The storm rolled across the frontier plains like a living thing—thunder sprawling through the heavens, lightning clawing wild arcs over the distant hills. The caravan trundled onward through the downpour, its wagons creaking beneath sheets of wind-whipped rain. Lanterns swayed violently from hooked posts, their flames guttering but never quite dying, protected by layers of oiled glass. Horses snorted and stamped nervously, sensitive to something in the air that was not merely weather.
Inside the covered wagon at the center of the procession, Doris struggled through her contractions.
Her breaths came in sharp, pained bursts. Sweat mingled with rainwater dripping through the canvas roof. Her caramel-brown hair clung to her cheeks in damp strands as she gripped the edges of the wagon bed. John knelt beside her, one large hand bracing her back, the other gripping her trembling fingers.
"It's coming too fast," Doris hissed, her voice ragged. "John… gods, this isn't how we planned—"
"We planned for the road," John reminded her softly. "Our family has always been on the road." His deep voice was steady, calm, though his eyes—dark and sharp as forged iron—betrayed flickers of fear.
Lightning cracked overhead, illuminating the interior of the wagon in a stark flash. In that heartbeat of white-blue light, something strange shimmered around Doris—like the air itself rippled, bending in toward her, or away from her, John couldn't tell. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but he felt it like a pressure on his skin, a subtle warping of space.
Doris squeezed her eyes shut. "Not now," she whispered, as if to something unseen. "Not while he's being born. Please… not now."
John's jaw clenched. He knew better than to ask what she meant—knew better than to acknowledge the oddities that sometimes flickered around his wife when she was emotional or exhausted. They had made a silent pact early on:
Some things are safer not spoken aloud.
Outside, the storm intensified. Distantly, the caravan master yelled orders; warriors shouted to secure the flanks. John recognized the sound of swords being drawn, the distinctive metallic hiss mixing with the downpour. Trouble. Of course, this night wouldn't be simple. Nothing ever was on the frontier.
Another contraction seized Doris, and she cried out, her fingers crushing John's hand with surprising strength. The wagon rocked violently as something slammed against its outer frame.
John twisted, instinctively reaching for the sword at his hip, but Doris gasped, dragging him back. "Don't you dare leave," she said through clenched teeth. "I am not giving birth alone in a storm while you play hero outside."
Her tone was so fiercely controlled that John blinked. Then he nodded, gently prying her fingers from his sword hilt.
"I'm here," he promised. "I'm not leaving you."
The wagon shook again—closer this time. A roar echoed from the darkness beyond the canvas walls. Not thunder. Something else. Something alive.
John exhaled slowly, willing his racing heart under control. "Dorothy!" he called. "I need you—now!"
A second later, the back flap of the wagon pulled open and a cloaked woman clambered inside, soaked from the rain. Dorothy's weathered face was pale, her grey hair braided back tightly. Her sharp eyes flicked over John, Doris, then to the vague outline of something skittering past outside the wagon.
"So, it's happening," Dorothy said breathlessly. "Stormborn indeed."
"Stormborn?" John muttered.
Dorothy ignored the question. She knelt at Doris's other side, rolling up her sleeves. "I've seen births in far worse places, girl. You're strong. Focus on the child. Not the storm. Not the shadows."
Doris managed a weak, strained laugh. "Shadows? So, you feel it too?"
Dorothy didn't answer, which was answer enough.
The wagon lurched again—harder. The horses neighed in terror. Roars echoed from somewhere up ahead and to the left. John recognized the sound then: rough, guttural, with a rattling undertone.
Ridgeclaw. A frontier predator. Strong, fast, and drawn to storms.
His hand hovered toward his sword once more, but before he could touch it, Doris squeezed his wrist. Her eyes—normally warm hazel—glimmered with unnatural silver light for a fleeting moment.
The air inside the wagon twisted.
Just a ripple. Barely there. But John felt the angle of the wagon shift slightly—though nothing had physically moved.
Dorothy instantly pressed a hand to Doris's forehead. "No bending space, you hear me? Not during childbirth. Not at your strength right now. It could tear you apart."
Doris groaned. "I'm not—trying—"
Another contraction wracked her body. Dorothy guided her through breathing, murmuring reassurances with an intensity that made John realize this was not just concern for Doris's health but for something larger—something dangerous.
Outside, the roars grew closer.
John swallowed hard. "If it gets through, I'll have to—"
"No," Doris snapped, the force in her weakened voice surprising even herself. "You stay. Here. With me."
Dorothy shot him a look that carried decades of unspoken truths. "She needs you. And the boy needs you most of all."
Her tone carried an implication he didn't understand—yet.
John forced himself to focus on Doris, not the howls or the shaking wagon or the pounding of his own pulse. Rain hammered the roof like a warning.
Doris screamed as another contraction hit, her back arching off the wagon bed.
"Push!" Dorothy commanded. "Now!"
John supported Doris as she bore down, every muscle in her body straining. For a moment, the storm, the Ridgeclaws, the fear—all of it vanished, replaced by a singular, primal effort.
The roar outside snapped the moment violently. The wagon listed to one side as something enormous slammed into its wheels. Wood cracked.
"John!" a voice outside shouted. "We need—"
John didn't hear the rest because Doris gave one final cry—and a new sound filled the wagon.
A thin, wailing cry. High, piercing. Alive.
Dorothy moved swiftly, catching the tiny, slippery form and wrapping him in a wool blanket. "A boy," she whispered, relief softening her stern features. "Brian."
But even as she lifted him, the lantern flame flickered wildly—not from wind.
From Brian.
The air around him vibrated, a faint shiver of heat radiating outward, then pulling inward, collapsing on itself before releasing again. A pulse—like a heartbeat in the air.
Dorothy froze.
John stared, stunned. "What was that?"
Doris slumped back, exhausted, but her eyes were wide with fear. "No… not this early… he can't… he shouldn't…"
A shriek from outside cut her off. The wagon bucked. Claws tore across the canvas, ripping through in jagged lines.
Dorothy thrust Brian into John's arms. "Take him."
John blinked down at the tiny face, still red and crying but impossibly warm, almost feverish. The baby's fingers twitched—and the lantern flame bent toward him unnaturally, as if drawn.
Dorothy threw her cloak aside, revealing a short staff etched with runes. "They're coming for the scent of blood and magic," she said. "I'll hold them."
"You?" John said, startled. Dorothy was many things—odd, secretive, uncomfortably perceptive—but warrior was not a word he'd associated with her.
But her stance, the way she held the staff—this was not the demeanour of a simple caravan friend.
Doris pushed herself upright despite her exhaustion. "John… protect him. Whatever happens."
He nodded, holding Brian tightly. The baby's wails softened as if sensing the danger around him.
The wagon's front panel shattered inward as a ridgeclaw lunged through—a hulking beast with elongated limbs, hook-like claws, and a jaw lined with serrated teeth. Rainwater dripped from its dark, matted fur.
Dorothy slammed the butt of her staff into the ground. A shimmering barrier snapped into place, halting the creature mid-lunge. It snarled, rippling with frustration, claws scratching at the invisible wall.
Doris gasped. "Dorothy, that's—"
"Old tricks," Dorothy muttered. "Ones we hoped not to need again."
The ridgeclaw reared back, preparing to strike again—but before it could, another ripple shuddered through the air around Brian.
Heat radiated outward in a sudden burst—enough to warm John's face even through the storm-chilled night. The ridgeclaw growled, eyes narrowing at the newborn.
Dorothy swore under her breath. "The child is resonating."
Doris's voice trembled. "His father…" she whispered.
John stiffened. "Doris, what does that—"
She didn't finish, because a second ridgeclaw crashed into the wagon from the opposite side. The wooden frame cracked loudly.
Dorothy turned, raising her staff for another barrier—but this time she was too slow.
The creature tore through the side of the wagon—only to be blasted backward by a sudden gust of wind.
Not natural wind.
Wind pushed from the child.
Brian.
His cry rose in pitch, and the air swirled violently, rattling the wagon's interior, sending papers and blankets into the air. Rain blew inward through the broken canvas, caught in the small vortex forming around John and the baby.
Dorothy stared in horrified awe. "He's… combining elements? Fire and Wind? But he's a newborn—"
"He's Voidborn," Doris whispered. "And more."
The ridgeclaw shrieked again, struggling to stand. Dorothy lunged, shouting an incantation that twisted the space between her staff and the creature. The beast convulsed, limbs folding awkwardly as if crushed by a force from an unnatural angle.
It collapsed, lifeless.
Dorothy slumped forward, panting. "I can't hold many of those," she said through clenched teeth.
Yet outside, more howls rose. Dozens.
The storm muffled their exact number, but the intent was unmistakable: the caravan was under assault. And Brian's cry—his magic—was drawing predators in like a beacon.
John clutched his newborn son tighter. "We have to get out of here."
Dorothy nodded. "The Ridgeclaws aren't working alone. Something else is agitating them. Something worse."
Doris shivered, pulling her blanket around herself. "The Paragons."
John felt his breath catch. "Them? Here? How—"
"They've been chasing echoes," Doris whispered. "Searching for me. For… him." She looked at Brian with a mixture of fear and fierce love. "They must have felt the space distortion during the birth."
Dorothy cursed softly. "Then we have to move. Now."
Outside, warriors shouted, steel clanged against bone and claw. The storm turned crimson in bursts where torches reflected against spilled blood.
John lifted Brian. The child was quiet now, his eyes half-open, gazing at the flickering lantern flame as though mesmerized. Small tendrils of warm air drifted around him, tugging at John's cloak.
Doris reached out, brushing Brian's cheek with trembling fingers. "My sweet boy," she whispered. "I hoped you would be ordinary… I hoped fate would spare you."
John kissed her forehead gently. "We'll protect him. Both of us."
Dorothy, bracing herself against the wagon frame, let out a long, weary sigh. "This was supposed to happen later," she muttered. "Much later."
The wagon shook again as another creature slammed against it.
Dorothy planted her staff. "John," she said without turning. "Take Doris. Take Brian. Go. The caravan master ordered a retreat toward the canyon pass. That's the safest route. I'll buy you time."
"Dorothy—" John began.
"Go," she snapped, her voice uncharacteristically sharp. "You're the only one who can keep them safe. And the child… is too important to lose."
John didn't understand fully— not yet —but trusted her enough to obey. He helped Doris rise to her feet, steadying her fragile, exhausted form. She leaned heavily on him, clutching the side of the wagon.
Dorothy turned back, eyes blazing with an intensity that made her look far younger. "I'll meet you at the pass."
The wagon's front panel gave way. Ridgeclaws snarled, leaping into the opening. Dorothy thrust her staff forward, and space folded around the creatures—twisting their momentum, hurling them sideways into the storm.
John didn't wait to see what happened next.
He pulled Doris close with one arm, cradled Brian with the other, and kicked open the rear flap of the wagon.
The night air hit them like a wall—cold, sharp, rain-lashed. Lightning split the sky, illuminating chaos. Wagons burned. Warriors fought surrounded by red eyes. The storm had turned into a battleground of claw, steel, and firelight.
John gritted his teeth.
Brian stirred, small fingers curling around the edge of his blanket. The air around him shimmered once more—softly. A pulse of warmth in the cold storm.
John whispered, "Hold on, little one."
And together, with Doris leaning on him and the newborn pressed against his chest, they plunged into the storm and ran.