Somewhere in Russia, 2007
The storm was shown no mercy that night.
Rain was pounding all over the village, as if the sky were tearing apart, along with thunder which were rolling heavily all across the frozen fields. Wind was howling through the crooked wooden fences, rattling the roofs and shaking the windows that had stood for many generations. It is a small village, where every birth, every death, every joy, and every sorrow belongs to everyone.
But today, the stormy rain felt like a warning that no one dared to mention.
At the edge of the village, there was an old wooden house. It was well-maintained, with a single window which was glowing faintly in the darkness. The light was flickering with each thunderclap and shining through the rain. And outside the house, men gathered under soaked coats and dripping hats. They stamped their feet to keep warm, and murmured about today's storm and the bad weather, avoiding the true fear that gripped them.
Inside the house, the air was thick with heat, sweat, and prayer.
Women were filled the small room. Their faces were tense and hands were busy. At the center, a woman was in labor. Her breath was ragged, while her body was shook in pain. She clutched the bedsheets as the waves of agony hit her, and her cries were blending along with the thunder outside.
"Breathe, just breathe dear," the woman whispered, wiping the sweat from her brow.
Another held her hand tightly. "You are strong. You must be strong."
And at the back of the bed, an old woman standing, her spine was bent with age but her eyes were sharp and steady. Her wrinkled hand was resting gently on the laboring woman's head, and her lips moving slowly in a rhythmic ancient chant. These were the words that had been passed down through the generations, meant to bind fate, bless the newborn, and protect the village, the land, and beyond.
Villagers believed that no child should be born without that chant and not between in chant.
The baby should be after the chant is over.
The chant was balance.
The chant was order.
The chant was safety.
Thunder cracked violently overhead.
And the laboring woman screamed.
With one final desperate push which was driven by instinct, pain, and something deeper, the child was born.
A boy.
His cry pierced the room, sharp and loud.
The chant stopped.
Silence just felt unnatural and suffocating.
The old woman's hand froze in the mid-air and eyes widened in horror.
"No," someone whispered.
Another woman stumbled back. "The chant—it wasn't finished."
Fear spread like poison.
"This is wrong," one woman said, her voice trembling.
"A cursed birth," another murmured.
"He came before the words were sealed."
The boy cried again, unaware, alive and strong.
Outside, the storm was howling more louder.
As one of the women rushed to the door and flung it open. She spoke in hurriedly to the men outside, "The child is born before the chant was been complete."
Her tone felt frantic. The murmurs turned sharp and angry.
"A cursed child," one man said.
"He will bring ruin."
"The law is clear."
Several men moved forward, their faces hard, carrying the weight of tradition and fear. They just stepped in the house without any hesitation.
The mother layed on the bed. She was weak and her vision was blurry, drifting at the edge of consciousness. Through the haze, she saw the hands which were reaching for her child. She felt him being taken from her arms.
"No," her voice cracked. "Please..."
They did not listen.
But then something snapped inside her.
She summoned some of strength and forced herself upright. Pain tore through her body, but the fear burned much hotter. She swung her legs off from the bed and stood up, swaying.
All the women in the room gasped.
"She shouldn't be standing—"
"The effect of that cursed child has started," another woman said.
Her eyes locked on a tall lamp near the doorway. She grabbed it, fingers trembling, and ran towards mens
With a scream that carried more fury than fear, she struck the lamp into the man.
The lamp crashed into the first man's shoulder, then the second man's head. They staggered back and stunned. She snatched her child from their grasp and bolted through the door.
Rain soaked her immediately.
She ran.
Outside, shouts rang out. "Stop her!"
"Kill both of them!"
She reached an old jeep parked nearby. Her hands were shaking as she threw the door open and climbed inside and placed her child on the passenger seat. The engine sputtered, then roared to life. She slammed down the pedal and speed into the darkness.
But behind her, three more jeeps started, headlights were slicing through the rain like hunting eyes.
Her body was still screaming in agony. Her clothes were soaked in blood. Still, she drove.
The road stretched endlessly. The night felt cruel.
As the lightning lit up, inside of the jeep, she glanced down at her child. His small face was calm now, his eyes were closed and his chest rising steadily. A sudden clarity filled her heart.
She saw a note and pen on the dashboard, her hands were trembling but still she wrote only a single name.
KAEL
She then folded the paper with one hand and tucked it carefully into the blanket around the child.
The headlights behind her grew closer and closer.
There was no escape.
Her tears were mixed with rain as she pressed harder on the accelerator. In a last-ditch effort, she opened the door and clutched her child, and leapt.
And the jeep lost it's control and slammed into a tree moments later.
BOOM.
Fire lit the night.
The pursuing men slowed, shielding their eyes. They saw the wreckage burning, twisted and broken.
"They're dead," one said.
"No one survives that."
They turned back, satisfied.
But in the forest, soaked and shivering, the mother crawled to her feet. She held Kael close and began to walk.
Step by step.
Breathe by breathe.
She walked for kilometers through rain and mud, while the pain was tearing her apart and vision, fading. Finally, she spotted a large house standing alone and fields, all around the house. The lights glowing faintly in the house.
And with her last strength, she placed the child on the doorstep and kissed the forehead of her child once.
"Live," she whispered.
Then she fell.
The storm swallowed her breath.
And somewhere far beyond that village, fate shifted quietly and irreversibly.