Arfadiethes: The love of the fallen ones

“Do you remember, little one, how it was before you? When the world still made sense? When everything was… perfect.”

A small little girl no more than three months old—lay trembling in the arms of a ragged woman. Her eyes, wild and hollow, burned with a simmering rage.

“I had it all. A loving husband. Three beautiful children. A life anyone would envy. But then you came…

You took everything from me,”she hissed.“My peace. My joy. My reason to live. You are the curse that ruined me. But soon… soon, it will all be over. They’ll come for you. And when they do, I’ll finally be free.”

Suddenly, the woman dropped the child onto the cold, hard floor. The baby’s cries faltered while the woman started chanting a haunting melody.

Her voice was so dark and deep that filled the room like smoke:

“The gates shall open for the chosen, who will rend the world asunder. The damned shall plead, but their screams will echo hollow. From the depths, he shall rise wreathed in fire, clad in despair. And the ashes of hope shall scatter in the storm’s unyielding fury.”

Her voice cracked, you can hear her laughter. She stared down at the baby.

“Don’t look at me like that, you wretched thing. You’re even lower than I am. And when your day comes, you’ll show no mercy. So stop that incessant crying before I…”

The woman froze, her mouth slightly parted as if the words had been stolen from her tongue. Then— A pounding at the door broke the silence.

“Open up, you madwoman! Open the door!”

A cold wind howled through the cracks in the wooden walls as the door burst open. A man stood in the doorway with a pistol clutched tightly in his hand.

“Give me the girl, you wretched witch. Hand her over before I put a bullet between your eyes.”

He strode forward, pushing the woman aside as she let out a choked gasp. His eyes, dark and burning, fixed on the baby on the floor.

“Your husband was a good man. A friend. A brother to me.” His fingers got tightener on the pistol. “But his death broke your mind, made you insane. And now you would murder his last child as you did the others?”

“You think I did that?” The woman’s voice was raw with disbelief. Then—laughter.

She reeled back, slamming her head against the wooden wall, again and again, until the sound echoed like a hammer striking bone. Her fingers fumbled for something—a knife. The blade gleamed, freshly sharpened as it was sharpened to be used to cut something hard.

“I did not kill my children,” she whispered. “I loved them. But this one—this one is not from me. She is evil.” Her grip on the knife tightened. “I should end it now before it’s too late.”

With a sudden, she lunged toward the baby, the knife raised high ready to end the infant life.

The air hung still, a gunshot rang out. Even the child’s cries had ceased.

The man exhaled sharply, lowering his gun. The woman lay motionless, her lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.

Slowly, he bent down, lifting the baby into his arms. She was so small, so fragile, her breath warm against his chest. He wrapped her in a torn piece of the woman’s clothing, shielding her from the bitter cold.

“Don’t worry, little one,” he murmured. “I will raise you as my own. My family will love you.”

Holding her close, he turned and stepped out into the night, leaving behind only the howling wind and the hollow silence of the dead.