Quintuple Trouble

The forest seemed darker than usual. The trees, their gnarled branches twisting into clawed shapes, loomed overhead, casting jagged shadows across the narrow path. Mistress Lera's lantern swayed on her waist, its soft golden light struggling to pierce the oppressive black. Her grip was tight, her knuckles pale, as if the flame were the only thing tethering her to sanity.

Father Greaves trudged behind her, his steps heavy, the weight of their unusual burden slowing him more than he'd care to admit. The five infants had been difficult to carry, even with the makeshift slings and bundles they'd fashioned at the altar.

Greaves carried two of the children—Cross and Ox—wrapped securely in a large cloth sling he had tied across his chest. The firewood, reduced to a smaller bundle, was slung over one shoulder, its faint glow casting eerie shadows as it swayed with his movements. Another infant, Sparks, rested in a worn leather pack he had strapped to his back, her tiny hands occasionally poking out from the folds.

Lera, on the other hand, held Alistair and Zara in her arms, their soft coos and whimpers filling the quiet night. She had tied the lantern to a cord around her waist, freeing her hands to cradle the two smallest children close to her chest. Even with the extra weight, her steps were careful and deliberate.

"We should've brought a cart," Greaves muttered, adjusting the sling as Cross squirmed. "This is madness."

Lera shot him a sharp look. "A cart would've taken too long to fetch, and you know it. Besides, the moment we found them, they became our responsibility."

"They became your responsibility," he grumbled, though his grip on the sling tightened protectively. "I'm just along for the madness."

They walked in silence for a while, the forest around them growing denser with every step. The usual rustling of nocturnal creatures had faded, leaving an eerie stillness in its place. Lera frowned, her unease growing with the silence.

"It's too quiet," she murmured, glancing over her shoulder at Greaves.

"It's just the cold," he replied, though his eyes darted toward the shadows. "Keep moving."

Sparks stirred in her pack, her tiny hands brushing against the folds of the leather. Her wide eyes locked onto the lantern swaying at Lera's waist, the flickering flame reflected in her gaze. She let out a delighted giggle, wriggling as though trying to grasp the light.

"What's gotten into her?" Greaves asked, his gruff tone softening slightly.

Lera glanced back, catching Sparks' delighted expression. "She's curious. That's all."

Sparks' giggles grew louder, her fascination breaking the oppressive silence for a brief moment. Even Greaves couldn't help but chuckle under his breath.

But the moment didn't last.

A rustling sound broke the stillness, sharp and deliberate. Lera froze, her smile fading as her eyes locked on the shadows to their left. Cross, who had been quiet until now, let out a soft whimper. The sound grew louder, more frantic, as though he could sense something the others couldn't.

"Shh, shh," Greaves muttered, bouncing the infant lightly in his arms. "What's wrong with you now?"

The rustling grew closer, the underbrush parting as something slithered through it. Greaves adjusted the firewood bundle on his shoulder, the faint embers glowing brighter as he gripped it like a weapon.

The creature emerged from the darkness—a snake, long and sinewy, its rough scales glimmering faintly in the lantern's light. Its golden eyes glinted, locked onto the group as its forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air.

Lera took a step back, clutching Alistair and Zara tightly. Sparks, oblivious to the danger, cooed at the lantern again, her fascination breaking the tension for a brief second.

"Stay behind me," Greaves growled, his voice low. He shifted Cross to one arm, raising the firewood with the other. "I'll deal with it."

The snake hissed, coiling as it prepared to strike. Cross's cries grew sharper, his mark flickering faintly beneath the blanket. The creature hesitated, its gaze darting toward the glowing mark as if it sensed something unnatural.

Then it lunged.

Greaves swung the firewood, the embers flaring as it connected with the snake's head. The creature recoiled, hissing angrily, but not before its fangs grazed his arm. He cursed, staggering back as blood seeped through his sleeve.

"Greaves!" Lera shouted, panic lacing her voice.

The snake reared back, readying for another strike. Sparks wriggled in her pack, her coos turning into a soft giggle as the lantern's glow caught her eye again. At the same time, Ox let out a bellowing cry—a sound impossibly loud for an infant. It echoed through the forest, carrying a deep, resonant power.

The snake froze, its body rippling with tension. Then, with a final hiss, it turned and slithered away into the shadows.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Lera hurried to Greaves' side, her eyes wide as she examined his arm. "Let me see. How bad is it?"

"It's nothing," he grunted, though his grimace betrayed him. The wound was shallow but red and angry, already swelling.

Before Lera could respond, Zara stirred in her bundle. A faint glow spread from her small hands, illuminating the marks on her chest. The warmth radiated outward, washing over Greaves' arm. He stared in stunned silence as the swelling subsided, the wound closing before his eyes.

Lera blinked, her breath catching. "That… that wasn't me."

Greaves flexed his fingers, his expression unreadable. "What are they?"

"They're children," Lera said firmly, though her voice shook. "That's all they are. Children."

Greaves didn't argue. He simply adjusted his grip on Cross, who had finally quieted, and gestured toward the path. "Let's get moving. I've had enough of this cursed forest."

The forest gradually gave way to open fields, and the chill in the air seemed less biting as the village came into view. The orphanage sat on the outskirts, its weathered stone walls and sagging roof a testament to years of neglect and hard winters. A soft glow from the hearth inside spilled out into the night, a warm beacon that promised safety.

Mistress Lera pushed open the creaking wooden door, stepping inside with a sigh of relief. The familiar scent of wood smoke and herbs greeted her, mingling with the faint, musty odor that no amount of scrubbing could eliminate. She set Alistair and Zara down gently on a nearby bench, adjusting their blankets as they cooed softly.

Father Greaves followed, his steps slower than usual. He set down Cross and Ox in their sling near the hearth, his movements careful. Sparks, still tucked in the leather pack on his back, let out a small yawn before going quiet.

The orphanage's common room was modest but serviceable, with mismatched furniture arranged around a central hearth. A worn rug covered the floor, its once-bright colors faded from years of use. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with books, jars of herbs, and the occasional trinket left behind by passing travelers.

Greaves slumped into a chair with a groan, rubbing his arm where the snake had bitten him. Though Zara's glow had healed the wound, the memory of the attack lingered. Lera stood by the hearth, her arms crossed as she stared at the infants with a furrowed brow.

"What are we going to do with them?" Greaves asked after a long silence. His voice was low, almost hesitant.

Lera didn't respond immediately. She moved to one of the shelves, pulling down a worn blanket and draping it over Cross and Ox. Her hands lingered for a moment before she turned to face Greaves.

"We raise them," she said simply.

Greaves frowned. "Lera, we're barely getting by as it is. Five more mouths to feed? And they're… different. You saw what they did."

"They're just children," Lera insisted, her tone firm. "Whatever they are, whatever power they have, it's not their fault. They didn't choose this."

Greaves leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "The village won't see it that way. You know how people are. Superstition runs deep. If word gets out about their marks—"

"Then we keep it quiet," Lera interrupted. "We don't tell anyone about the marks. We don't tell anyone about what happened in the forest. As far as the village is concerned, they're just orphans left at the altar."

"And if someone asks questions?"

Lera met his gaze, her expression resolute. "Then we protect them. Whatever it takes."

Greaves sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked at the infants, now dozing peacefully by the fire. Sparks' tiny hand poked out of the leather pack, grasping at nothing. Cross's breathing was steady, his earlier cries a distant memory. Ox snored softly, his broad chest rising and falling. Zara's calm expression seemed almost serene, while Alistair's half-open eyes glinted faintly in the firelight.

"They're going to be trouble," Greaves muttered, though his voice held a hint of reluctant fondness.

Lera allowed herself a small smile. "Probably. But they're ours now."

Greaves didn't argue. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as the fire crackled softly in the hearth. Lera returned to the bench, her hands gently adjusting the infants' blankets one last time. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she knew one thing for certain: they would face them together.

Outside, the wind howled softly, carrying with it the faint echoes of the forest. And in the quiet warmth of the orphanage, the five children slept, their glowing marks hidden beneath their blankets.