A Birth on a Moonless Night

Chapter 1: Ħamy

The Moonless Night

The Queen had been screaming for two nights.
The sun had not risen since.
The rain had not ceased since.
The wind howled like a thousand screams, clawing at the windows of Daratag, the royal palace of Mehirea, in its capital Kanana.

Rain lashed against the stone, each drop exploding like a tiny fist. Ħamy Samasar paced the length of his chambers, his armour clanking against the flagstones. In all his sunrounds, he had never seen such a storm.

He drew a small twig of miswak, the desert's toothbrush, from his belt and scraped it across his teeth, the clean, sharp taste of the wood grounding him. To a soldier surrounded by politics and whispers, such rituals mattered more.

The first night had been bad enough. The sky had turned an unnatural shade of deep purple, the moon swallowed by inky cloud. The wind had risen, shrieking, and the rain had come down in sheets, turning the streets into raging rivers. But this night was worse. Again there was no moon or stars, not even the faintest hint of dawn.

The world was plunged into an unnatural darkness, broken only by flashes of lightning that split the rain-slicked streets for a heartbeat before vanishing.

The usual sounds of the city, the barking of dogs, the cries of vendors, the chatter of children, had vanished. Even the street rats and alley cats were silent. That was the most terrifying thing. Even the beasts of the wild had gone silent.

The only sound was the relentless drumming of the rain and the unusual crack of thunder that shook the very foundations of the grand palace.

Ħamy shivered, not only from the cold, but from a deeper, more primal fear. He had seen countless battles, faced many foes, none had matched him. But this… this was different entirely.

As if the world itself was holding its breath for what was happening inside those walls.

He moved to the window, peering out into the storm. The rain was so thick that he could barely see the courtyard below. He could hear the guards shouting to each other, their voices barely audible above the roar of the wind. He wondered if they were as worried as he was.

A bolt of lightning struck the Tanglewoods a couple of thousand steps or so from the city. The flash was so bright it lit all of Kanana for a heartbeat, revealing the pale, terrified faces of citizens huddled inside their homes.

Then, the darkness returned, deeper and more oppressive than before. He turned away from the window. His heart, always steady as a drum before battle. But now, it would not settle.

The palace guards huddled in the shadows beneath stone arches, their golden cloaks sodden and spirits dampened by the endless deluge. Ħamy strode through the wide courtyard, his boots splashing through pools of water on the slick flagstones. Rain traced cold fingers down his face, clinging to the dark strands of his long pulled back hair.

Protector strapped firmly at his back. Nazolean steel. Indestructible. Forged in the fire of Mount Fury. Fires long dead and no living man could rekindle.

Its weight was a familiar comfort against the unease gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

It smelled of wet stone, drowned leaves, and something else, rancid and rotten, as though the world itself had soured with the queen's tormented cries.

He paused at the threshold of the palace's inner hall, gaze sweeping the expanse of Daratag.

Towers loomed high against the veiled sky, stone faces slick with rain. Beyond, the Crownbay hills were lost in the downpour, the Medial Sea roaring unseen beyond the cliffs like some beast thrashing in fury. Built as a fortress long before to become the seat of royal power, the palace loomed proud and indomitable against the storm, but tonight, even its unyielding walls seemed fragile.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. One of the younger servants flinched as thunder cracked overhead, sharp and sudden, rattling through bone. He couldn't blame the lad.

Fear clung thick in the air.

It was not only the rain, nor the queen's unnatural labour. This darkness had weight, a presence that gnawed at courage and crept into the spaces between thoughts.

Another scream tore through the night, raw and primal.

The queen.

Ħamy set his jaw, forcing his feet to move. The hall stretched before him, lined with torches hissing as rain leaked through cracks in the vaulted ceiling. Shadows danced along the stone walls, their flickering shapes twisted and strange. Servants scurried past with lowered heads, faces pale and drawn.

None dared meet his eyes.

The new queen of eight and ten sunrounds had not been pregnant three nights ago. Her wedding was less than a moon past. Whispers had swept through the court like wildfire when her cries first echoed through the palace.

She went to sleep two nights ago with a maiden's flat belly. She woke at what should have been the first dawn, the sun nowhere to be found, with a swelling that could have held three babes.

It was a sign of impending birth, yet she laboured still, writhing in agony beyond reason. For two days and nights, neither sun nor moon had shown. Why?

"Demon magic," some had murmured.
"The gods are angry," others whispered.

Thunder growled again. A low rumble vibrated through the stones underfoot. Ħamy climbed the wide staircase, boots leaving muddy prints on polished marble. The weight of duty pressed heavy on his shoulders, familiar and unyielding.

He was the Emir of Selaħdar, the Tag's own guard, and commander of the Gundartag, the elite warriors who were Daratag's iron shield. Two titles, one man. He had served the Tag, and his father before him.

Even when the Tag was mad.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the vast chamber at the top of the stairs. The heavy doors to the queen's birthing chamber loomed ahead, flanked by guards whose faces were pale beneath their helms.

They stood rigid as Ħamy approached, though fear flickered in their eyes. "Open it," he commanded. The guards hesitated. Whispers and screams leaked through the door. One glanced nervously at his companion before stepping forward to push the door ajar. Warm, humid air laced with the thick scent of blood and sweat wafted out. The queen's cries pierced the space beyond, a sound not of life but torment.

Ħamy's stomach turned, but he did not falter. He stepped inside.

The chamber was dimly lit by trembling lanterns, their light crawling across the stone walls, bending shadows into uneasy shapes.

Ħamy felt the heat first. It clung to his skin, thick with smoke, sweat, and blood.

The wizened High Ħakeem Bastam hovered near the queen's bed, even with his endless tomes and ancient knowledge, the master healer had a look to his eyes, a fear of the unknown.

His robes were soaked through, darkened by rainwater and perspiration. His face looked carved from wax. His eyes were wide, fixed not on the queen, but on something only he seemed to see.

Queen Hams lay sprawled across blood-soaked sheets. Her dark hair was plastered to her brow. Her body seized again, muscles drawn tight as another scream ripped from her throat. Ħamy flinched at the sound. It was not the cry of pain alone. There was something feral in it.

The Tag, Amar of Dar Fa₭ier, stood near the window, pale, clutching his crown, dragging the metal teeth across his scalp.

His eyes kept darting to the corners of the chamber.

Ħamy watched him closely. Amar did not look at his wife.

He watched the shadows. His thin lips were set in a grim line, hands clenched at his sides. His eyes, once sharp and commanding, had lost their light, like coals gone cold.

Another convulsion tore through the queen.

Her cry broke into a strangled sound. Bastam leaned forward.

The child's head crowned.

Bastam recoiled as if struck.

"It cannot be," he whispered hoarsely. "An omen. A curse."

His lips trembled. "Sydi, the prophecy…"

"Silence!" Amar roared.

He strode to the bedside, spittle flying from his mouth. With a violent gesture, he ordered the others out. Servants fled. Guards withdrew. Only Bastam and Ħamy remained.

The Ħakeem's gaze never left what was emerging. "This abomination must not live, my Tag," he said, his voice hollow.

Ħamy's chest tightened.

He knew that look. He had seen it before in men who had lost the ground beneath their feet. Men who had begun to build madness out of fear.

The queen screamed again, high and shrill. Then the sound cut off. Silence flooded the chamber. Something slid free.

A child's cry pierced the stillness, sharp and new. Once.

Bastam did not speak. His lips moved without sound, shaping words in a language Ħamy did not recognize. Slowly, his hands shaking, he reached down and lifted the new-born from between the queen's legs.

It did not cry. It stared.

A murmur rose from the servants beyond the door, leaking into the chamber like breath through a wound.

Ħamy stared. The child was enormous.

Far larger than any new-born he had ever seen.

It twisted with a strength that startled him, nearly slipping from Bastam's grasp. Thick black hair covered its head.

Finer hair matted its body, slick with blood.

Then one eye opened. Blue. Only one. The other shut with skin.

Its mouth parted. Small, gleaming teeth lined its gums.

Amar took a step back.

"An ogre," he hissed. "A monster born of evil."

Cold dread pooled in Ħamy's gut.

The creature… no. The child… drew breath and wailed.

The sound was not weak. It was alive.

"Kill it," the Tag commanded him, his voice trembling. "Take it to the river and drown it."

The Ħakeem's mouth didn't open in protest. Bastam's face was ashen, his hands trembling as he clutched his bloodied robes.

Duty. Honour. These were the pillars upon which Ħamy's life had been built.

He drew a breath, cold and sharp, and stepped forward.

The infant's cries softened as Ħamy took it into his arms.

Despite its monstrous appearance, the child was warm, alive.

It quieted in his arms, as if it felt him, as if it had been waiting.

A weight settled in his chest, heavier than the ancient sword at his side. "As you command, Sydi," Ħamy said, voice steady despite the turmoil churning within.

The Tag nodded, his eyes wide with something caught between relief and fear. "Let it be done."

Ħamy turned, the infant cradled against his chest, covered it with his golden cloak and strode from the chamber.

Rain hammered against the palace walls, drowning out the echoes of horror.

And yet, as he descended the stairs, one thought followed him down. What if this child was not a curse, but a test?

The forest loomed dark and treacherous ahead of Ħamy, he stepped off his horse in front of the towering trees swaying like ancient sentinels beneath the relentless onslaught of rain.

The moonless night clung to the land like a damp shroud, its cold breath seeping into the bone beneath a starless sky.

Even the beasts of night did not stir, as if the unnatural events within the palace had left even predators wary.

The Tanglewoods of Kanana, thick with twisted roots and slick mud, formed knots of twigs, where every step was a betrayal of footing. Ħamy's breath came in steady puffs as he trudged through the mire, the weight of his duty pressing heavier on him than the sodden cloak draped across his broad shoulders. He clutched the wrapped infant against his chest, shielding the child from the biting wind and rain. Beneath the bundle, the child stirred, letting out a tiny whimper that echoed like a ghost's lament.

"Hush, little one," Ħamy murmured. Not tenderness. Duty. The words came out cold as steel, and he let them.

The Tag's command echoed in his mind: Rid me of that ogre.

Amar's face, twisted in revulsion, had seared itself into Ħamy's memory.

The prophecy of the one-eyed beast, the Ħakeem had warned, his voice trembling with foreboding.

But Ħamy did not heed prophecies.

He worshipped Ehad. The one true God. What his God had written was enough, not omens, not riddles carved in old stone. He had accepted the order. Duty demanded it. And mercy too, if he was honest with himself. The child was deformed, marked from birth. A hard life waited for him in any world that would have him. Perhaps the river was the kinder end.

Still, unease gnawed at him as he pushed deeper into the forest, the sound of the river's rush growing louder through the cacophony of rain.

Protector, his ancestral Nazolean steel blade, hung behind his back, a testament to his title as the champion of his city of Shama. Home of the Gundartag, Shama's iron-clad elite, trained for war from boyhood.

Yet tonight, it brought him no comfort. No enemy to fight, only an innocent life entrusted to his hands with orders he could scarcely stomach.

The river snarled, swollen by two days of merciless downpour. Its frothing waters beckoned, dark and unforgiving, eager to claim whatever life was thrown into its depths.

He reached the riverbank, the sand beneath his boots was soft and wet, still forming, not yet decided. Like something not yet written.

He stood drenched by relentless rain, his broad shoulders taut with conflict. The bundle in his arms squirmed, wrapped tightly in sodden cloth. Ħamy's hand trembled as he loosened his grip.

The child, no monster, just a baby, looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. A single blue eye gleamed like polished steel beneath the tangle of wet hair clinging to its brow. For a moment, Ħamy saw not sharp teeth, not the claws that curled faintly at the baby's fingertips, but only fear. Pure, primal, and deeply human.

The water roared past with a fury matching the storm, black currents churning. This was the place. The watery grave decreed by Tag Amar.

Ħamy stood at the edge, his boots sinking into the mud. The infant stirred again, letting out a plaintive cry. For the first time, Ħamy allowed himself to look upon the child fully one more time.

Rain slicked the infant's dark hair against its scalp. The single blue eye stared up at him, wide and afraid, bright as a summer sky.

Tiny fingers, tipped with nails gleaming like shards of ice, reached towards his face as if seeking refuge.

"You are not a monster," Ħamy whispered, the words slipping past his lips unbidden. "only a child."

The boy's face, though strange, held a softness that belied the terror he inspired in the Tag. No malice in his eye, only fear and bewilderment. Ħamy's heart, hardened by sunrounds of war and duty, clenched painfully.

A surge of defiance rose within him. Ħamy had sworn an oath to protect the Tag and the kingdoms, but his honour demanded more than blind obedience. His duty was to justice, to humanity, even when it defied the crown.

The river beckoned, its black waters promising finality. Ħamy took a step closer, the mud sucking at his boots.

"Forgive me," he murmured, though he wasn't sure whether he spoke to the child, Ehad, or himself.

He extended his arms, lowering the infant towards the churning waters. The boy let out a piercing wail, the sound cutting through the storm like a blade.