The wind carried whispers long before the people did.
In the high canopies of the Noctvalis Village jungle, where moonlight filtered like silver veins through the trees, the shamaness moved with quiet purpose.
She was not cloaked in mystery — she was the mystery.
Her name was Tseraka, an old name, older than most in the Noctvorn tongue. It meant benevolent moon spirit, though few dared use it lightly.
She walked alone, as she always had, her long black hair streaked with silver like a sky caught between dusk and dawn. A headdress crowned her brow — the skull of a silver-fanged Umbrawild leopard, hunted in ritual combat during her naming rites. Around her neck hung a necklace of long, curved teeth, each fang from a different beast and soaked in old rites.
At forty, Tseraka was considered ancient, since the tribe was recently established, and there were few elders over the age of thirty.
And lately, she had begun to wonder if her age had finally caught up with her. She thought her ears were failing — because she kept hearing things that couldn't possibly be true.
She had heard the rumors. That Nyxari, wife of the war chief and Matriarch of the Noctvalis tribe, was going to give birth.
Absurd.
She'd dismissed it immediately. Nyxari — proud, sharp-tongued, and blunt as a warhammer — did not take to deception. If she were expecting, she'd have announced it with thunder and banners.
But then... something strange happened.
The whispers didn't fade. They grew — not just in number, but in certainty.
Commoners spoke of Nyxari's pregnancy as if it were fact. They recalled things that had never happened — how radiant she'd looked during the last moon feast, how she'd glowed after the hunt, how she'd cradled her belly at the last council meeting as though sharing some sacred moment.
Tseraka asked questions. The answers unnerved her more than the rumors.
People weren't lying.
They believed it.
She avoided Jackal and Lobo — their disdain for her was as worn-in as their scabbards. And Crow, ever the elusive trickster, vanished the moment her gaze so much as brushed him.
That left only one path.
She climbed the old trail to the household of the war chief and his wife, each step weighted with suspicion.
When she reached the gate, the sun had dipped low, ready to give way to the night.
She knocked.
No answer.
A ruckus came from inside.
She knocked again, louder.
Still nothing.
Yelling. Crashes. Shrieks of laughter.
With a sigh and a muttered blessing to the ancestors, she pushed the door open.
"I could hear you, so I let myself in…" Her voice trailed off as her eyes took in the scene.
It was a warzone.
Furniture overturned. A cooking bowl tipped over, its contents oozing across the floor. A ceremonial robe dangled from a ceiling beam — how it got up there, the ancestors only knew.
And in the center of it all: the chaos incarnate.
The baby.
Cackling wildly as he sprint-crawled through the wreckage like a feral starling, golden eyes blazing with mischief.
Nyxari — Nyxari — was chasing after him with a half-tied braid, soot on her cheek, and the look of a woman who had long since surrendered to fate.
Nocte, across the room, was wrestling with Noctari, who had apparently decided she too was a baby and had stripped down to nothing but her undergarments and a grin to match the infant's.
Tseraka stood in the doorway, thunderstruck.
It took a moment for Nyxari to notice her.
She straightened, wiped her hands on a stained sash, and gave a nod. "Tseraka."
"What in the two moons is going on in here?" the shamaness asked, eyes narrowing. "From the time I heard you were pregnant to the time I climbed this hill, it seems you've birthed a child and raised him a year."
She arched a brow, gaze settling on the baby now squirming in Nyxari's grip.
But Nyxari was already raising a hand. "We can explain. Just give me a moment."
The baby had tangled himself in a piece of cloth, and Nyxari, with one hand, worked to free him.
Tseraka's mouth opened again, a protest rising on her breath — but before the words came, Nyxari shoved the untangled baby directly into her arms.
Startled by the sudden contact, the shamaness stepped back instinctively — but when she met the baby's gaze, she froze.
Those eyes.
Gold, radiant, ancient.
Nocte, finally wrangling Noctari into a seated position, caught the moment and grinned.
"Great explanation."
His wife, grinning despite herself, winked back.
Looking into those eyes that look like suns in the night sky, she couldn't help but feel something from within him.
There was something in him.
There was potential in him.
Not power — not yet. But the kindling of something raw. Something old. Something she wanted to be hers.
Not liking the look Tseraka was giving the babe, Nyxari drew the boy back into her arms, wiping soot from his brow. "Haven't named him yet, but he's ours now."
"Hmm, it seems so. And the tale of your pregnancy?"
Nyxari turned to Nocte.
With a sigh, he recounted the tale from the massacred village to Crow's convoluted plan.
The Old Shamaness was left speechless at first, then let out a low whistle. "Crow is shrewd," she said. "A liar, a schemer — but shrewd. The way he twisted the tale… I don't know if I should applaud or beat him with a branch."
Nyxari allowed herself a breath of laughter.
"I'll help you," the shamaness went on. "I'll lend weight to the lie. I'll call him yours. But I want him."
Nyxari's smile faded.
"I want the boy," Tseraka said clearly. "To raise. To shape. He needs to learn his heritage, what he is."
Nocte stepped forward. "No."
Tseraka's brow arched, but Nocte didn't falter. "He stays with us."
"You're making a mistake."
"No," he said again. "You just don't understand what he means to me."
Tseraka blinked. "You think this is about sentiment? This child is Dusknari. There hasn't been a live one in a generation. His bloodline could shape the very laws of spirit and night. That boy is fate wearing skin."
"That boy," Nocte growled, "is my heir."
Tseraka stared at him.
Nyxari stared at him.
"You forget," Nocte continued, voice low and steady, "Nyxari cannot bear again. She nearly died bringing Noctari into this world. I thought that was the end of it — no sons, no future to carry my name. And yes, she's Matriarch now, but for how long?"
He looked at Nyxari — not with doubt, but truth. "This tribe is young, but its bones are old. Our customs date back to before the jungle even existed. A woman may rule in power, but not forever. When the time comes to choose a successor, it must be a man of one of the Seven Great Clans. And we have only a daughter."
He turned to Tseraka. "What do you think happens when that day comes? Do we relinquish power, like Nyxari's kin were forced to when they had no sons to take her place? Or worse, send Noctari to off another tribe to preserve the bloodline?"
Nyxari flinched, but said nothing.
"This child," Nocte said, voice firm now, "is not only a son — he is Dusknari. He is powerful, and he is unclaimed. No family. No past. No enemies. A blank slate."
He stepped between Tseraka and Nyxari, who was holding the child.
"I will raise him. Not just to lead — but to surpass me. To carry this tribe further than I ever could, further than I was allowed to. He will have my name. My teachings. My flesh. My blood, even my bones if need be."
Tseraka regarded him for a long, slow moment.
Then, quietly: "You're staking everything on a child you found in the wild."
"I am," Nocte said.
"And if you're wrong?"
"I am not."
A long silence passed.
Finally, Tseraka gave a slight nod. "Very well. I'll play along. For now."
She moved toward the door but stopped short.
"He may carry your name," she said without turning, "but don't think for a moment he'll be yours alone."
"When the boy comes of age," she said, looking back, "he will train under both of us."
Nyxari looked to Nocte, then nodded slowly. "That's fair."
"No," Nocte said flatly. "You are being greedy. Noctari will be your disciple soon enough. That was always the agreement."
Tseraka turned then, eyes narrowing. "You call it greed, but it is custom. Every Varnari woman born of the Great Seven must learn the shamanic arts. Noctari was always going to be mine — you just hadn't accepted it yet."
"She is your bloodline's heir," she added, voice cool. "The girl is promised to spirits, whether you like it or not. I'll train the boy separately."
Nocte's jaw clenched. "He is not yours to mold."
"He's not yours to hoard," she shot back.
Silence pulsed between them — tight, taut, and rising.
Then Tseraka softened her voice. "You fear what the truth might bring. I can make sure no one ever suspects his origins. No whispers about his blood, no Dusknari markings, no sudden questions when his eyes start glowing in moonlight."
She stepped closer, folding her arms. "Let me guide him, with you. I will help shape him in secret. I will teach him silence, symbols, and self-control. And in return…"
She turned to Nyxari.
"I will give him a name. Now. One spoken by a shaman holds weight — weight that roots him in your family, and makes the lie real in ways your words never could."
Nyxari hesitated.
Nocte didn't respond.
Tseraka turned to him directly. "You want him to lead one day? Then you know how much a name matters. If he is yours, let me seal it. A boy with no name cannot claim a legacy."
Nyxari looked to her husband. "Nocte…"
A long breath left his chest like steam.
"…Fine," he said at last. "But you keep your teachings quiet."
Tseraka smirked. "Have I ever been loud?"
She stepped forward, slowly, and placed a hand gently on the boy's head.
His golden eyes blinked up at her, curious and unafraid.
"In the sight of moonlight and memory," she murmured, "I name you Spectrasol, Light of the hidden sun, soul touched by unseen brilliance…Son of Night. Child of Twilight Flame. Born not from the womb, but from the will of shadows."
As she chanted, energy seemed to flow around the room and into the baby.
The baby sneezed.
Tseraka laughed.
"This one shall be more mighty than Noctis Primara himself."
Nyxari couldn't help but beam with a smile.
Even Nocte cracked a reluctant smile.