Thunder split the sky open.
Rain fell like spears hurled from the heavens, striking the earth with brutal force and turning village paths into raging rivers of mud. The wind screamed through the trees, bending them low, tearing at their branches, whispering warnings only the spirits could understand. Elders would later say the storm was no coincidence—that the world itself resisted what had been born that night.
Inside a small hut lit by a trembling oil lamp, Zawadi screamed.
Pain tore through her body in merciless waves, each stronger than the last. Her teeth clenched, nails digging into the woven mat beneath her until her fingers burned. Sweat drenched her skin, mixing with rainwater that leaked through the thatched roof. Her breath came in sharp, broken gasps.
"Hold on, mother," the midwife pleaded, though her voice trembled despite her years of experience. "Just a little longer. Push—now!"
Zawadi gathered every fragment of strength left within her. She had endured hardship before—war camps, hunger, loss. She was the wife of a general, trained not only to survive, but to endure. She screamed again, pouring her will into that final push—
—and the world answered.
A cry cut through the storm.
High. Sharp. Alive.
The first child entered the world screaming, his voice slicing through thunder as lightning split the sky in white fire.
Moments later, another cry followed—deeper, louder, carrying a strange weight to it, as if it demanded attention. Outside, the storm faltered for a heartbeat, rain softening, as though the sky itself had paused to listen.
The midwife staggered back.
Twins.
Her hands shook as she lifted the newborns, her breath caught between awe and fear.
"C-congratulations," she said at last, forcing the words past her tightening throat. "You have twin boys. They are healthy."
Zawadi collapsed back against the mat, tears flooding her eyes.
"Thank the gods," she whispered as she pulled the babies to her chest. Their warmth steadied her racing heart. For a moment—just a moment—the prophecy felt distant, unreal.
The midwife cleaned the infants carefully, her movements slow, deliberate. She wrapped the first child in cloth, then reached for the second.
That was when she saw it.
Her hands froze.
On the first child's back, faint lines spread beneath the skin—soft, curved shapes, symmetrical, stretching from the shoulder blades outward. They looked like wings drawn by smoke, pale and shadowed, neither dark nor bright.
The midwife's breath caught.
She pulled the cloth back further.
On the second child's back, the same shape appeared—but clearer, sharper. The lines were lighter, almost glowing in the flicker of the oil lamp, yet dulled by a shadow that clung to their edges.
Not black.
Not white.
Grey.
The marks were not carved. Not burned. Not painted.
They were born.
The oil lamp flickered violently, its flame shrinking as if afraid. Thunder roared overhead, deep and furious, rattling the hut walls.
The midwife staggered back, the cloth slipping from her fingers.
"What is it?" Zawadi asked, her voice weak—but alert.
The midwife did not answer.
Zawadi followed her gaze.
Slowly, she pulled the cloth aside and saw the marks for herself.
Her breath vanished.
The wings lay quiet on their backs, smooth and perfect, as if the skin itself had decided this shape long before birth. No blood. No wound. Just form—unmistakable.
"I asked that as a hypothetical question," Zawadi whispered, tears spilling freely down her cheeks.
"Not as a challenge."
The midwife swallowed hard, fear tightening her throat.
"I… I must report this," she said quietly. "It is the Chief's law."
"No." Zawadi's voice sharpened instantly. She pulled her children closer, her arms locking around them. "Please. They are only babies."
The midwife hesitated, trembling, torn between compassion and terror.
Then fear won.
She turned and stepped outside.
Rain swallowed her silhouette.
Zawadi's heart began to pound.
She knew what came next.
Footsteps.
Shouting.
Metal clinking against metal.
The guards were coming.
Zawadi moved.
Pain still burned through her body, but survival drowned it out. She wrapped the twins tightly against her chest, securing them with practiced hands, then reached beneath the mat.
Her fingers closed around a short blade—hidden long ago, forgotten by most, but never by her.
She stood.
The hut door burst open.
Three guards rushed in, spears raised, rainwater streaming down their armor.
"By order of the Chief!" one shouted. "Hand over the children!"
Zawadi did not answer.
She moved.
The first guard lunged—too slow.
Zawadi stepped inside his reach, twisted her body, and slammed the hilt of her blade into his throat. He collapsed choking, his spear clattering uselessly to the ground.
The second guard swung wildly. Zawadi ducked low, pain ripping through her abdomen—but she endured. She drove her foot into his knee, snapping it sideways with a sickening crack, then followed with an elbow to his jaw.
He dropped.
The third guard hesitated.
That was his mistake.
Zawadi surged forward, slashing his arm and shoving him back into the rain-soaked mud outside the hut. Rain washed his blood into the earth like an offering.
She stood there breathing hard—soaked, bleeding, trembling—
—but unbroken.
The guards stared at her in disbelief.
This was no helpless woman.
This was the wife of General Bahati.
A trained fighter.
A survivor.
A mother defending her children.
More voices echoed in the darkness.
More guards were coming.
Zawadi turned and ran.
Bare feet struck the mud as she vanished into the storm, clutching her sons tightly as thunder roared behind her. Rain erased her trail. Darkness swallowed her form.
Deep within the storm, unseen and ancient, spirits watched in silence.
The prophecy had spoken of doom.
But it had not spoken of a mother's wrath.
This was the beginning of resentment—
but for now, survival was all that mattered.
Thunder split the sky open.
Rain fell like spears hurled from the heavens, striking the earth with brutal force and turning village paths into raging rivers of mud. The wind screamed through the trees, bending them low, tearing at their branches, whispering warnings only the spirits could understand. Elders would later say the storm was no coincidence—that the world itself had resisted what had been born that night.
Inside a small hut lit by a trembling oil lamp, Zawadi screamed.
Pain tore through her body in merciless waves, each stronger than the last. Her teeth clenched, her nails digging into the woven mat beneath her until her fingers burned. Sweat drenched her skin, mixing with rainwater that leaked through the thatched roof. Her breath came in sharp, broken gasps."Hold on, mother," the midwife pleaded, her voice trembling despite her years of experience. "Just a little longer. Push—now!"Zawadi gathered every fragment of strength left within her. She had endured hardship before—war camps, hunger, loss. She was the wife of a general, trained not only to survive, but to endure. She screamed again, pouring her will into that final push——and the world answered.A cry cut through the storm.High. Sharp. Alive.The first child entered the world screaming, his voice slicing through thunder as lightning split the sky in white fire.Moments later, another cry followed—deeper, louder, carrying a strange weight to it, as if it commanded attention. The storm outside faltered, rain softening for a heartbeat, as though the sky itself had paused to listen.The midwife staggered back.Twins.Her hands shook as she lifted the newborns, her breath caught between awe and fear."C-congratulations," she said at last, forcing the words past her tightening throat. "You have twin boys. They are healthy."Zawadi collapsed back against the mat, tears flooding her eyes."Thank the gods," she whispered as she pulled the babies to her chest. Their warmth steadied her racing heart, grounding her in that fragile moment of peace. For a heartbeat, the prophecy felt distant—almost unreal.The midwife cleaned the infants carefully and began wrapping them in cloth.Then she saw it.Her body went cold.On each child's back were wing-shaped markings, etched into their skin like living ink. Not black. Not white.Grey.A perfect fusion of light and darkness—unnatural, forbidden, wrong.The oil lamp flickered violently, its flame shrinking as if afraid.Thunder roared overhead, deep and furious, as though the sky itself had recognized them.The midwife's hands shook so badly the cloth slipped from her fingers."What is it?" Zawadi asked, her voice weak—but alert.The midwife stepped back slowly, her face drained of color.Zawadi uncovered her sons.Her breath vanished."I asked that as a hypothetical question," she whispered, tears spilling freely down her cheeks.
"Not as a challenge."Fear crawled into the midwife's heart, coiling tight."I… I must report this," she said quietly. "It is the Chief's law.""No." Zawadi's voice sharpened instantly. She pulled her children closer, her arms tightening around them. "Please. They are only babies."The midwife hesitated, caught between compassion and terror. Then fear won.She turned and stepped outside.Rain swallowed her silhouette whole.Zawadi's heart began to pound.She knew what came next.Footsteps.
Shouting.
Metal clinking against metal.The guards were coming.Zawadi moved fast.Pain still burned through her body, but survival drowned it out. She wrapped the twins tightly against her chest, securing them with practiced hands, then reached beneath the mat.Her fingers closed around a short blade—hidden long ago, forgotten by most, but never by her.She stood.The hut door burst open.Three guards rushed in, spears raised, rainwater streaming down their armor."By order of the Chief!" one shouted. "Hand over the children!"Zawadi did not answer.She moved.The first guard lunged—too slow.Zawadi stepped inside his reach, twisted her body, and slammed the hilt of her blade into his throat. He collapsed, choking, his spear clattering uselessly to the ground.The second guard swung his weapon in panic. Zawadi ducked low, pain ripping through her abdomen—but she endured. She drove her foot into his knee, snapping it sideways with a sickening crack, then followed with an elbow to his jaw.He dropped without a sound.The third guard hesitated.That was his mistake.Zawadi hurled herself forward, slashing his arm and shoving him back into the rain-soaked mud outside the hut. Rain washed his blood into the earth, where it vanished like an offering.She stood there breathing hard—soaked, bleeding, trembling——but unbroken.The guards stared at her in disbelief.This was no helpless woman.This was the wife of General Bahati.
A trained fighter.
A survivor.
A mother defending her children.More voices echoed from the darkness.More guards were coming.Zawadi turned and ran.Bare feet struck the mud as she vanished into the storm, clutching her sons tightly as thunder roared behind her. Rain erased her trail. Darkness swallowed her form.Deep within the storm, unseen and ancient, spirits watched with quiet approval.The prophecy had spoken of doom.But it had not spoken of a mother's wrath.This was the beginning of resentment—
but for now, survival was all that mattered.Meanwhile…At the border between their village and the neighboring land, Bahati frowned.The night felt wrong.No elders.
No messengers.
No signs of peace talks.Only soldiers.Rows of armed men stood waiting beneath torchlight, their armor gleaming wet beneath the rain."Are we attacking directly?" Bahati asked, confusion tightening his voice."Yes," the Chief's son said sharply as he stepped forward. "They have provoked us for too long."Bahati studied the soldiers, his unease growing.Something felt off.
Terribly off.This was not how peace talks began.But he could not place his finger on it. The feeling gnawed at him, whispering warnings he could not yet understand.He pushed the thought aside.Duty came first.Without knowing how right his instincts were—
or how far away his family was running for their lives—
Bahati stepped forward to lead his comrades into battle.