Blood on Earth

The year was 1700, and I was born in a village that no longer exists on any map. It was a place lost in time, tucked away between towering mountains that kissed the sky and a lake so clear it reflected the stars. The villagers called it the Lake of Mirrors, believing it was sacred—a bridge between the living and the spirits.

They also believed in curses.

It began with a storm, a tempest that tore through the valley like a wild beast. Lightning clawed at the sky, thunder cracked against the mountains, and rain lashed the earth with merciless rage. And in the middle of that chaos, I came into the world—screaming loud enough to rival the storm itself.

I don't remember it, of course. But my mother told me the story often. She said I was born on a night that felt heavy with omens, a night when the darkness seemed alive.

"It's a sign," said Baba Draga, the midwife, her voice dry as dead leaves. She was older than anyone could guess, her back hunched like a question mark. Holding me up to the dim light of a single candle, she squinted at me as if I were something unnatural. "A boy born in a storm brings ruin. Give him back to the spirits before it's too late."

My mother, Leora, lay pale and exhausted, her hair slicked with sweat. But even in her weakened state, she clung to me with unyielding strength. "He's my son. My firstborn. I don't care about your signs, Draga."

Baba Draga leaned in closer, her shadow stretching long and sharp across the room. "Listen to me, Leora. Boys like him are marked. The spirits don't give their blessings without demanding a price. You have a choice: return him to the lake, or risk the wrath that follows."

"I won't do it," my mother snapped, her voice trembling but fierce. "He's mine." She turned to my father, Vasile, who had been pacing the room like a caged wolf. "Tell her, Vasile. Tell her Kael belongs here."

Vasile hesitated. His gaze flicked between my mother, Baba Draga, and the bundle in her arms. Superstitions ran deep in our village. He had grown up hearing the stories—of cursed children, of vengeful spirits. But after a long pause, he knelt beside my mother and cupped her face in his hands.

"We'll keep him," he said quietly. "Whatever comes, we'll face it together. He'll have a name worthy of this family."

"Kael Varlan," my mother whispered, tears shimmering in her eyes. "That's his name. And he will be strong. Stronger than anyone who doubts him."

Baba Draga let out a sigh that rattled like dried bones. "You've chosen," she said. "But mark my words—you'll regret it."

In our village, tradition was sacred. Every birth, death, and harvest revolved around the spirits. And when a child was born during a storm, the ritual of the Square of Silence was mandatory.

The Square was unlike any place I've known. It sat on a hill overlooking the Lake of Mirrors, encircled by ancient standing stones covered in runes no one could read. The elders said the Square was where the spirits first walked the earth, and the lake was their gift—a gateway between worlds.

That night, my parents carried me to the Square, bundled in wool to protect me from the rain. Baba Draga led the way, her small, bent figure defying the storm's fury. My father followed, holding a basket filled with offerings: bread, salt, and a small knife.

"Why the knife?" my father had asked earlier.

Baba Draga didn't look at him. "Because the spirits demand blood, Vasile. A storm child isn't accepted without sacrifice."

When we reached the Square, the storm seemed to pause. The wind stilled, the rain softened, and the air grew eerily quiet. The moon, hidden all night, slipped through the clouds to bathe the stones in silver light.

Baba Draga placed me in the center of the circle. Her voice was sharp and rhythmic as she chanted in a language no one understood. Then she turned to my father.

"Your blood, Vasile. Just a drop. Show the spirits your devotion."

He hesitated, the knife trembling in his hand. Before he could decide, my mother stepped forward. "If you won't do it, I will."

"No." Vasile's voice was firm. He pricked his finger, letting a single drop of blood fall onto the stone beside me. The instant it touched the surface, the air shuddered. A low, haunting howl rose from the stones, and the moonlight flared, casting an unearthly glow over the circle.

"The spirits have accepted him," Baba Draga said finally, her tone heavy with resignation. "For now."

Growing up, I felt the weight of the villagers' stares. They tried to hide it, but I wasn't blind. Children avoided me, as if being near me would curse them, and adults whispered behind their hands.

"He's the storm child," they said. "The cursed one."

My father told me to ignore them, but how could I? Their fear clung to me like a second skin. My only refuge was my family. My mother loved me with fierce devotion. My father shielded me with his quiet strength. And my sister, Ana, treated me like any other boy. To her, I wasn't cursed—I was just her brother.

Still, even at home, shadows lingered. I saw it in the way my parents exchanged uneasy glances, the way their silences echoed Baba Draga's warnings.

And then there were the dreams.

They began when I was six. Always the same: the lake, black as the void, and a voice calling my name. It started soft but rose to a scream. "Kael!" I'd wake up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding, but I could never remember what came after the voice.

One night, I asked my mother about the lake. "Why do they call it the Lake of Mirrors?"

She froze, her hands pausing over the dough she was kneading. "Because it shows you the truth," she said carefully. "Not just your reflection, but what lies beneath. That's why we stay away from it at night."

"What lies beneath?"

Her reply came slowly, each word deliberate. "Nothing you need to know. Not yet."

But her eyes betrayed her fear. Even then, I knew the lake, the spirits, and the storm—they weren't finished with me. Not yet.