"Without a miracle, it is impossible to defy the gods"
A cry pierced through the still night.
It was the cry of a woman in the throes of childbirth.
In a modest mansion—surrounded by midwives, nurses, and her rather flummoxed husband, she did what women have been wont to do since time immemorial. Contrary to what could be expected from the average birth, though, the woman's appearance fluctuated as she went through the trials of the life-giving process, sometimes growing blade-like fangs and sometimes being covered with bristly, spike-like fur as she writhed under the ministrations of the help.
Her bizarre transformations scared them to the point that many were on the verge of fainting and would have already if not for the silent chants that left the lips of a tall and handsome man in the corner. It seemed there was some hidden strength in these words, somehow giving them the steadiness to continue on with their work despite their fear.
The man flashed a small apologetic smile at his wife as she glared at him from the bed for a second.
As someone who never lost control of the tyrannical might unique to her race, there was some embarrassment that she was doing such a sloppy job of handling it now that her own midwives were on the edge of passing out. He was aware of this and thus only used sorcery when they were very near succumbing to her pressure, and always very discreetly. Although it was impossible for anything to happen in her presence without her noticing.
The man's face was beaded with sweat, though. Not as a result of the death glare (a loving gesture in his estimation) but because he really could not wrap his head around the sight before him.
No one was more aware of his wife's physical prowess and mental fortitude than the man himself. As a powerful Lycan Highbreed, it was scarcely an exaggeration to say that she had never screamed in pain in her life.
It was the certain truth that he had expected her to handle childbirth with the dismissiveness she handled dozens of enemy weapons, even the ones made with silver that were deadly to all her kind. Perhaps it was naivety or just a misunderstanding of nature's demands, but he had expected that the whole labour they had been expecting for the better part of a year would take a mere few minutes.
They had been at it for hours now, and it didn't seem close to finishing.
Another cry rang out.
It wasn't the same as before, though, but a strange, almost despairing scream that seemed to come from an entirely different being. Shuddering, he appeared next to her. The staff helping her had entirely disappeared from the room as he made his move.
The next moment, he saw a head peek out from under the cloth that covered her and, if he was not a staid warrior in his own right, would have swooned. He steeled himself, though and encouraged his wife as she made a last series of pushes and expelled the child from her womb.
He held his child in a damp blanket and looked at his wife lovingly as she reciprocated the gesture and held out her hand to him.
Before he reached her, though, her hand transformed into a ferocious paw, and another frightening scream rang out.
If he was flummoxed before, he was totally confounded now. What could possibly be the cause of this?
The night went on, and it came to pass that two children were born.
Two children from the same mother.
This occurrence, although comparatively rare, may not strike the reader as noteworthy. However, in the strange and alien realm of Reigina, such a birth was most unnatural. In fact, it was hardly ever heard of that two children should pass through a mother's womb at the same time. The very idea filled hearers with dread. To them, it was as bizarre as giving birth to an animal or the dreaded obanje, and neither the life of the children nor the mother could be ensured in such cases.
Most importantly, though, such a birth was a thing intolerable to the gods, and there was only one fate for anything the all-powerful gods would not abide.
Mere hours after her delivery, the news was laid at the feet of the couple by a man who seemed to stand at nine feet with thunder in his eyes and a mysterious, many-layered voice as though a chorus were speaking all at once through a channel of conductive tunnels.
He was the Oracle of the Hills and Caves and the chief herald of the Earth Goddess, Ani.
The couple, though aware of the inauspicious motive for his abrupt visit, gave the ceremonial greeting and invited him to break kola nuts with them (a sign of cordiality to all who worshipped the Earth Goddess).
He rejected the offering, which, curiously enough, was presented by the hosts themselves rather than their servants. The pair were by no means of little standing, and although their mansion was not overly large, it did require at least a dozen permanent servants for its upkeep, especially whenever important guests were to be entertained.
The mansion was now empty, though, with the exception of the three who now stood in the room and two resting and vulnerable babes sharing the same large and plush crib.
Minutes later, the Oracle had left.
The news they had received was most troubling.
It was the custom of Reigina that every child born irregularly was to be cast into the Evil Forest and left to fend for themselves. In such places inhospitable to life, it was difficult to survive but not impossible. If the children did inherit their mother's Lycan genes, then their chances of surviving would be much higher because among the varied races of the realm, none were quite as resilient as the Lycan.
Despite this, the couple inexplicably refused to obey the Oracle's order. This simply did not happen.
Days later, the oracle appeared in that home once more with all the fury of his god behind him.
He was never seen again.
The couple had once again defied the gods.
This time with blood.
Oh, piteous mistake.
Instead of heeding the warning of the gods, they despised their commands and slaughtered their heralds and all for what?
Just this pair of abominations?
Just that.
It seemed that they were unaware or unappreciative of the fact that the goddess blessed all those who showed themselves to be filial children to her (for the earth is the mother of all races, no of all things).
All the events related within this volume flow out from this one stubborn determination of this most irreligious couple.
For the sake of their two infant abominations, they decided to set themselves against the heavens and, indeed, all of the earth.
And creation is not so easily defied.
Crescent Street, one of those places located at the very boundary of the quiet and often dull Government Reserves, was not overly grand or even a little grand, but still had its fair share of modest mansions of retired politicians and once important figures in addition to those trying to break through into higher social circles through those connections. It was prime real estate but for one fact - it housed this taboo couple.
Two figures emerged from one of the many compounds along this street and stood still for a while, as though anticipating something. Curiously, despite the fact that they were immobile, their figures were indistinct. The closest description that could be given was that it seemed like they were moving in place rapidly, or (even more hard to believe) the light of the Red Crystal Lamps swerved to avoid them.
Suddenly, their heads turned towards a certain direction, as though a hidden signal had been relayed. If one possessed their incredible eyesight, they would see that they were staring at a house in the heart of the lower town. They appeared before this very house in a heartbeat.
When the two figures reached their destination, their terrifying auras had been completely withdrawn, and their figures were now clear, no longer the strange phantasms they appeared to be at first glance, but instead the now familiar and indeed infamous couple of that dark night that had cursed the land with another aberration.
Both held in their hands, with that protective grasp—gentle enough to cradle a snowflake without breaking it, yet strong enough to stand firm in a quake, unmoved—the swaddled and delicate bodies of their ill-omened offspring.
This paradox of frightening power and disarming gentility was played for no audience, but acted out in the intimacy of that dark night for none other than themselves and the objects of their devotion.
Finally, the door was pushed open, the gentle creak seeming to shake the entire town as it broke through the night's stillness. Immediately after, a figure dwarfing even the near seven-foot height of the husband stepped out from behind the door, bending so as not to strike the top of the door frame and then standing before them with nary a presence as though his giant figure was merely a shadow.
His presence inspired a dramatic reaction from the pair; both falling on their knees before him and bowing. This elicited a frown, but he seemed unwilling to speak up about it and instead looked down at the children through his hooded eyelids.
His eyes mechanically observed the pair for age-long moments, seeming to take in every aspect of their essence with eyes clouded over by old age.
At the end of this examination, a single solemn sigh sounded out, as though it desired to stir heaven itself with its depth and despondence.
The formerly unconscious infants were even stirred to wakefulness, wearing their best approximation of an expression of awe. Even they appeared aware that something important was going on.
Immediately, two sheets of paper appeared before them.
Despite their generic appearance, the perfectly straightened rectangles had a mysterious aura about them that seemed to draw in all observers.
In front of the child on the right was an airy painting of a field of stars and, as though swimming through this astral sea, a man with the delicate wings of a cicada.
In front of the child on the left was an illustration of the strong and arrogant silhouette of a man before the silver moon.
The woman threw a complex look at her husband, and he, in turn, looked down before making to speak to the old giant.
"You yourselves know what must be done."
The declaration shut down all protest but their frustrated faces showed that it was more than difficult to accept.
"We must hurry," he said quietly, "a flood is coming."
It was as he said.
Later that night, the sky had darkened so as to hide the moon entirely, and the black waters rose to consume everything in its path. From this blackness, something rose up.
It seemed, at first, to be just another wave, and in the nearly non-existent illumination, it would be impossible to tell otherwise.
If not that the wave did not crash back onto the craggy surface of the deadly waters but instead rose to the height of a tower, poised above a familiar mansion.
In this unexampled darkness, a blaze of light emerged. It glowed like a bonfire and brought forth with it the glory of morning, resisting the pitch-black night and revealing, in its truth-telling radiance, the form of a giant serpent baring its fangs.
So it began.