Seventeen years before a boy tore a Revenant in half.

  Seventeen years before four souls refused to leave him.

  The sky broke.

  No one in Graythorn saw the Afterlife Gate shatter—only the effects.

  A low, distant sound rolled across the world like thunder that never quite arrived. Animals went still. Candles guttered sideways. Old ward-stones in graveyards and shrines gave off a faint, uneasy hum.

  In a small house near the edge of Graythorn, a woman screamed.

  Not in fear.

  In labor.

  The room was hot and close, lit by a single oil lamp swinging gently from the beam above. A young woman lay on a straw-stuffed mattress, dark hair plastered to her cheeks, fingers clawing at the sheet beneath her.

  “Breathe,” the midwife urged, though her own voice shook. “You’re doing fine. One more push.”

  “I am breathing,” the woman hissed through clenched teeth.

  Another contraction hit like a wave of lightning up her spine. She cried out, vision swimming.

  “Where… is he…?” she gasped. “He said—he’d be back—”

  “Your husband’s with the patrol,” the midwife said, trying for calm. “The scouts sounded horns. Something’s stirring at the treeline tonight.”

  Of course he’s out there. Of course he’s being a hero while I—

  A flicker of lightning flashed outside the window.

  No thunder followed.

  The air… trembled. Just once. Like something vast had shifted somewhere beyond the mountains.

  The midwife’s head snapped toward the open door. “Did you feel—”

  The woman screamed again.

  The midwife rushed back to her side. “Now. Push.”

  The world narrowed to breath, pain, effort—then suddenly broke open.

  A final strain, a tearing ache—

  A weight left her body.

  Then a new sound split the air: the thin, furious wail of a newborn crying like the world had personally offended him.

  The midwife laughed in relief, hands moving with practiced speed as she wrapped the child in a clean cloth. “There you are,” she breathed. “Stubborn little thing.”

  She turned him toward the lamplight—

  And froze.

  For a second—just a second—the child’s skin shimmered. A faint sheen of pale blue and silver rippled over him, like moonlight caught on the surface of water.

  Not bright enough to cast shadows.

  But real.

  Then it faded.

  The midwife blinked hard. Had she imagined it? Lantern tricks? Exhaustion?

  She forced a smile and carried the child to his mother.

  “He’s strong,” she said softly. “Loud. That’s good.”

  The woman’s arms shook as she took him, every muscle drained and aching. Tears blurred her eyes as she looked down at his scrunched, furious face.

  “Hey…” she whispered hoarsely. “You’re really here.”

  His crying softened at the sound of her voice.

  “I haven’t even… picked a name yet,” she murmured, coughing weakly. A dull ache spread across her chest.

  The midwife dabbed sweat from her brow. “Rest. Names can wait until—”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The lantern flame twisted sideways.

  Not from wind.

  Something cold slid through the room that wasn’t air. The shadows along the far wall deepened into a color that didn’t belong in lamplight.

  The midwife straightened slowly. “...That’s wrong.”

  In the corner where light barely reached, darkness thickened, pooling in on itself.

  It poured upward, like liquid night being forced through a crack in reality.

  Bone formed first. Then claw. Jaw. A small demon unfolded from the shadow, body pale and raw-looking, veins of purple light pulsing beneath thin skin. Its empty eyes ignited with a dull, hungry glow.

  The midwife stumbled back, hand groping blindly for anything.

  “Stay behind me,” she whispered, though her voice shook too hard to be convincing.

  The demon sniffed at the air, ignoring her. Its gaze slid past her.

  To the bed.

  To the blood.

  To the mother and the child.

  It moved.

  The midwife screamed and hurled the only thing she grabbed—a wooden stool.

  It shattered uselessly against the demon’s shoulder.

  The demon barely turned.

  One lazy swipe opened the midwife’s throat.

  Blood spattered the floorboards. She collapsed without a sound.

  “NO!” the woman screamed, instinct throwing her upright despite the tearing pain in her abdomen. She curled around the baby, putting her body between him and the creature.

  The demon stared at her for a heartbeat, head tilting in mock curiosity.

  Then it took a step.

  Clawed feet left scorched prints in the wood.

  “Stay… away…” she rasped, one hand slipping to her side.

  It came away red.

  Too much blood was already soaking the mattress.

  The baby started crying again—louder, desperate.

  The demon’s gaze fixed on him.

  “You can’t have him,” she gasped, vision dimming. “You can’t…”

  The demon lunged.

  —

  Outside, an eleven-year-old boy was already running.

  Bran pounded down the muddy path, wooden practice sword slapping against his hip. His lungs burned, legs screaming at him to stop, but fear shoved him faster.

  He’d heard the scream.

  Not the midwife’s.

  The mother’s.

  It had cut through the rising shouts of “What is that?” and “At the eastern fence!” and “Get the hunters!” like a blade.

  You don’t run away from screams, his father’s voice echoed in his head. If you’re close enough to help, you run toward them. That’s what shields do, Bran. That’s what we are.

  “I’m coming!” he shouted, even though no one could hear him.

  The house came into view, door hanging crooked, lamplight spilling into the night.

  Something dark moved inside.

  Bran skidded to a halt just long enough to grab the handle.

  Then he went in.

  The demon stood by the bed, claws slick with red.

  The midwife lay on the floor, neck open, eyes glassy.

  The woman was half-sitting against the headboard, one hand clamped on her side, the other wrapped around the baby, shielding him even as her strength drained out with her blood.

  Bran froze.

  The smell hit first. Iron and something worse—burned wood and corruption.

  His stomach twisted. His legs wanted to turn and run.

  The baby cried.

  Thin. Trembling. Alive.

  The demon turned toward Bran, lips peeling back to show too many teeth.

  You don’t wait to feel ready, his father’s voice snapped in his head. You act.

  Bran screamed and charged.

  The training sword wasn’t meant for killing. It was lighter than a real blade, only truly sharp at the edge. But it was steel.

  He swung with everything he had.

  The demon hadn’t expected a child to attack. Its claw came up too late to fully parry.

  The blade bit into its arm, shearing through weak, new-formed bone.

  The demon shrieked, stumbling back.

  Bran stumbled too, the shock of impact numbing his arm.

  “Stay away from them!” he shouted, voice breaking.

  The demon lunged.

  Bran ducked without thinking, feeling claws whip through the space where his head had been.

  Feet apart. Weight low.

  He brought the sword up in a clumsy, desperate arc.

  The blade hacked across the demon’s throat.

  Not a perfect cut.

  Enough.

  Dark ichor poured down its chest. Purple light flickered under its skin, leaking out in thin streams.

  The demon clawed at its own neck, choking on its own corruption.

  Then it cracked.

  And fell apart, collapsing into ash that scattered across the floor.

  Bran stood there, chest heaving, staring.

  “I… I did it,” he whispered.

  The woman watched him with fading eyes.

  “You… heard me,” she rasped. “You came…”

  Bran swallowed hard, stepping closer. “I—I was nearby. I—”

  He saw the wound properly now.

  He knew.

  He’d seen hunters come back with injuries like that.

  They didn’t come back twice.

  “I’m sorry I was late,” he blurted, eyes stinging. “I tried—”

  Her expression softened.

  “You were fast enough,” she whispered.

  She looked down at her child.

  His cries had softened again.

  For a heartbeat, his eyes opened.

  Silver-blue rings snapped into existence around his pupils, glowing faintly.

  The woman’s breath caught.

  The glow flickered—

  Gone.

  Lantern light again. Just a baby.

  Did I—?

  She didn’t know what gates were. Or kings. Or broken afterlives.

  But something inside her screamed: He’s different.

  Her hand trembled as she ran a thumb along his cheek.

  “Please,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Take him. He can’t stay here alone. Make sure he’s… not alone.”

  Bran nodded rapidly, panic and something fierce twisting in his chest. “I’ll bring him to the healers, I’ll get help, they’ll—”

  “Wait…” she breathed.

  Her hand caught his sleeve, pulling him close.

  “His name,” she whispered.

  Bran leaned in. “What is it?”

  She looked at her child one last time.

  Her smile was small. But real.

  “Joren,” she said.

  The name seemed to hang in the air, heavy as an oath.

  Her hand slipped from his arm.

  Her head sagged to the side.

  The room went too quiet.

  “No,” Bran whispered. “No, no…”

  The baby wailed again.

  Bran swallowed, vision blurring. He reached down and gently took Joren from her arms, cradling the tiny body as if something might try to steal him at any second.

  Silver-blue eyes, unfocused and wet, blinked up at him.

  “Joren,” Bran repeated.

  It felt… right.

  Heavy.

  He tightened his grip.

  “Don’t worry,” Bran whispered, voice shaking. “I’ll protect you.”

  Outside, Graythorn burned small demons out of its streets and called the night a tragedy narrowly avoided.

  Inside that house, a promise was made that would last seventeen years.

  And then break.