The rain fell in heavy sheets, a relentless curtain that masked the sound of footsteps echoing through the night. Sylria clutched her baby daughter tightly, her heart racing like a drum in her chest. "We can't stay here, Vathin," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the storm's fury. She glanced at the shadows gathering at the edge of their sanctuary, dark and ominous. "They're coming for her."
Vathin met her gaze, anguish etched on his face, the weight of their choice pressing down like the rain. "We have to lock her powers," he said, urgency sharpening his tone. "It's the only way to keep her safe."
Outside, a storm raged, lightning illuminating the night sky in violent bursts, revealing glimpses of the dark figures that closed in. In that fleeting light, a figure stood among the trees—a hooded seer, their silhouette twisted and warped by the downpour. The seer murmured the words of an ancient prophecy, their voice lost to the wind but laden with foreboding. "The child shall rise… or she shall fall…"
Sylria's breath caught as she watched the seer, a ghostly presence amidst the tempest. It was a reminder of the fate that awaited her daughter, a fate they could not allow to unfold. With trembling hands, Vathin pulled an amulet from his pocket, its surface etched with symbols that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. He placed it around Moira's tiny neck, sealing her fate in that moment of desperation.
As he whispered the incantation, a surge of energy rippled through the air, momentarily quieting the storm, as if the world held its breath. But Sylria knew the danger was not over; it had only just begun. The storm would return, and so would the shadows.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pressed a kiss to Moira's forehead. "Forgive us, little one," she murmured, the weight of her sacrifice crashing down upon her. The shadows were closing in, and they had to run.