The newborn's wails echoed through the quiet, death-laced cottage like a lone trumpet in a funeral procession. His body trembled in Lily Evermere’s arms, wrapped in a cloth too thin to guard against the creeping chill that slithered beneath the door and seeped through the stone walls.

  He was so small.

  So soft.

  And yet, as Lily held him, her skin prickled beneath her robes. The air around him felt… heavier.

  Her golden light, still flickering faintly at her fingertips, didn’t soothe him as it had countless others. The warmth of a Lifeweaver’s touch had always brought calm, a gentle promise of safety. But this child… this child felt untouched by such promises.

  He had yet to be named.

  Across the room, Darius Valtor sat beside his wife’s lifeless form, his forehead pressed against her cold fingers. His massive frame—always so imposing in battle—now looked hollowed. Carved down by loss. Grief clung to him like armor forged of silence, every breath a battle against breaking.

  But the world had no patience for mourning.

  Outside, the skies twisted.

  Darkness surged over Ravendale, unnatural and sudden. Clouds rolled in like a suffocating tide, not grey with rain—but black, swollen with purpose.

  Thunder cracked like a war drum overhead. The walls shuddered, the floor creaked beneath Lily’s knees, and a gust of wind howled through the trees, carrying with it a sound that was almost a whisper—like words spoken in a forgotten tongue.

  Fenrir and Nyx growled low, rising from the hearth in perfect unison. Their hackles raised, their eyes gleaming. Not with fear. With warning.

  This was no ordinary storm.

  Lily's arms tensed protectively around the infant. She looked down just as his cries softened. His silver eyes opened. Only for a second.

  But in that second, Lily saw it.

  Not innocence. Not peace.

  Power.

  Ancient. Quiet. Terrifying.

  It wasn’t the divine light she had studied or the harmony of life she revered. This was something older. Something cold.

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  Claimed.

  “Darius…” she said, her voice barely a whisper above the storm. “What will you name him?”

  For a moment, there was only silence, broken only by the distant rumble of the heavens.

  Then Darius rose. His eyes—red with grief, shadowed with pain—locked on the child.

  He spoke as if the name had waited on his tongue his entire life.

  “Malrik.”

  Lily froze. Her breath caught.

  That name.

  The cursed name.

  Malrik the Dread.

  Malrik the Shadowborn.

  Malrik the Unchained.

  A name once whispered by warlords, burned into the pages of forbidden histories. A name that defied the order of the world.

  That defied the Echo System itself.

  It was not a name one gave a child.

  It was a name claimed by fate.

  And now, it had been spoken again.

  As if in answer, lightning ripped the sky open.

  And the child born in blood, claimed by death, slept soundly in Lily’s arms—

  Unknowing.

  But Darius Valtor was not a man shackled by fear.

  Fear had no meaning to a soul already broken.

  He had watched the light of his life fade before him, her final breath etched into his memory like a blade dragged across stone.

  What threat could the world possibly offer now that it hadn’t already taken?

  He turned his head slowly, eyes rimmed red with sorrow, but beneath the weight of that grief burned something more enduring—resolve.

  His gaze met Lily’s, steady despite the storm raging beyond the walls.

  “My son’s name,” he said, voice hoarse and low, “is Malrik Valtor.”

  A beat of silence. A declaration. A claim.

  “And no matter what the world brings…”

  His jaw clenched.

  “…he will survive.”

  Outside, the wind howled in agreement, slamming against the cottage like the fists of some unseen god. Thunder cracked again, nearer this time. The roof groaned as the trees thrashed in the fury of the storm.

  But the newborn in Lily’s arms stirred not from fear, but from need. His cries had ceased, but he shifted restlessly, his small body twisting beneath the cloth, his mouth rooting blindly.

  He was hungry.

  And Seraphina—goddess, mother, priestess—was gone.

  Lily’s chest tightened. There was no milk. No wet nurse. No prepared remedy. And the warmth of her healing magic could not replace nourishment.

  “Darius,” she called, voice urgent now, rising above the wind. “He needs to eat. If we don’t feed him soon, he won’t make it through the night.”

  But Darius remained motionless, shoulders hunched, his world collapsed into the silence beside the bed.

  He’s still in mourning, Lily thought bitterly. But Malrik can’t wait.

  She stood abruptly, determination stealing into her voice.

  There was no time left for tears.

  “Fenrir. Nyx.”

  The wolves perked up, their ears twitching, eyes locked on her as if waiting for command.

  “I need you to go into the village,” she said, steadying the tremble in her throat. “Find someone—anyone—nursing a newborn. Bring them back. Hurry.”

  The dire wolves exchanged a glance—intelligent, almost human—then turned in unison. Without hesitation, they bolted through the door, vanishing into the storm with a burst of wind and the thud of heavy paws.

  Lily closed the door behind them, bracing it with a wooden beam, then returned to the fire. She sat with the baby in her arms, rocking him gently, her golden light pulsing faintly as if to chase back the cold.

  “You don’t know it yet,” she whispered, brushing a trembling hand over the infant’s soft, dark hair, “but the world is already changing because of you.”

  And somewhere beyond the forests of Ravendale…

  Beyond stone walls and city gates…

  Beyond even the veil of life and death…

  The Echo System stirred.

  A new thread had been spun into the Tapestry.

  One wrapped not in prophecy—but in power.

  In blood.

  In death.

  And Death had just claimed its heir.