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Samora was dying.

At least, that’s what it felt like. Blood poured from the stab wound, leaving her body drained. Every part of her—her head, eyes, throat, heart, spine, core—burned with pain. Thoughts slipped away, leaving only fragments. She couldn’t remember why she was there or how she had ended up in this place. Her only recollection was of dragging herself—not walking, not crawling, just dragging—through wetness and into a tangle of stones, twigs, and thorns that tore at her. Insects fed on her blood, each bite a new agony. Everything before this felt like a fading dream.

But none of that mattered now. Maybe she had always been here, lying beneath this jagged stone above her, a ceiling that loomed and stared back like a silent witness to her suffering.

Stone?

A heaven, she thought. Somewhere, amidst her suffering, she had stumbled into this haven—a crude structure of uncut stones in a clearing overgrown with bushes and vines. Stone. Clearing. Words that felt both familiar and alien. And the basket—why did she keep thinking of the basket? It seemed absurd yet profound. Could a basket be God? The thought hovered, ridiculous and comforting all at once. Tears blurred her vision, smearing the view of her sanctuary, its rough stone ceiling rising above her.

A womb! Is this a womb? Am I just a child in the womb?

Something tugged at the edge of her mind, vital yet unreachable. Had she forgotten something too important to lose? Her pain surged. Something inside her shifted, struggling to escape. She could hear crying—anguished, relentless. Whose cries were these? Hers? No, surely not. The word pain lost meaning as her awareness splintered.

She stared at the ceiling, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes and sliding down her face. Her own cries, raw and animalistic, escaped her throat. She felt detached from her body, yet it trapped her, writhing and heaving with every wave of pain.

Air. She needed air. Desperation clawed at her chest. Someone should burst through, offer her something—anything—to make it stop. Her anger surged. Why wasn’t anyone here? Why was she so alone?

Her insides clenched, cutting off what little air her lungs could grasp. She whined, the sound rising to a moan before erupting into a scream that bounced off the walls of her stone sanctuary. As quickly as it began, the scream faltered and died. She lacked the strength to sustain it. The inability to scream only deepened her delirium, amplifying the unbearable pain. Her hands clawed at anything they could reach—tugging at the weeds at the edges of the structure, tearing at the grass beneath her, and ripping away the scraps of cloth that clung to her. Finally, she was just a blood-smeared, naked form, trembling with pain and madness.

She didn’t notice.

Her fingers dug into the earth, scraping at dirt and roots until her skin split and bled. The sting barely registered. The flood of sensations drowned it all out. She was ready—ready to leave this broken body, to abandon the torment that had become her existence.

But something lingered, a gnawing thought at the edge of her mind.

She had forgotten something.

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A task remained—something too vital to leave undone. Something precious enough to outweigh her suffering, her very life. What was it?

Her hands clawed at her scalp, pulling strands of hair in frustration. Somebody remind me, her mind screamed. Desperation echoed through her chest.

When she opened her eyes, she saw a pair of feet standing at the entrance to her sanctuary. A figure loomed, silhouetted against the flicker of distant lightning. The man ducked inside, bending low to avoid striking his head against a fallen stone beam left broken from some long-past storm.

He carried a large, ornate lantern that cast a bright, golden glow, brighter than the strongest lightning outside. The light spilled over the stone walls and illuminated Samora's twisted form. He stood there, watching her, the lantern’s flame flickering and sending restless shadows dancing around the room.

For a moment, his expression wavered. Something like sympathy flared in his eyes, only to be swallowed by the unyielding greed etched into his face.

His hair, unkempt and brown, fell in matted strands to his shoulders, but his clothes and ornaments spoke of royalty.

As he crouched near Samora, the green gems and pearls on his chains and stitched into his garments clinked together, the sound almost mocking her agony. His clothing, crafted from a soft dyed material she wouldn’t recognize, clung tightly to his upper body, covering him all the way to his neck. A Tuscanian man would have found such attire stifling—they often left their chests bare. His lower body was wrapped in the same dyed fabric, each leg covered in an intricate pattern. To a Tuscanian, the complexity would have seemed absurdly feminine, a frivolity even their women wouldn’t entertain.

Who had time for such self-adornment? Why would a man deck himself in precious ornaments, no matter their value?

At another time, Samora might have laughed at his comical appearance. His strange sense of fashion would have been the subject of endless jokes. But now, she barely noticed. All that mattered was that someone else was here.

Was he here to save her? She wondered briefly. Or was it… something else?

Yes. She remembered now. She had been running. From something—or someone. She had been protecting something. Or maybe someone. But what?

The man reached out, his hand brushing her cheek, wiping away the sweat and tears streaking her face. He placed the lantern beside him with a muted thud. Samora thought she flinched at his touch, but her body didn’t move.

Pain gripped her again, sharp and consuming. Her insides clenched. Fire raged in her lower body. She strained, her jaw locked, her back arching, trying to push something out. She bore down, over and over, until there was no breath left to give.

“You’re hurting,” the man said, his voice calm, almost detached. His yellowed teeth glinted in the lantern’s glow, and a sour smell wafted from his mouth. He spoke as though he were observing a butterfly struggling to free of its cocoon.

“Aren’t you?” he added, tilting his head.

Samora didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her mind screamed for water, for air, for relief. She gasped, struggling for each breath.

If only he could read her thoughts, she might have found help. But the man had his own agenda, one that could either save her—or doom her.

“I can help you,” he said, his voice unsettlingly calm.

Samora arched her back, straining again, a guttural grunt escaping her lips.

“I can help you deliver your baby,” he said, his hand moving to her swollen belly, stroking it with unnerving eagerness, as though desperate to touch the life within.

A sudden realization struck her. A baby. Yes, a baby was inside her. Her baby. That was why she was running. That was why she had endured so much. To save him. Her son.

“I can,” he repeated. “I can help you end your suffering. I can help you bring your baby into the world.”

Samora groaned, her scream raw and anguished as her body convulsed. She pushed again, her hips lifting from the ground. Blood seeped from the wound around the dagger still lodged deep in her side.

The man seemed unfazed by her delirium or the extent of her agony. His tone remained steady, his words deliberate. “But there’s one condition,” he said, leaning closer. “If I help you, I’ll need something in return.”

Samora gasped for air, forcing herself to speak through the haze of pain. “What?” she mouthed. There wasn't much she could do other than scream and gasp.

The man’s lips curled into a smile, his yellowed teeth gleaming in the flickering lantern light.

“Your baby,” he said.