0.32 - (1/2)

"Ignorance?" Creda frowned. "That's just a vice, isn't it? Why speak of it as if it were a person?"

She pressed her palms to the cold, unyielding floor, her unease growing with every flicker of the dim lamp hanging above them. The oil was nearly spent, sending soot spiralling up the beam. The light wavered, threatening to plunge them into utter darkness. Creda noticed but hesitated to act, tethered to Calla's side by something in her demeanour.

"I don't understand," she added softly.

"Neither do I," Calla murmured, almost to herself. Her voice was thin, like the flickering flame above them. Her eyes glimmered, a sheen of unshed tears catching the weak light. "Was it Samora… or was it us who brought him here?"

"Calla?" Creda reached out, her fingers brushing Calla’s cold arm. But Calla didn’t flinch, didn’t move. She lay still on the cot, her pale face tilted toward the beam, her gaze fixed on the dying flame.

"She fled across Lavalthon," Calla lamented. "They say that place will bring ruin. But I know it’s not cursed."

"What are you saying?" Creda pressed, her voice tight. "The other side of the lake—it’s not cursed?"

"It’s not," Calla replied, her voice trembling. She refused to meet Creda’s gaze. "It’s us who are cursed, not the place."

Creda's heart lurched. She recalled Calla's tales—the fairy who saved a village, the Great Hero who sacrificed everything to defeat the evil, the tomb built to honour his departure. Of the people still waiting, centuries later, for the Great Hero’s return. But Calla had never spoken of a curse. Could it be true? Were the Tuscanians cursed?

"So, if Samora didn’t bring him here… was it us?" Calla’s voice grew sharper, her wide eyes still fixed on the beam. "Have we been blind all this time? What if, in trying to avoid the prophecy, we’ve made it come true? What if the child wasn’t a monster? What if we’ve misinterpreted everything?"

Creda’s breath caught. The oracle’s words echoed in her mind: The child born at the start of winter will bring ruin to Tuscanvalle. No mention of the child being a monster, no clear meaning beyond the timing. Had they all been wrong? Had Samora suffered because of their ignorance?

Calla inhaled a shaky breath. "After all these years, after everything I’ve done…" Her voice wavered. Creda reached for her again. The lamp sputtered, its wick burning too low, sending a final puff of soot to the beam.

"Have I failed?" Calla whispered.

The lamp went out and—darkness swallowed them.

----------------------------------------

Nox moved through the dense woods, his steps brisk but cautious. The air was damp and heavy with the scent of earth and moss. He snapped the twigs on nearby shrubs partially as he passed, leaving a trail he could follow back. This part of the forest was unfamiliar. His mind raced with unease. What predators lurked here? A jaguar or leopard could be watching him now, hidden among the shadows, waiting to strike. And worse, he reeked of Dias's blood as if he was inviting them for a feast.

He cursed under his breath for not masking the scent at the campsite before leaving. But there was no time to go back now—Samora needed him. Or did she? Was she injured? Had the baby come yet? If she was still in labour, could he even manage to get her back to the campsite, let alone across the lake to Tuscanvalle?

He clenched his fists, forcing himself to stop spiralling. First, he had to find her. The rest could wait. Yet, the enormity of the task gnawed at him. He was wandering blindly through a vast wilderness, hoping for a sign of his cousin's whereabouts. Even if he found a trail, how could he tell in this dim moonlight whether it belonged to a human or an animal? The partial canopy above offered little help, the fragmented light playing tricks on his eyes. His search felt futile, like hunting for a particular strand of hay in an entire haystack.

"If only there were a magical way to narrow down her location," he muttered bitterly. And then, the realization hit him like a slap to the face—literally. He smacked his forehead and winced at the sting.

Samora had been heading across Lavalthon, just as they had been. She must be near the shore; she wouldn’t have gone far inland in her state. Frustrated at his own oversight, he slapped the nearest tree trunk with more force than he intended. He’d been heading in the wrong direction.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Turning sharply on his heels, he retraced his steps, eyes squinting for the broken twigs he’d left behind in patches of moonlight and feeling for them in the darkness. The sounds of the forest felt louder now—the chirp of crickets, the occasional rustle of leaves. Each noise grated against his nerves.

Then he heard it.

A deliberate movement, faint but unmistakable, somewhere ahead of him.

He froze, his heart pounding. Someone—or something—was approaching. Slowly. Purposefully.

Samora? No, it couldn’t be her. She was hurt, likely struggling to move. Was it an animal, perhaps drawn by the smell of blood clinging to him? His pulse quickened. A predator would be faster than him, and in an unfamiliar woods like this, running would only hasten his death.

But this wasn’t the sound of paws. It was footsteps.

Nox ducked behind a thick tree trunk just as the figure came into view. His breath hitched.

A man.

The stranger’s appearance was jarring. He wore peculiar clothing—his chest was covered to the neck, something Nox had only seen women do. Married women, at that. But this was unmistakably a man, with broad shoulders and a rough, unkempt face and matted hair. His lower body was draped in similar cloth, dyed and elaborate. The garments looked restrictive and uncomfortable. Chains hung from his neck and were sewn into his attire, and his fingers glinted with rings that caught the moonlight.

Nox studied him intently, his gaze shifting to the bundle the man clutched against his chest. It was wrapped in the same kind of fabric, held as though it were something of immense value. The man’s attention was fixed on the bundle, his focus so singular it was as though the forest around him didn’t exist.

What could be inside that bundle? What was so important that the man would carry it so protectively, even through the treacherous woods?

Nox’s breath steadied as he remained hidden, eyes narrowing in suspicion. The man wasn’t paying attention to the terrain or his surroundings which was an advantage to Nox. But who was he? And why was he here, of all places?

Nox waited, holding his breath as the man passed his hiding spot. The stranger’s purposeful stride faded into the distance, and Nox couldn’t suppress his curiosity. What’s in that bundle? A strange instinct told him whatever it was, it mattered far more to him than to the man carrying it.

He hesitated for only a moment before slipping out from behind the tree. If the man was heading toward the lake, following him would serve Nox’s purpose as well. Clutching his makeshift spear tightly, he crept after him, moving as silently as he could.

The man’s pace was steady—neither hurried nor lingering—but Nox was grateful he didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. His earlier fears of predators still gnawed at him, though. He tightened his grip on the spear, muttering a silent prayer that Turo wouldn’t have to use the one Nox had left him. Luck had been with him so far tonight, but would it extend to his comrades?

Soon, the dense woods gave way to the shore. Nox crouched behind the thickets where the tree line ended, watching as the man approached the lake. He scanned the shoreline, then moved deliberately toward a cluster of neck-high weeds growing thick along the shallow water. The man reached into the weeds, tugging at something hidden within, but after a few moments, he seemed to give up. He turned back to the shore and placed his bundle on a piece of bark, stripped clean and carried to the shore by the recent storm. Then, without a glance behind him, he returned to the weeds.

Nox’s attention flickered between the man and the bundle. Something about the bundle tugged at his chest, a strange pull he couldn’t explain. His curiosity warred with caution. He could check the bundle now, while the man’s attention was elsewhere, but should he risk it?

As if in answer, the bundle moved.

Nox froze. Did it just wiggle? Was it alive—or was his mind playing tricks on him?

The cloth shimmered in the moonlight as it shifted again. His breath quickened. There was no mistaking it this time. Something inside was moving.

Before he could decide what to do, the rustling weeds drew his attention back to the man. Whatever he had been struggling with earlier finally came loose. With a firm tug, the man pulled out a floating vessel—unlike anything Nox had seen before. It was a cross between Samora’s oversized basket and their traditional rafts, with an elongated body and raised edges to keep the sailor from toppling into the water.

Nox’s heart leapt with hope. Could this man help them cross the lake?

But the thought vanished as quickly as it came. The man stepped closer to the vessel, extending his hand. His palm faced upward, and he began chanting in a language that sent a chill down Nox’s spine. The words were guttural and unnatural, resonating with an otherworldly cadence.

The air around the man glowed with an eerie red glow. When the glow subsided, an ornate lantern materialized in his outstretched hand, its pale yellow light casting strange shadows across his face.

Nox gasped, barely stifling the sound. Magic. He had conjured a lantern out of thin air.

The man seemed oblivious to Nox’s presence. He retrieved the bundle, placed it carefully at the base of the vessel, and climbed in. With slow, deliberate strokes, he paddled northward, moving farther from the shore and from Tuscanvalle.

A wave of inexplicable loss washed over Nox, suffocating and unwelcome. It was as though he were watching something precious slip away, something he was meant to protect. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. Samora was still out there, possibly hurt—or worse.

He stepped out from the thickets, the man’s vessel drifting into the distance. Please let the raft be ready, he prayed silently. Let Dias hold on a little longer, and let Turo be safe. Yet, a dark foreboding crept over him, taunting him that nothing would go as planned.

His thoughts were shattered by a sound that made his blood run cold—a gut-wrenching scream, sharp and raw, cutting through the silence of the night.

Nox’s heart lurched. Turo?

The scream came from somewhere to his left. Without a second thought, Nox sprinted in its direction, the forest closing in around him once more.