"Why him?!" Appolyth's voice trembled—half rage, half fear—as she tore through the night.
"He shouldn't be allowed to move… I'm not that much of a threat yet!"
Her teeth gritted. "Just because of my child?!"
The air shook with her fury.
"They want to take my child from me…" she whispered, her trembling turning to hatred. "They won't."
Her six tattered wings unfurled, splitting the clouds. Shadows followed her descent as she flew toward a small village—the village of Tahiz.
–––
"Dad… are the gods real?"
The boy's voice was soft, almost curious.
His father chuckled. "No, son. If they were, we'd have seen them by now."
Then—silence. Not peace, not calm—absence. Even the wind refused to whisper.
The father frowned. Something was wrong. He rose, stepped inside—
—and froze.
His wife's head hung twisted backward, her body gray and shriveled, their newborn lying beside her, drained and hollow.
He screamed—one breath, then nothing. His body dropped like stone.
The boy ran in, shouting, "Father!"
He stopped.
There she was.
A woman in tattered, blood-stained garments, her form breaking and reforming, a child-shaped silhouette writhing from her stomach.
Appolyth turned to the boy, smiling with cracked lips and hollow eyes.
"Oh… sorry," she whispered.
She tilted her head as the child-like figure inside her began to move.
"Azarel feeds a lot."