickly face, and small tears of joy dripped over her sunken cheeks. Her shaky fingers traced the contours of the child’s crying face, her white hands a sharp contrast against the little one’s warm, dusky skin. “She’s perfect,” she hiccupped, then added in breathless wonder, “Did I make that…?”

Neela sighed in relief, seeing Annet accept her child without question. Lenril stood to the side, smiling softly—and discreetly rubbing his crushed hand behind his back. Meanwhile, Flynt took one look at the baby, blanched and signed against Evil. “Eyes of the Beast!” he whispered fearfully.

Neela threw a soiled rag at his face. “Shut up and get out!” she hissed between what few teeth she had left. The youth didn’t need to be told twice. After one last conflicted glance at the mother and child and a hateful glare for Lenril, he fled the scene as if the Dragon Demon King himself was at his heels. Superstitious git, Neela tutted angrily. She cast a worried look at Annet, but the young woman was lost in her own world, rocking her wailing child and unaware of anything happening around her. Thank the gods.

Sadly, the young Flynt would not be alone in his bigoted beliefs. Within the empire, red eyes had always been associated with demons, monsters, and misfortune. Many believed the gods marked wicked souls with red eyes as a warning to honest, pious folk. The superstition traced back to the ancient days of the Dragon Demon King, whose evil eyes were said to overflow with the blood of the innocents he devoured.

Annet heeded not such legends and was busy making silly faces at her surly daughter despite her tired eyes drooping heavily. This girl was always a free spirit. Neela smiled with fondness—and a hint of exasperation. Meanwhile, Lenril’s thoughts were as inscrutable as ever. At least the elf showed no overt negativity.

Movement at the foot of the bed brought the adults’ attention to the half-elf toddler waddling over. His forest-green eyes, too round for an elf, too slanted for a human, opened wide when they landed on the tiny human girl in Annet’s embrace. The baby was still bawling loudly, her lungs’ capacity seemingly inexhaustible.

Annet smiled feebly at the little boy. “Sarmin, do you want to see her?” At his awed nod, she angled her daughter to offer him a better view. “You’ll have to be good friends with her… ‘kay?” Again, the toddler nodded solemnly, making the adults smile fondly.

Neela coughed lightly. “Did you think of a name, dear?”

Annet hummed pensively, her eyes fluttering shut. “I think…” She smiled with quiet mischief and love. “I think I’ll name her… Kaydence.”

Outside, lightning flared.

“Kayden…ce?” Neela shook her head. This rascal is way too bold! Nobody in their right mind would dare name their child after the First Emperor. It edged on blasphemy. Not even the imperial family was this shameless. But the crone knew moving mountains would be easier than changing this stubborn girl’s mind. And who knows, she thought, looking at the child’s gleaming crimson eyes, a holy name might keep some rumours of evil influences at bay.

Little Kaydence seemed to disagree, however, as her crying abruptly soared in volume.

Outside, thunder rose loudly to her challenge.

* * * * *