The forest was quiet the night Elara was born.
No wind. No owls. No howls.
Just silence.
Wrapped in a pale blue blanket, her tiny body barely stirred as her mother cradled her close, heart thundering beneath thin skin. The birthing house—an old wooden structure deep in the hills—reeked of blood, pine, and something ancient. Something dangerous.
A woman with grey eyes and a silver scar across her jaw stood beside the fire, stirring a pot of herbs meant to mask the scent. "She's clean," she murmured, glancing down at the child. "But the blood is strong. She won't stay hidden forever."
Elara's mother didn't answer. Her gaze was locked on the infant's eyes—unusually bright for a newborn. Deep, stormy gray, like thunderclouds ready to burst.
"She can't know," the mother whispered
The woman stirred slower. "You can't protect her from herself."
"No," the mother said. Firmer now. "But I can protect her from the world."
There was a howl in the distance—one, then two—echoing against the mountain walls. The woman stepped back from the fire. "It's starting."
The mother pressed a kiss to Elara's forehead. "She'll never know. Not until she has to."
The fire flickered, shadows dancing over the walls. And outside, the wind began to howl.