The Storm and the spark

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The storm tore across the cliffs, shrieking through jagged stones and tossing rain like shards of glass. Seraphine lay sprawled on the wet rocks, her blood mixing with the mud, her arms cradling the newborn. Maun’s cries were sharp, raw — the desperate sound of life clinging to a world that had already abandoned him.

The wind carried his cries into the forest beyond. And there, among twisted trunks and shadows, eyes glimmered. Pale silver, alert, intelligent. Figures moved — humanoid, lithe, their markings faint streaks of silver and ash along arms and faces, muscles coiled and ready.

Seryth, leader of the Lunaris pack, stepped forward. She was taller than any human, her movements precise and fluid, her presence commanding even in the storm. Rain plastered her silver-streaked hair to her face. Her eyes narrowed, analyzing the sound that had pulled her from the forest’s safety.

“What… is that sound?” she asked softly, more to herself than anyone.

One of her younger pack members, shifting behind her, hissed. “It’s human. Leave it. Humans die in storms, or predators find them first. We should leave it.”

Seryth’s gaze never left the crying infant. The wind tugged at her cloak, the rain drenched her to the bone, and yet she felt a strange… pull. A fragility, yes, but also a spark — a tiny flare of life that demanded attention.

She knelt, letting her hands hover above the child. Every instinct screamed caution: he was human, weak, defenseless. One misstep and the cliffs would claim him, the storm would sweep him away, or some predator could snatch him before she could act.

Do I dare? she thought, heart hammering. Do I interfere with what the world seems to have discarded?

A second voice broke through her hesitation — a comrade, his features tense under the silver moonlight. “Leader… it’s human. We cannot take him. This is not our way. Our strength is survival, not mercy.”

Seryth inhaled sharply, letting the cold wind sting her lungs. Her mind raced. Every beat of the infant’s cry resonated with her own memory of loss, of struggle. She had seen death take the helpless before. She had sworn never to waste a spark of life… yet this spark was human. Vulnerable. Different.

Another roar echoed in the distance — not of the storm, but of some unseen predator. The pack tensed, glancing toward the forest. Every instinct urged her to retreat, to abandon the child, to survive.

And yet… she could not.

Seryth extended her hand slowly, each movement deliberate, muscles taut, eyes flicking to the infant and back to her hesitant pack. The boy’s cries pierced the wind like fire, raw and demanding.

The comrade stepped forward again, voice trembling. “Leader, think. If we take him… he will bind us. He is human! Fragile! Dangerous!”

Seryth’s jaw tightened. She looked down at the small, wet body trembling in the rain, eyes wide, hands reaching for warmth, life — and she saw not weakness, but a spark of something unclaimed, unextinguishable.

Her hand hovered over him. Time stretched. The storm raged. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the cliff, the child, the pack — every choice hanging in balance.

I cannot… leave him.

Her voice was soft, but firm, carrying over the wind. “No. He is life. And life… is sacred, no matter the shape it wears.”

The pack held its breath. The storm raged. Maun’s cries continued, urgent and piercing.

Seryth bent lower, letting her hands close gently around him. His tiny body pressed to hers, shivering, wet, alive. Every instinct in her screamed caution, fear, responsibility. Yet another thought arose, sharp and undeniable: this child would shape the world, even if she could not yet understand how.

She rose slightly, holding him against her chest. Rain poured down her face, mixing with mud and determination. Her eyes met her pack’s.

“We will raise him,” she said, voice unwavering. “He is one of us now. The child of the fallen empire… the child who cries for dawn.”

The comrade hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. Others shifted, uncertain, but the decision was made. Seryth held the child tight, the silver glow of her eyes reflecting the storm, reflecting the tiny pulse of life she had chosen to protect.

Above, lightning streaked the sky again, and Maun’s cries mingled with the storm. Seryth tightened her grip, feeling the warmth of the spark she had claimed from the abyss of loss. The world was dangerous. The child was fragile. Yet she had chosen. And that choice would ripple through time in ways none of them could yet imagine.

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