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Samora was still aware.

She thought back to how those meant to protect her had cruelly abandoned her. The song, with its hauntingly sorrowful melody, bubbled in her chest. Though her lips refused to move, she could hear it in her mind. Each note and lyric was a fragile distraction from the searing waves of pain radiating from her abdomen.

Waters rise and the skies do groan,

Cursed are the paths my feet have known.

The winds that howl, the storms that tear,

Were sewn by hands too proud to care.

At first, she’d been grateful her son had a place to belong, but regret had taken root in its place, growing thorny and unrelenting. She regretted everything—the circumstances that chained her, the helplessness that consumed her, and the choices that led her here. Most of all, she regretted the growing distance between her and her child. She hadn’t even touched him, not once.

From the corner of her eye, something moved. A flicker in the shadows. Was it real, or just her imagination? She hummed the tune again, willing herself to focus.

The world may crumble, the trees may fall,

The stars may flicker, their light too small.

O’er jagged waves, I steer my way,

For the sins of the past, I pay today.

Pain consumed her, raw and merciless, enough to drive anyone to madness. Yet she wasn’t numb to her past or her surroundings. Instead, her awareness sharpened as time passed.

Her thoughts churned—of her kin who’d called her unborn baby a monster, of the husband who cast her out, of Turo’s blade sinking into her flesh. She recalled the endless pursuit across the lake, his threats, his demand that she surrender her child as though he were a prize. She remembered the desperate, solitary birth, the strange man tearing her apart to save her baby.

The air thickened.

Was the lantern’s light dimming, or was the darkness itself growing bigger? The shadows seemed to stretch physically, creeping closer, defying the glow. She hummed the song again, the melody trembling now as her unease deepened.

But the waters will know, and the winds will hear,

The strength of a soul that refuses fear.

My feet are banished, my hands are bare,

My children carry that I cannot bear.

Yet in their eyes, the dawn may rise,

A future unseen by cursed skies.

And if I am lost, let this be true—

Waters can’t consume what's in you.

The song lingered in her mind, but her thoughts began to stray.

Why had the man been so desperate to save her baby? A stranger, appearing out of nowhere, willing to go to such lengths when her own kin had abandoned her. Why? What were his motives?

Would he truly protect Runo? Where was he taking him? And—more unsettling still—how had the man known she was in the crumbling stone shelter? Was he a local? If so, what led him to her at the exact moment her life had begun to fade? Could it have been a coincidence? No… The timing was too precise. Was this divine intervention? Or was it something far darker?

For the first time, doubt pierced her heart, a mother's doubt. What if Runo wasn’t entirely human, as she had prayed he should be? What if there was something about her son—something extraordinary, something dangerous—that made others covet him? The thought crawled through her mind, and she recoiled from it. But no, she had seen him, writhing in the man’s hands. Runo was human, as human as any baby ever born. Wasn’t he?

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Still, the questions festered in her. What could anyone gain by claiming him as their own?

Her breath hitched—if she could still call it breathing. She was certain now. Something moved in the shadows.

At first, it was subtle, like ripples in dark water, but then it grew, tangible and deliberate. The shadows seemed to twist, like clay being molded by unseen hands, forming a shape. A human figure. Was it a child? An adult? Her heart raced as her mind fought to process what she was seeing. Was this her imagination? Memories of Runo, warped by her pain and grief?

No. This was real.

Slowly, the figure emerged from the base of the shadows, an illusion made flesh—or something worse.

Fear clawed at her. Panic surged. But she was powerless to act. Her body remained unyielding, as if it no longer belonged to her. She tried to shut her eyes, to block out the terror, but even that was impossible. She could only watch, trapped in her own body, as the figure grew before her.

She hummed the song again, the melody quivering in her mind.

Though death may come, though light may fade,

The soul's resolve cannot be swayed.

Row, row, row, across the tide,

Through cursed waves where fears reside.

She hummed to distract herself, to cling to some semblance of sanity. The pain and exhaustion had to be playing tricks on her mind. That was all it was—wasn’t it?

The thoughts tormented her soul as much as the agony of her lifesource draining away. She could feel it now—the cold, seeped into her bones, a chill unlike anything she had ever known. Her body had grown as frigid as the stone beneath her, colder than death itself should feel. The pain in her torso burned, unbearable and ceaseless. Yet she couldn’t scream or cry out; her lips refused to move.

She felt as if she had been ripped apart, shredded like prey left to scavengers. After everything she had endured, why wasn’t she dead yet?

Or worse—was this death?

Is this what it felt like to be caught between life and the void? Why could she still feel pain? Why hadn’t she lost consciousness? Why hadn’t she drifted into the oblivion she had come to expect? Instead of fading, her awareness sharpened, growing more acute with every passing moment. And with it came a surge of emotions—anger, regret, hatred—bubbling to the surface, refusing to be ignored.

Was this what it meant to die?

Her thoughts turned dark, bitter. She despised them all. Every single one who had turned their back on her, who had abandoned her when she needed them most. They had pushed her to the brink, forced her to give birth alone—afraid, and dying.

She despised Turo for the pain he had inflicted, for chasing her like a beast through the lake, for stabbing her and leaving her body to falter in the middle of labor, putting Runo’s life at risk. She despised Tuscanvalle for the cruelty they had shown her, for casting her out as if her life and her child’s life were worth nothing.

She despised her husband for his betrayal, his indifference, his injustice—not just to her, but to their innocent child.

She despised the stranger who had taken Runo from her before she could even touch him. She hated him for stealing away her son, for denying her even a fleeting connection before the end.

If only she weren’t so powerless—bound by pain, immobility, and the slow, suffocating crawl of death. If she could move, she would claw her way back to those who had wronged her. She would make them suffer as she had.

Her fury was her only solace now. She imagined herself gritting her teeth as she hummed the song in her mind once more. This time, the melody carried a darker tone, laced with rage and despair.

The stones may cut, the sky may cry,

But you will live, though I may die.

And if the end is all I find,

I leave my wrath for those behind.

Her very being trembled with defiance. Even as her body failed, her spirit burned with the fire of all she had lost—and all she had yet to do.

Samora floated in a void of pain. She couldn’t move, couldn’t cry out. Yet her mind remained vivid, a prisoner within her own dying body. Agony pulsed from her abdomen, fiery and unrelenting, demanding release that her frozen form couldn’t provide. Her limbs were useless, unresponsive.

Runo.

She clung to the name as if it were the only thing tethering her to life, letting the words of the song spiral endlessly in her mind. But in that endless loop of pain and thought, she noticed something again.

The shadows were indeed moving.

They stretched and twisted, tendrils of darkness thickening around her. The air grew colder. Her heart—or what little of it remained—lurched. This wasn’t her mind playing tricks on her. It was real. It was happening.

From the shadows, a figure began to take form.

He emerged tall and impossibly still, his presence both ominous and captivating. A hood obscured his face, but the lantern light caught the sharp angles of his jaw and high cheekbones. There was a cold, ethereal beauty to him—handsome but unsettling. He moved closer, his hands outstretched, as though reaching to claim what remained of her.

Samora felt a surge of terror, instinctively trying to recoil. But her body remained limp, unmovable. Her mind, however, screamed in defiance.

“Who are you?” she asked—or at least she thought she did. The words might have been spoken aloud, or perhaps they only resonated within her mind.

The figure stopped abruptly, his head tilting as though in confusion.

“You’re aware?” he said, his voice reverberated as if it came from everywhere and nowhere at once. His lips didn’t move, yet the words were clear.

“Who are you?” Samora asked again, this time with more resolve, feigning bravery.

“This is impossible,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re still aware.”

Samora waited patiently for his response.

The man seemed to come to a decision, his hood shifting slightly as he straightened. “I am Raeglon. Your kind call me Death,” he said, his voice unnervingly calm, neutral, and devoid of malice.

The air around her seemed to freeze though not with cold. The flickering lantern light, the faint rustle of the world beyond—all of it faded into a surreal silence. In his presence, everything felt suspended, caught in a perfect equilibrium.

“The reaper of souls,” he continued, “the keeper of shadows.”