"My baby… he—he's gone," Abigail murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper, fragile as the wind. Her arms stretched forward instinctively, trembling as they reached into the void where her child had been. Just moments ago, she had held his tiny body close to her chest, protecting him with every breath she had. Now, her arms were empty, and the space in her heart had laird into an abyss.
Tears carved rivers down her cheeks, hot and ceaseless, blurring her vision as she rocked forward and back in disbelief. Her breath hitched, turning to shallow gasps as something primal began to stir within her body–a storm unlike anything she'd ever known. There were no words for what she felt. It was as though the earth had cracked open beneath her and swallowed everything she loved. But it truly had, because her baby died.
Her body convulsed. What had been despair became rage, and what had been sorrow morphed into something ancient and terrifying. She pressed her nails into the dirt, clawing at the sandy ground as if she could dig time backwards and pull her child from fate's cruel grasp.
The men who had pinned her down earlier exchanged fearful glances, inching backward. Their once-firm grip had loosened the moment her sobs turned into screams. Now they retreated entirely, putting distance between themselves and the storm that was Abigail. Even the most hardened among them knew to never provoke a bereaved mother.
Talon, standing a short distance away, scoffed with disdain. He crossed his arms, lips curling into a sneer. "What is this madness? You've only known the child for a few seconds. Why lose your mind over it?"
He shook his head slowly, disgusted by the display.
"Women," he muttered, "always so eager to make drama out of nothing."
With one careless flick of his wrist, he hurled the infant's corpse through the air toward her. The tiny body spun, pale and lifeless.
Before it could reach Abigail's outstretched hands, a blur of movement intercepted it. Maria darted forward, her face grim, her arms catching the body midair just in time. She fell to her knees, her fingers already pulling a strip of cloth from her own garment. Gently, reverently, she wrapped the baby's body as though tucking it into bed.
"You cannot touch him," Maria said firmly, but her voice trembled with urgency. "Leave it to me."
She backed away, holding the bundle tightly against her chest. Abigail lunged toward her, but the strength in her limbs failed, and she fell to her knees instead.
A sound tore from her throat—part cry, part growl.
Then she stood again.
Slowly.
Each step forward was deliberate, as though she walked not on earth, but through memories and lifetimes. Her legs shook, her gown dragged along the ground, stained with dirt and blood, but she did not stop. Her eyes locked on Talon, glowing red with grief and fury. She pointed at him, accusing and condemning as her voice broke the air like thunder.
"Talon!" she screamed. "This day, I curse you. Your life shall know no peace! Only suffering and agony—ten thousandfold what you have brought upon me!"
She bent down, her fingers closing around a small, jagged stone. Without hesitation, she stabbed it into her palm. Blood welled and flowed freely, and she clenched her wounded hand into a fist. Her arm rose, trembling, and she held it to the sky.
"I offer my blood to the land!" she cried. "Let it bear witness to my pain! May the earth beneath your feet crack and wither! May your men choke on ash and drown in drought! May despair stalk you like your own shadow until you beg for death!"
The air thickened. The wind, which had been still, began to howl with a strange, discordant sound. Sand spiraled upward as if pulled by some unseen force. Birds in the trees screeched and scattered. A gathering storm being called forth not by the sky, but by her fury.
Then—whoosh!—a sudden burst of cold wind swept through the clearing, carrying with it the scent of ancient herbs and scorched bone. A figure shimmered into view at the edge of the field.
"Stop her!" the voice of the figure rang out like a command from ancient time.
All eyes on the battlefield turned to the being like a man approaching. His presence distorted the air around him. Talon's face twitched in irritation as he saw the figure and he stepped forward.
"Rafiki. What has brought you here?"
The being was taller than any of them, his shadow stretching unnaturally long behind him. His scalp was hairless and gnarled, marked with symbols that pulsed faintly. Two great, curved horns protruded from the sides of his skull. His eyes bulged and wild as they glowed with deadly light. He opened his mouth, revealing sharp fangs, and his tongue flicked out—split like a serpent's.
His skeletal hand gripped a staff shaped like a bleached human skull, adorned with feathers and bones. When he slammed it to the ground, a low rumble followed, as though the earth itself was groaning in fear.
"I said stop!" Rafiki boomed again, as he took one step, then two—and in an instant, he was standing before Abigail.
He raised his hand and swung it with unnatural speed towards Abigail's face. CRACK! The slap echoed across the valley. Abigail's body lifted from the ground, spun once midair, and landed hard on the earth several feet away.
She whimpered, her limbs twitching. Blood flowed from her nose and ears. Her eyes blinked rapidly, trying to stay open. The sky above her blurred and dimmed. Her mind wandered back—back to a time when she had laughed beneath this very sky, a time before war, before captivity, before Talon.
Was that happiness real? she wondered. Did I even know what I had then, before it was stolen?
"Why do you interfere?" Talon growled, stepping toward Rafiki. He had really come to detest this being like man over the years and he had viewed him with disdain in contrast to what he had felt for him once when his power was still limited. But now he had gone far and conquered vast expanses that he felt that he needed no more Rafiki's that could pose a threat to his authority.
"You fool," Rafiki snapped. "You think her words mean nothing? That was no ordinary curse. She has laid down a blood vow."
Talon's lip curled. "What threat could she possibly pose? Just a grieving woman screaming at the wind."
Rafiki glared. His aura, becoming more deadly.
"Ignorant child. You are blind to things beyond your grasp. If I had not bound myself to your cause, I would have ended you long ago. You were never worthy of the power I gave you."
Talon faltered. A flicker of doubt crossed his face.
Rafiki turned his back, disgusted. "I wash my hands of you."
He raised his staff, and the bones upon it rattled. "From this day forward, you will not find me. Even in your darkest hour, I shall not come. You are alone now."
He began to vanish, his body dissolving like smoke.
But then—he stopped.
His eyes, unblinking, turned to the sky. A strange glimmer flickered in them. No one else could see what he was looking at, only he did. His mouth curled into a chilling smile.
"Hecuba," he whispered.
And with that, he was gone.
"Hecuba!"
The name echoed faintly like a fading spell still hanging in the air.
Talon's brows knit together. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head toward the sky, mimicking the last glance Rafiki had made before vanishing. The sky was empty. Still, and silent, save for the distant caw of a lone raven. He searched the clouds, the winds, even the rustling of the trees—nothing. No trace of meaning, no clue, no face.
"Why would he speak that name?" he muttered, mostly to himself. "Was it someone? Or something?" His voice faded into thought.
His gaze dropped, and the smirk returned. Whatever cryptic riddle Rafiki had left behind no longer concerned him. That ancient nuisance was gone—gone! That alone was cause for celebration.
Talon threw back his head and let out a roar of laughter, his voice carrying like a whip crack across the valley.
"What better day can I ask for? The old demon is finally gone!"
He turned his head, the gleam of cruelty lighting up his face as he laid eyes on Abigail again. She lay crumpled in the dust like discarded cloth, barely breathing, her chest rising with shallow gasps. Maria hovered beside her, gently dabbing the blood from her face with what little cloth remained of her robes.
Talon spat toward her direction. "Harlot," he sneered with venom, then suddenly—he grinned. His mood flipped like the wind, carried by some wicked inspiration.
"Since you are the cause that has driven him away," he said aloud, "I should reward you."
He spun dramatically and faced a darkened area behind his throne—his throne made from bleached bones, iron spikes, and stretched hide. Behind it, the air itself shimmered unnaturally, as if refusing to fully hold form.
"Shadowtail!" Talon called.
A figure began to emerge from the behind—slowly, almost as if peeled from the shadows themselves. The image solidified into a dark-skinned man, tall and willowy, with limbs too long to be natural. His skin shifted and pulsed like liquid ink under moonlight. His face was obscured by tendrils of moving shadow that coiled and twisted like smoke.
He fell to one knee. "Yes, my lord," he answered in a voice that sounded like wind whispering through hollow bones.
Talon grinned. "I recall seeing a pregnant wench among the last batch of captives. She must've delivered by now, has she not?"
"It is as you said," Shadowtail replied. "She bore the child alone in the dungeon three nights past."
Talon clapped his hands together with glee. "Perfect. Bring them here."
Shadowtail bowed once more. "At once." He vanished without a sound, as if swallowed by the shadows around him.
Moments later, Shadowtail returned—this time dragging chains behind him.
A woman stumbled into the open, her wrists bound and neck shackled by a thick iron collar. Her hair clung to her damp, dirt-smeared face. In her arms, she cradled a newborn baby swaddled in rags. The woman was screaming hoarsely through her sobs. Her whole body trembled with weakness.
Shadowtail jerked the chain forward with a sharp pull. The woman stumbled to her knees, shielding her baby with her arms as she fell.
The men who watched from around the field lowered their heads slightly, some sighing through clenched jaws. The image before them was a cruel mirror of the one they'd seen not long ago from Abigail when she also had been brought, broken and grieving, but now replaced by another mother awaiting horror.
Talon stepped forward, arms spread as if greeting an honored guest.
"Lady," he announced with mock warmth. "It is your lucky day."
The woman's entire body quivered, sweat soaking her rags. Her wide, bloodshot eyes scanned the countless men on the field, as her lips curled in disgust and fear. She looked up at Talon, hate burning behind her tears.
"Luck?" she thought bitterly. What foul joke is this monster playing?
"You need not despair," Talon said, grin widening. "Like I said… it's your lucky day."
Her voice came out hoarse, barely audible through her tears. "W-what do you want from me?"
Talon's eyes sparkled at her sharpness. "Ah, a smart one." He took a step closer, his voice lowering to a more intimate, chilling tone. "I want your baby."
Silence fell.
The woman froze. Her breath hitched, and her arms closed tighter around the infant like an instinctive shield. She took a step back. Her voice cracked into desperation.
"No… no, please… Not my baby."
"Ugh," Talon groaned with an eye roll. "Again with the dramatics." He tilted his head mockingly. "You women really do have a flair for theatrics. I could just take the child by force. Easily." He leaned in, his voice a whisper laced with poison. "But we're not savages, are we? We're humans. We come to terms."
She shook her head violently, her breathing turning to panicked wheezes. "Take me, do anything you want—but not my baby!"
Talon's eyes narrowed. "So… you'd rather your child die… when he has a chance to live?"
His words hit her like a punch. Her knees buckled. Her entire body was soaked in sweat now. Her heart pounded like a drum of war.
"Wh… what do you mean?" she stammered, choking on fear.
Talon gave a slow, chilling smile. "Everyone here will die eventually. You? You're already finished." He tapped her forehead with a finger. "But the child… the child could live. He has value. He has hope."