The visitor's words clung to her like smoke. Even after he had stepped beyond the hut's threshold and vanished into the grey beyond, the taste of his warning lingered bitter on her tongue. She sat for a while in the same spot, knees tucked to her chest, listening to the empty wind that threaded through the cracks in the walls.
The fire had long since died, leaving the air cold enough to bite at her fingers. She pulled her shawl tighter, but the chill felt as though it came from somewhere deeper than the weather — a creeping, hollow cold that seemed to live in her bones.
Her hand moved instinctively to her belly. Beneath her palm, the heartbeat pulsed, strong and steady, like the distant beat of a war drum. It was not the rhythm of her own heart. It had never been. That knowledge still unnerved her, yet lately it brought something else — a strange, unshakable sense of protection.
Outside, the village streets lay unnaturally still. No laughter of children. No sound of hammers or carts. Just a muffled stillness, as if the very air had learned to tread carefully around her hut.
The crow was there again — perched on the window's crooked frame, feathers ruffled against the coming storm. It did not speak. It never did. But its black eyes followed her every move with a patience that felt almost… loyal.
She lowered herself to the floorboards, pressing both hands against her belly as another movement rippled through her. This time it was not gentle — a sharp, sudden push that made her gasp. Heat flared outward from the point of contact, flowing up her ribs and down to her legs. She could almost hear it — a low hum, deep and thrumming like the earth itself.
Her lips parted. "I won't let them take you," she whispered. The sound of her own voice surprised her — not soft or pleading this time, but firm. A vow.
The crow gave a single, low caw, head tilting toward the darkening sky. Beyond the thatched roofs, clouds were gathering thick and fast, bruised purple and swollen with rain. The wind rose, no longer soft but edged, as though carrying whispers that clawed at the corners of the mind.
The visitor's warning had not been idle. The storm was not coming.
It was already here.