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Samora groaned.

Her body trembled as she bore down, lifting her hips off the ground in desperate effort.

She didn’t have the strength to respond to the man, nor did he seem to expect her to. His gaze remained fixed on her, calm and calculating, as he studied her every movement—the strain in her face, the way her body contorted to push the child out, the dagger still lodged in her side.

He shifted, settling onto the ground cross-legged, his demeanor unnervingly casual. There was no trace of urgency in his posture. Her naked state didn’t seem to faze him, his focus locked entirely on what was inside her rather than the woman herself. He appeared eager—too eager—to get his hands on the baby, yet there was an almost scholarly patience in his gesture. Labor, he knew, was a process that couldn’t be rushed.

He propped his elbows on his knees and cupped his chin in his palms, watching her as if it were an ordinary pastime to observe a woman in childbirth.

“You look far too young to be giving birth,” he remarked after a while, his tone conversational, even friendly. A dry chuckle escaped his lips. “Then again, your kind can’t seem to help it. Poor soul. Such uncivilized brutes.” He shook his head, his laughter hollow and mocking, as if they were two old acquaintances sharing a dark joke.

Samora had no energy to react to his words. She was too busy fighting against the pain, her entire being focused on the task of bringing her child into the world.

The man didn’t mind her lack of response. If anything, he seemed to enjoy his own commentary, speaking as if he were her midwife. When her legs trembled and drifted closer together, he reached forward, his hands firm but dispassionate, pushing her knees apart. “Like this,” he instructed, his voice disturbingly calm. “Keep them apart. It’ll make the pushing easier for you.”

There was a strange detachment in his tone, a clinical precision that no man in Tuscanvalle would possess. The depth of his knowledge about childbirth was unsettling, his advice delivered with an ease that suggested he’d been present for far more births than any man ought to have been.

When she arched her back and lifted her hips again, he leaned forward, one hand pressing gently but insistently against her torso to push her back down. “No,” he chided, his voice steady, almost patient. “You’re putting all the pressure on your feet. You need to push with your core, not your hips. Keep them grounded. How do you expect to deliver effectively if you’re thrashing about?”

Samora resisted at first, her instincts warring with his instructions, but eventually, out of desperation or exhaustion, she complied. Each motion was agony. Her breaths became shallow and rapid as she fought against her body’s limitations.

The man gave a small, approving nod, then returned to his previous position, folding his hands neatly in his lap. The lantern was placed strategically between them, the soft glow illuminating the space between her legs. He adjusted it slightly, angling the light toward her birthing canal in quiet anticipation as if waiting for the inevitable arrival.

His eyes flickered to her face, then back down, his demeanor disturbingly calm. He was no ordinary observer. This was no ordinary moment.

The man sighed, his face contorted with exaggerated disappointment. “Not even close,” he muttered, shaking his head. His gaze dropped to her trembling form, then to the space between her legs. He pointed matter-of-factly toward her. “I don’t see the baby’s head there. Must push harder, I guess.”

Samora groaned, her cries ripping through the air, raw and desperate. Each scream scraped against her throat, leaving it coarse and burning. Her vision blurred, dark shadows creeping in from the edges as her pupils rolled back beneath her eyelids. Her chest heaved as she struggled to take one last breath, her lips parting slightly before the tension in her body released. Her muscles slackened, and her body stilled, her effort giving way to a terrifying silence.

The man’s demeanor shifted instantly. He jerked upright, dropping to his knees beside her. “Hey, you! Wake up. You can’t die now,” he barked, shaking her by the shoulders.

There was no response.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, his movements growing frantic. He clawed at his matted hair, pacing the small, dilapidated stone structure. His boots crunched against debris as he walked back and forth, muttering under his breath in a tone that bordered on panic.

He paused at the crumbled threshold, hesitating as though debating an impossible decision. After a moment, he ducked under the fallen stone beam and stepped back inside. His steps were slower, more deliberate this time. Kneeling beside her once again, he reached out to shake her, though his touch was hesitant, almost uncertain.

Still, she didn’t move.

His hands trembled as they hovered over her. He bit his nails absently, the jagged edges digging into the dirt-streaked skin of his lips. His breathing quickened. He swallowed hard.

Finally, as if reaching a grim conclusion, he closed his eyes and began to speak. The words that escaped his lips were unlike any language known to man. They were sharp, guttural, and alien, the unnatural syllables reverberating through the space. The sound of his incantation seemed to make the air itself heavy and intrusive, as though it didn’t belong in the world of the living.

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When the final word escaped his lips, the air around him shimmered faintly. He outstretched his hand, palm up. A dim red glow began to emanate from his skin. The light intensified for a brief moment, illuminating the ruined structure with an eerie glow before fading into nothingness.

When the glow disappeared, his palm held an ornate knife, its hilt intricately carved with symbols that seemed to shift and writhe in the dim glow of the lantern. The blade shimmered ominously, its edge sharp and glowing with the same albeit faint red hue that had filled the room moments ago.

The man exhaled, inspecting the knife with a blend of awe and dread before turning his attention back to Samora. He pressed two fingers to the side of her neck, checking her pulse.

“You’re not dead,” he murmured more to himself than to her. “But you’re too weak to carry on.” His gaze flicked downward. His jaw tightened. “If the baby doesn’t come out now…” He trailed off.

His grip tightened around the knife as he stared at her motionless form.

He caressed the blunt edge of the knife, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings along its hilt. “You’re not dead,” he murmured, his voice tinged with something almost like regret. “But you’re dying. And I…” He hesitated, as if his next words threatened to choke him. “I’m not killing you. I’m saving the baby.”

He touched a finger to her bloodless lips, then pressed it to his own in a shushing gesture. It was unclear whether he was speaking to Samora, to himself, or to some unseen witness. “Shh. I don’t have a choice, little girl. I need this baby. I just hope…” He paused, his breath hitching. “I just hope you can name him before you die.”

And then, without further ceremony, he plunged the blade into her lower abdomen.

Samora’s eyes shot open, wide with pain and incomprehension. Her scream tore through the night, raw and primal, echoing through the trees like the cry of a wounded animal. The man flinched but didn’t stop. “Shhh, shh!” he hissed, his tone almost soothing in its incongruity. “I’m saving your son. Nothing will happen to him, don’t you worry.”

She tried to resist, her trembling hands grasping at his wrist, but her strength was fleeting, her grip like that of a wilting flower. With deliberate precision, he pushed her hands aside and resumed his grim task. The knife tore through the outer layer of her flesh, its edge meticulous but unyielding. Blood erupted from the wound, spattering his hands, knees, and the ground beneath them. It soaked into the earth, painting it with the finality of her sacrifice.

He worked methodically, ignoring her muffled cries and feeble struggles. Each layer he cut through brought him closer to his prize. When the womb was finally laid bare, he paused, his breath ragged as he pushed the last obstruction aside. The sight of the child—small, bloodied, and alive—drew a gleeful exclamation from his lips.

“There it is!” he said, his voice trembling with mania. “It’s your baby!”

With no regard for the woman’s pain, he plunged his hands into the opening he’d created, wrenching aside the tissues that still clung stubbornly to the child. Samora’s body jerked under his rough movements, her head lolling weakly to one side. Tears streaked down her face, pooling in her ears as she lay helpless, her life slipping away with every drop of blood that seeped from her.

The man’s effort grew frantic as he tugged at the child. “He’s stuck halfway in your birth canal,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his focus singular, his hands relentless. With one final, forceful, arrogant pull, the baby came free, its body slick with blood and fluid.

The infant’s first cry split the air. The man sank back on his heels, panting in relief and exhilaration. He held the baby aloft, his trembling hands cradling the small, writhing form. A strained, almost unhinged laugh escaped his lips as tears streamed down his dirtied face.

“He’s your son,” he said, lowering the infant toward Samora’s face. His voice softened, trembling with something that could have been reverence—or madness. “Look at him.”

Samora’s head rolled toward the child. Her glassy eyes struggled to focus, but they widened just slightly at the sight or so she thought. The baby was human. Perfectly human. His tiny fists clenched and unclenched as his cries pierced the quiet night.

A tear slipped from the corner of Samora’s eye. Relief, fleeting and bittersweet, washed over her. Her baby was alive. He was human.

The man leaned closer. “Name him,” he urged, desperation creeping into his tone. “You’re the mother. So name him.”

Samora’s lips moved—or not. No sound came out. She swallowed hard—perhaps she didn't.

"Runo," he said, not waiting for her to come up with one.

“Runo,” she heard her own voice barely audible, fragile as the faintest breeze. A single tear slipped from the corner of Samora’s eye, tracing a silver line down her blood-streaked face. Wasn’t this the moment she had dreamed of for months? Her body grew colder by the second. She was dying—she knew that—but it didn’t matter now.

Her baby was alive.

Her son was alive.

For a fleeting moment, a fragile sense of peace washed over her. No one could hurt her baby now. He would live, untouched by the cruelty that had consumed her.

But then the thought struck her with an icy ferocity. What would happen to him? Who would care for her child? Who would cradle him when he cried, protect him from the monsters lurking in the village, and guide him through a world she would no longer be part of?

The question threatened to suffocate her. Her gaze flitted to the man cradling her son, her unspoken fears burning like a plea in her lifeless eyes.

“I’ll take your son back home,” the man said, as though plucking the question straight from her soul. His gaze never left Runo’s tiny face. “I don’t have a child. Mine died a while ago…” His voice cracked, the words catching in his throat. A single tear escaped him, trailing through the grime on his face.

He whimpered, brushing his knuckles against the baby’s cheek. “I’ll take Runo with me. I’ll make sure he has ‘a roof over his head.’” His voice carried an earnestness, a promise he seemed to be making not just to Samora but to himself.

Samora’s glassy eyes remained unmoving. Her heart swelled with gratitude and relief. Her strength was gone, but her heart—her maternal love—pushed through the agony. She looked at him, her expression one of unspeakable thanks.

The man hesitated. He reached out and placed a trembling hand on her shoulder, the touch a gesture of farewell.

He adjusted his hold on the baby, clutching Runo close to his chest. With a final glance at Samora—he rose. His heart felt heavy as he stepped away.

The man turned back several times, as if reluctant to leave her, as though her fading presence tugged at something deep within him. But he continued on, stepping out of the crumbling stone structure and into the cool night air, carrying the child who now held all his purpose.

Inside, Samora lay alone.

Her eyes stuck to the spot the man had been, her body limp against the blood-streaked ground. As the man disappeared into the woods, she thought a final thought: Live, my Runo. Live.