The terrible thing that night wasn't just the weather. It was alive, hungry, and old – a creature ripped straight from the heart of time itself. It crashed into the Scottish manor with a personal fury, throwing stones and shaking the very foundation, as if the house was a direct insult. Winds tore at the walls, screaming and ripping, pulling the old shutters off and whistling through every crack in the stone. Rain fell in heavy sheets, making the thick windows almost impossible to see through. Above, the thunder rumbled, a voice bigger than any man or memory, and lightning flashed, painting the manor's towers white for brief seconds.
Inside the room where Elara was giving birth, the fire in the fireplace struggled to stay alive, its flames flickering and almost going out with each gust. The warmth it gave was barely enough to fight the creeping cold, and its light danced wildly, throwing desperate shadows on the stone walls, as if the room itself was shaking. Elara didn't scream from pain, but from a deep, primal effort, like creation fighting against nothing. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the sweat-soaked sheets. Her husband, Alistair, stood beside her, his face tight with a reluctant encouragement. Then, a small sound cut through the storm and Elara's efforts, a weak, trembling cry of outrage.
The midwife, relief and exhaustion on her face, held up the kicking, bloody baby. A daughter, she said, her voice shaking slightly. Alistair's face, usually as hard as stone, softened and broke into a rare, bright smile. He looked from his wife's sweaty, happy face to the crying baby. "Christina", he whispered, the name sounded like a promise, a blessing spoken into the wild darkness. For a single, frozen moment, the world was perfect: Alistair, Elara, their little son Clark asleep downstairs, and now Christina Isla. A whole family.
The moment shattered when the window did.
It wasn't just breaking; it was being destroyed. Glass flew inward, a thousand shining pieces caught briefly in the firelight, as the storm poured into the room. A man in smooth black clothing dropped into a crouch, silent and fluid. The midwife's scream was cut short, muffled in her throat. The firelight reflected off the man's mask: a smooth, blank surface that seemed to swallow the light, and the cruelly beautiful knife in his hand.
His name was Sleven. He moved with a deadly efficiency. He ignored Alistair, who was already yelling and grabbing for the heavy iron poker. He ignored the shrinking midwife. His eyes, cold and dark behind the blank mask, focused on the newborn.
He moved with the speed of a striking snake. Elara, acting on a mother's instinct, didn't think. She threw herself over the crib, a shield of love and desperation. There was a soft sound... almost a sigh, as Sleven's knife went deep, not into the child, but into the mother's heart.
Alistair's world turned red with rage. He swung the poker with a strength born of despair, surprising Sleven and knocking him back. The killer, unable to reach his target, didn't hesitate. He melted back into the shadows and out the broken window, disappearing into the storm as quickly as he had appeared.
A sudden, deafening silence fell, broken only by the baby's cries and the wind howling through the broken window. Alistair fell to the floor beside the bed, holding Elara's lifeless body. He rocked her, calling her name, his tears falling on her still-warm cheek, his sobs raw and broken.
Then his eyes, filled with tears and a pain so deep it bordered on madness, lifted.
They landed on the source of the crying. The child. His daughter.
His face didn't just harden; it shattered and reformed into something made of ash and ice. The love that had been there moments before was gone, replaced by a bitter hate that seemed to poison the air. The midwife, shaking in the corner, would never forget the curses he spat out, each word aimed at the heavens.
"You", he said, his voice trembling with disgust. "You took her from me. You are a curse. A plague. Death follows you."
Downstairs in the basement, six-year-old Clark stirred in his sleep, a small frown on his face, unaware that his life had just been torn in half, and that the despair that had befallen his new sister would haunt them forever.