The rain had been falling since dusk—slow at first, then harder, as if the sky itself had grown restless. Thunder rolled above the village, deep and warning, shaking the rooftops and the ancient trees that stood like silent witnesses around the houses.
Inside the small home at the edge of the village, a child sat curled near the doorway, counting the seconds between each flash of lightning. He did not know why his chest felt so tight that night. He only knew that the air felt wrong—heavy, trembling, as though something unseen was waiting to happen.
His mother was the first to notice.
She stood still, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table as the lamps flickered. Her eyes, once soft, now reflected a fear she tried to hide. She looked at her son, then at her husband, and in that glance lived a thousand unspoken truths.
"It has begun," she whispered.
The boy did not understand her words. He only felt his mother's sudden urgency as she knelt before him, holding his face between her palms. Her hands were warm, shaking.
"No matter what happens," she said, her voice breaking, "you must live."
Lightning tore across the sky. The door burst open.
Men from the village stood outside—faces half-hidden by rain, eyes refusing to meet each other's gaze. These were the same people who had shared meals with them, prayed beside them, laughed with them. Tonight, none of them looked familiar.
The boy stared at them, confused.
"Why are they here?" he asked.
No one answered.
His father stepped forward, placing himself between the child and the door. There was no weapon in his hands—only resolve. Only love.
"You gave us shelter," his father said quietly, rain dripping from his hair. "You watched him grow. You know what he is—and what he is not."
A man from the crowd spoke, his voice trembling.
"The blood you carry is cursed. The power in your lineage was never meant to exist."
The words meant nothing to the child. Blood. Curse. Power. They were empty sounds, floating far above his understanding.
Another thunderclap split the sky.
It happened quickly after that—too quickly for sense to catch up with fear.
His father pushed him back, hard, just as something struck the doorway. The boy fell, the world spinning, his ears ringing with thunder and screams. When he looked up, his father was still standing—but barely.
"Run," his father said.
The child didn't move.
His mother rushed to him, pulling him close, shielding him with her body. Her breath was uneven, her heart racing beneath his ear.
"You must remember," she whispered, pressing something into his hand. He felt a small object—cold, broken, unfinished. "Never let the darkness choose for you."
Those were her last words.
The rain grew louder. The world fractured into noise and shadow. The child screamed—once, twice, again and again—his voice raw as he tried to reach them. He crawled forward, shaking his parents, begging them to wake up.
"Please," he cried. "Please get up. I'm here. I'm here."
They did not move.
The storm answered him instead.
Somewhere between the thunder and his sobs, he saw it—a small shadow, pressed against the far wall. It did not belong to the firelight or the lightning. It moved when nothing else did.
Watching.
The villagers were gone by the time the rain slowed. Doors stood open. Footsteps had been washed away. No explanations remained—only silence and the broken remains of a life that had existed hours before.
The child sat there until dawn.
At first, he cried until his throat burned. Then he cried until there were no tears left. When his voice finally died, something else took its place—something cold, something still.
He stopped shaking his parents.
He stopped calling their names.
When he looked at his hands, they no longer felt like his own.
By morning, his eyes had changed. The fear was still there, buried deep—but above it lay something darker. Emotion drained from his gaze, leaving behind a hollow calm that did not belong to a child.
The rain had washed the village clean.
But it could not wash away betrayal.
He did not know why they had done it.
He did not know what power slept in his blood.
He did not know why he had been spared.
All he knew was this:
That night had taken everything.
And in return, it had left him broken—
and something else had begun to grow in the cracks.