The rain had been falling for days, turning the world into a perpetual gloom. Smoke curled through the creaking cottage, clinging to the damp walls, thick with the scent of charred wood and desperation. The cries of the newborn, sharp and relentless, pierced the heavy air, but they seemed distant—forgotten in the storm of voices rising above them.
Naire's mother gripped the edge of the wooden table, her knuckles white against the grain. "He is yours," she pleaded, her voice raw from exhaustion. "You have to believe me."
But the father did not move. His glowing blue eyes burned with certainty. "No," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, yet heavy as iron. He clenched his fists, the veins in his arms pulsing with restrained anger. "That thing... is not mine."
The infant wailed in his basket, a flimsy creation of cheap hay and damp cloth. The rain slipped through the cracks in the walls, pooling beside him, soaking into the fragile fabric. Yet the child did not shiver.
The father took a step back, unease coiling around his spine. His gift had never failed him—he could sense the nature of men, distinguish the wicked from the pure, trace the threads of fate that wove through their souls. And this child, this helpless, screaming thing... it reeked of death.
"I won't touch him," the father hissed. His eyes flickered, scanning the dimly lit room, searching for something unseen. "You have no idea what you've brought into this world."
The mother, desperate, moved closer. "You're afraid."
A gust of wind rattled the cottage doors, carrying whispers from the distant warfields. Creatures lurked beyond the safety of their crumbling home, ancient and hungry, pressing against the edges of civilization. And here, in the heart of that chaos, a child was born—a child whose presence sent shivers down the spine of a man who had never feared anything before.
The rain beat harder against the roof. Smoke thickened. The child wailed.
And in the shadows, something stirred.
-.
The storm raged on, relentless in its fury, as if the heavens themselves mirrored the turmoil within the cottage. The father stood rigid, his breath shallow, his glowing eyes locked on the child nestled within the fragile basket.
The mother's hands trembled as she pulled the damp cloth tighter around Naire. "You're afraid," she said again, her voice softer now. Accusatory, yet pleading. "Not of him, but of what you might be wrong about."
The father's jaw clenched. The idea of doubt sickened him. His gift had never betrayed him—not once in all the years he had walked among men and creatures alike. He had seen monsters disguised as saints and saints hiding beneath scars. But this—this thing swaddled in cheap cloth, breathing in the scent of burning timber—was not his.
A low groan escaped his throat, guttural and raw. "You think I would walk away for nothing?" He took a step forward, looming over the woman who had been his wife, his partner, his tether. "You think I don't feel it? The weight? The wrongness?"
Naire whimpered, small and fragile beneath the force of his words. The mother, firm in her stance, pulled the infant closer to her chest, her arms a barrier against the rising fear. "If he is cursed, then it is you who will make it so."
The father's breath hitched. The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken things—grief, fury, love twisted into something too painful to name. Outside, the wind howled.
Then, a sound. A shift.
Not the rain. Not the storm. Something **else**.
The father turned sharply toward the door, his luminous gaze narrowing into piercing slits. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the walls, moving when they should have been still. He could feel them. The presence. The watching.
"Something is here," he murmured, voice barely above the crackling embers. His heart pounded against his ribs.
The mother, cradling the child in a desperate grip, felt it too.
And in the basket, Naire's cries faded into silence.
---
Here's the next chapter, unraveling the truth with emotional depth and creeping unease.
---
## **Chapter Three: The Veil of Pyre**
The cottage was suffocating now. Smoke curled in the rafters, thick with tension, pressing into their skin like a second layer of damp fabric. The mother held Naire tightly, as if she could shield him from the inevitable. As if she could shield herself.
The father stood frozen, waiting. His glowing blue eyes flickered like embers, the reflection of the weak fire shifting in their depths. He had known lies before—felt them slither through people's words, tasted their rot in the air.
But this lie had been buried so deep, so carefully, he had almost believed it.
"I need you to listen," the mother whispered, her voice hoarse, brittle as the wooden beams above them. "I never meant for this to happen."
The father's jaw tightened. Outside, the storm crashed against the cottage like waves against a dying ship.
The mother swallowed, the weight of her secret pressing against her ribs like iron. "It was near the Forest of the Veil of Pyre," she said. The name tasted wrong in the air, sharp, unspoken for too long. "I—I never saw its face. I don't know what it was. But it wasn't human."
The words landed between them like stones. The father inhaled slowly, his fingers twitching, itching to move, to run, to deny.
"I was taken," she admitted. "Not by force of hands, but by something deeper. Something wrong. It was watching me long before it came for me. And when it did—I couldn't fight it. I don't know if it was fate, or a curse, or something worse, but it left me with him it, it took an advantage of me."
Her arms trembled around Naire, the infant silent now, as if he could hear the truths unraveling around him.
The father closed his eyes. The shadows on the walls stretched further than they should have.
"You lied to me," he finally said, his voice barely human, edged with something raw and ancient.
"I lied to myself," she corrected, and her tears finally fell.
Beyond the cottage, in the depths of the Veil of Pyre, something stirred.
-
The father's breath was shallow, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes burning with the truth he wished he didn't know. The child was not his. It was something else. Something wrong.
He took a step forward, towering over the mother, over the fragile basket where Naire lay silent. "We can't keep it," he murmured, his voice stripped of warmth. "You know what must be done."
The mother flinched, her grip tightening around the infant, protective, desperate. "He's a baby," she hissed. "He hasn't done anything—"
"You think that matters?" the father snapped, fury rising, barely contained. "I can **feel** it, like rot in the air. We cannot let it grow. Whatever curse was placed upon him—whatever that thing in the Veil of Pyre did to you—it will come back for him. And when it does, it will not be merciful."
The storm pressed harder against the walls, the wind howling through the cracks, as if the world itself feared the thing that had been born beneath its rain.
The mother stepped back, shielding the child with her body. "I won't let you touch him," she whispered, voice quivering but resolute.
The father's glowing eyes flickered. "You would doom us all."
"I would **not**," she spat. "I would give him a chance—something no one gave to me." Her shoulders rose, trembling, but unwavering. "He is mine. I will protect him."
Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.
The father inhaled sharply, his gaze locked onto her, onto Naire, onto the shifting shadows curling along the floorboards. He wanted to deny it, wanted to fight, wanted to purge the wrongness seeping into his home, into his life.
But the mother's resolve stood firm. And the child's eyes—black as theil—blinked open for the first time.
And the storm outside finally quieted.
For the first time in days, the rain stopped.
The air inside the cottage was suffocating. Not just from the smoke curling in the rafters, nor the damp rot festering in the floorboards—but from the unbearable weight of what had just transpired.
The father stood motionless, his glowing blue eyes locked onto the child. **Naire's gaze met his—dark, endless, unreadable.**
The storm had stopped. No rain. No wind. No distant war cries beyond the valley. The world had hushed.
And he knew. He **knew** that was no coincidence.
The mother cradled the infant close, her arms rigid, protective, prepared to fight if she had to. He had seen her stubborn before—seen her bite back fear, stand her ground. But this was different. **She was ready to die for that child.**
His lips parted, but no words came. His instincts screamed at him—kill it now, before it grows, before it turns into whatever thing lurked within the Veil of Pyre. But something held him back.
Something **he did not understand.**
A chill crept into his spine. **It was watching.**
Not Naire. **Something else.**
A flicker in the corner of his vision. A shape that wasn't there before.
He turned sharply toward the cottage door. **Nothing.**
But the silence stretched longer than it should have. And the shadows outside the fragile home no longer seemed to belong to the trees.
The father swallowed hard, his breath shallow. "Something has changed."
The mother did not speak. She simply pulled Naire closer to her chest.
And outside, in the distance, just beyond where the storm had died—***
---
The father stared at the child, at the silent weight pressing between them. His glowing blue eyes dimmed slightly, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. The storm had died, but something in the air had shifted—something he could feel crawling beneath his skin.
Death clung to that infant like a shadow. And no matter how much the mother willed herself to ignore it, **he could not.**
He exhaled, slow, controlled, but heavy. Then he spoke.
**"If you're keeping that, I can't stay."**
The words hit harder than the wind battering the valley, harder than any battle he had fought beyond the safety of their cottage walls.
The mother's grip tightened around Naire, her body tense, braced against the impact.
"I will not ever come back," he said, his voice flat—final. He was not making a threat. He was stating a fact. **A survival decision.**
Her breath hitched, but she did not beg him to reconsider. She knew. She had known for days that this was coming.
Still, she tried. "You don't have to leave," she whispered, though even she didn't sound convinced. "You—"
"I **still** sense the death lurking around him," the father interrupted, stepping back, jaw tight. "I will not watch it grow. I will not let it take me when it finally reveals itself."
Silence. Cold. Suffocating.
The mother glanced down at Naire, at his tiny fingers curled against her chest. "Then go," she said softly, though her voice did not waver. "If your fear is stronger than your love, then go."
For a moment, he hesitated. **Not because he doubted himself—but because of something else.**
Something flickered in Naire's dark eyes. Something **aware**.
The father swallowed hard, turned, and without another word—**he walked out the door.**
Beyond the cottage, the silence stretched impossibly long. And as the mother cradled her child, pressing her forehead to his, she felt something deep within her shift.
He was gone.
And whatever fate awaited them now, she would face it alone.
---