Grey Hollow was a village too small to matter.
It sat on cracked land where crops barely grew, where prayers were louder than hope. The people there lived quietly, fearing monsters, demons, and—above all—the gods.
When the wind stopped, they noticed.
When the air grew heavy, they panicked.
When the clouds twisted into spirals, they prayed.
Inside a collapsing hut, a woman named Lysa screamed as pain tore through her body. Sweat drenched her skin. Blood soaked the dirt floor.
"This child…" the midwife muttered, hands shaking. "This child does not want to be born."
Lysa cried out, gripping the midwife's arm.
"Please," she begged. "Save him."
The midwife hesitated.
For a moment, she saw something move beneath Lysa's skin—not a kick, not a normal motion.
Something turning.
Something remembering.
Then the scream came.
Not from Lysa.
From the sky.
It was a sound no human throat could make—raw, ancient, filled with rage and agony. The clouds split apart as if torn by invisible claws. Thunder rolled, but there was no lightning.
Villagers collapsed to their knees.
Some bled from their ears.
Others went mad instantly, laughing and crying as they clawed at their eyes.
Inside the hut, symbols ignited across the walls, carving themselves into wood and clay. The air burned.
The midwife shrieked as she was thrown backward.
And the child was born.