A gentle rain sweeps over the valley after dark. A village at the mouth of the river, its edges connected by a bridge on which houses are built, gets ready to sleep.

Light fingers of rain brush over tin roofs, the wooden inner hulls of fishing boats pulled up on rocky shores and the fur of the last few animals brought inside for the night. A light wind rustles the leaves of countless trees and cools the sticky-warm air of a midsummer evening.

Two figures emerge from one of the buildings nestled near the bridge in a hurry. The first, a man from his silhouette, anxiously alternates looking up towards the hill some ways behind the building and looking at the second figure. The second figure shooes the man to go first. He nods and shoots off running down the dirt path. The second figure, some kind of cat-centaur, quickly goes over his bags making sure he has what is needed. He nods to himself, slams the door shut and takes off at a run, catching up with the first figure in a matter of moments.

Both men race up a series of lazily curving roads, feet pounding the increasingly muddy ground. Finally, after several minutes of full out run, they reach their destination. A house, front door slightly ajar but whose wards promise nothing has entered. The man, gasping for air, unused to running, lurches forward dragging the door wide open and runs into the house yelling “I’ve got him! He’s here!” with the second figure on his heels.

Long moments pass, the open door buffered lightly open by the wind sways on well-oiled hinges. An owl glides silently over the house’s large garden, looking for mice. Some feyries poke their head out of their nest and watch curiously, as the voices inside the house get louder. The rain gets a little heavier and a rumble of thunder from far, far away goes unnoticed as the supernatural and natural specators of tonight's events are all startled by running footsteps.

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A fifty-or-so-year-old lady emerges from the house, a wild look in her eyes glowing white with magic, and a limp newborn baby in her arms. She runs to the center of the garden and is followed by a horrified group of people. “Robin DON’T!” Shouts a greying man.

Too late.

Robin, the lady holding the baby, falls to her knees, raises the child above her head and, eyes sparking white magic, she chants something to herself. She stops when something invisible seems to be pulled in towards the child. 

A white-hot surge of magic, invisible to the naked eye, explodes from the area, shocking every creature capable of sensing magic awake. Dogs begin barking. People are jolted awake, hearts pounding. The wards covering every single house and building crackle, several short-circuiting in a shower of sparks, under the power surge. As the surge progresses through the Feypaths, countless creatures dangerous and benign awaken and look towards the small town known as Kiln. The magic fades within seconds, but most creatures stay where they are, shivering with the force of it.

Shaken, the people who followed Robin out of the house have all stopped in their tracks, holding their breath. Robin shakily lowers her arms and looks at the baby. Still. Limp. His chest rising just as lightly as before. Behind her, someone comes running, pushing past the crowd, haloed in the magic she uses to force her body to move forward, the child’s mother comes at a shambling, horrified run. She stumbles as she reaches her child and takes him from her own mother’s hands. She holds it tightly to her chest, shielding it from the rain. Seconds pass like hours and then, the little body takes a deep breath and starts bawling. Tears mingling with rainwater, the whole crowd nearly passes out with relief. Another man, the first one who ran after Robin, approaches and hugs the mother. Their son is alive.

Only Robin still looks shocked. Her eyes still glint faintly of magic and she sees what others do not. She can see that the mother and father both crying with relief over their child have souls, but she still cannot see anything where the child should have his.

Nothing.

Her spell didn't work.

But although still soulless, the child is now somehow acting as well as any living being with a soul. How? He has none!

Or, and she shivers at the thought, equally horrible. Or maybe something she cannot sense has taken the place of his soul.

But what?