He started getting very unimaginable pain, a torment that dwarfed even the agony of battling a thousand monsters. It was a searing fire in his bones, a shattering cold in his soul, as if his very essence was being torn apart and reknitted. He screamed, but no sound escaped his raw throat. His body convulsed, bathed in the blinding white light and crackling blue flickers he had observed from outside himself moments before.
Then, suddenly, the voices which he was not able to understand a second ago became clear, piercing the maelstrom of pain. The ancient, melodic words flowed into his mind, no longer an alien chorus, but a direct address. The voice said many things, but Ethan was only able to grasp fragments, distorted and distant, yet profoundly important: "Ethan you have to be low and not show yourself in this new world." The words seemed to echo not just in his ears, but in the deepest parts of his fading consciousness, a warning, a command, a truth he was meant to carry.
And the scene suddenly shifted. The blinding white and blue dissolved into a different kind of chaos: a very bad storm, with lightning cracking the sky and thunder rumbling like distant war drums. Rain lashed down in sheets, turning the ground to mud. In this tempest, within a small, sturdy house, shadows flickered. Outside, a man paced anxiously, his face etched with worry. "Is my wife going to be alright?" he muttered, his voice tight with tension. "And my child… will be alright?" Another man, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Relax, Albus," he advised gently. "It's in the hands of the healers and midwives now."
Suddenly, a midwife emerged from the house, her face tired but smiling through the downpour. "Congratulations!" she announced, her voice almost lost in the storm's roar. "You have twins! A boy and a girl!" The anxious man rushed forward, his eyes wide with relief and joy. He asked about his wife. "She's good," the woman assured him. "But because of giving birth to two children, she needs more rest than usual."
Albus, his heart soaring, went inside the house. He saw his wife, pale but peaceful, sleeping soundly. By her side, nestled in warm blankets, his two tiny children slept, completely unaware of the raging storm outside or the momentous events of their birth. Everyone in the small house was happy, a bubble of warmth against the cold, wet world.
Then, just as the rain began to intensify, a man appeared at the house, soaked to the bone. He called out over the storm, "Chief Emor!" The man who had been offering comfort moments before, now a look of concern on his face, asked, "What happened?" The new arrival, shivering slightly, replied, "Someone… someone left a child in front of the village gate."
The Village Chief Emor, his brows furrowed, asked, "Where is the child? And did you see who left them?"
"The child is in the guard house with the other guards," the man reported. "There was no sign of who left them on the gate. No footprints, no carriage tracks… just the child."
Emor, a grim determination setting his jaw, rushed towards the guard house, heedless of the torrential rain, thunder, and lightning. When he reached the small, flickering light of the guard house, he found the child sleeping peacefully in a simple woven basket, seemingly untouched by the harshness of the night.
One of the guards, a burly man with a kind face, pointed to a small piece of cloth tucked around the child. "Chief," he said, "there's something written on his dress. I… I can't make it out. You know I'm not much for reading."
Emor knelt, carefully taking the damp cloth. In the dim light, his eyes, trained by years of village record-keeping with his father's side, he slowly read it. A single word was inscribed there, stark and clear: "Ethan."