Through Blood, Fire is Born

The whispers gnawed at the edges of her mind, a low chant slithering through the cavernous expanse. They did not belong to the Lazæns, whose rhythmic murmurs droned solemnly. These whispers coiled beneath their voices, a darker melody twisting in the hollow spaces. Xymóra shut her eyes tightly, but the sound grew insidious, burrowing deep into her thoughts.

Then, the rushing of footsteps.

Her breath hitched as she turned her head sharply towards the cave entrance. A figure, barely more than a blur dashed past the opening, vanishing into the abyss beyond. For the briefest moment, she thought she recognised something. The curve of a shoulder, the trailing end of a robe. However, the figure was gone before she could seize it. Yet, the whispers swelled in its absence, filling the void left by the fleeing spectre.

A sharp cry would soon wrench her attention back.

The child.

The little one cradled in the woman's arms let out a piercing wail, its frail body trembling as its mother hushed it with whispers. A ripple passed through the gathered Lazæns, yet none dared to reprimand the child. Instead, they bowed their heads lower, their chants drowning the discordant cries.

Xymóra's pulse hammered as another cry rang out, this one distant, its tone eerily familiar.

Another child. Another cry.

Her skin prickled. The whispers surged, curling around her like tendrils of smoke. She clenched her jaw, shaking her head, her nails digging into the cold ground.

"Stop..." she whispered, her voice, fragile. The voices did not yield.

A gnarled hand soon clamped around her wrist.

Xymóra's eyes snapped open. To her right, an old woman loomed, her grip harsh and unrelenting. Firelight glowed in her wide, unblinking eyes. Her voice was low and rasping.

"The soul is birthed." Her fingers tightened upon Xymóra's flesh. "In blood, the fire was born."

Xymóra's breath came fast and uneven. The whispers were an unbearable tide of voices crashing through her mind. She tore her arm free, stumbling back as she cried out.

"Enough!"

The cavern stilled. Heads turned. The chants faltered.

"Xymóra."

A voice called to her, calm and grounding, as Elder Ylath was upon her. His hands found her shoulders, steadying her as she swayed. His expression was unreadable, his grip firm but not unkind. 

She looked around wildly. The cries had vanished. The second wailing child had never been there. The old woman beside her was no mystic, merely the mother cradling her restless child, now watching Xymóra with wary, uncertain eyes.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She forced herself to breathe.

"It was nothing," she murmured, her voice raw. "I am simply fatigued. I have not eaten all day."

Elder Ylath studied her carefully. "It has been occurring more frequently, has it not?"

Xymóra stiffened. Her gaze flickered past him, towards the fire. 

"She told you." Her voice was scarcely above a whisper.

Ylath was silent for a moment before he spoke, "We must talk."

Xymóra did not respond.

"I must continue the prayers and unite with the others but we must speak tomorrow."

She did not watch him go. Her eyes remained fixed upon the flames, their flickering light stretching and distorting the cavern's shadows into shifting forms.

The whispers had quieted, but their weight lingered.