Chapter 2: Shadows Over Earth
The wind cut through the fields like a silver blade, rustling the tall stalks of corn and sending shivers through the farmhouse that had stood for generations.
Inside, Mary pressed a trembling hand to her swollen belly, feeling the baby stir beneath her. Eight months. Eight months of hope, fear, and longing. Her husband, Tylar, sat nearby, polishing a knife they used for harvesting, though neither of them had planned to use it that day.
Tylar's eyes flicked toward her, dark and unreadable. "You look tired," he said, his voice low but tender. "I'll handle the chores today. You just… rest."
Mary tried to smile, though exhaustion pulled at the edges of her face. "I know, Tylar. But the baby… it keeps me restless." Her fingers traced the curve of her stomach, where life throbbed like a secret drum only she could hear.
Outside, the world seemed calm, innocent even. Birds perched on fences, the sun glinted off the dew, and a soft haze hung over the farmland like a veil. But far above, in the cold void of Heaven, the gods were far from peaceful.
A council of shadows and fury gathered in the celestial halls, their forms twisting and flashing with the brilliance of impossible light.
The God of War slammed a fist against the floor of the endless chamber, sending ripples across the void. "We cannot allow the Child to come!" he thundered. "First, we extinguish any hope! Any mortal who carries divinity must not live!"
The God of Shadows, ever patient, circled the others like a predator around prey. "Yes, yes, but think carefully. If we destroy all women, what then? Who will we… amuse ourselves with? Who will bear the next generation of mortals to torment?" His eyes glinted like molten night.
A hush fell. The God of Fire flared, hot and sudden. "We must act. Women… all women… must suffer. Those carrying life, those who dare bring a spark of hope into the world… they will feel our wrath. Pain, terror, unease. Let them tremble."
The others murmured in agreement. They did not need to act now. They would not kill outright — not yet. That would be reckless. Instead, they would weave darkness, infecting hearts and minds with fear and despair. And so, the plan took shape: to torment, to hunt, to shadow the lives of every woman with child, while the unborn spark of divinity waited silently in its mother's womb.
Back on Earth, Mary shivered, though the farmhouse was warm. She felt it in her bones — a sudden, inexplicable dread, like ice spilling through the marrow. Tylar noticed immediately, his hand gripping hers.
"Mary?" he asked sharply. "What is it?"
She shook her head, trying to dismiss the feeling. "I don't know… it's nothing. Just… a bad dream, maybe."
But the air seemed to hum around them. Shadows flickered at the corners of the room, subtle, almost invisible, yet undeniable. The animals in the barn outside brayed and pawed at the ground, restless, as if sensing some approaching storm. Even the wind itself seemed to whisper threats.
Tylar stood, moving toward the door, a protective instinct stirring deep within him.
"I'll check outside," he said, voice tight. He opened the door, letting the wind slice into the room, carrying the scent of damp earth and impending rain. The fields stretched wide and empty, yet the silence was heavy, almost watching them.
Mary followed, clutching her stomach instinctively. She felt a flutter — not the baby, she realized with a pang, but something else, a pulse of energy that didn't belong to the earth, the wind, or even to her own heart.
Something ancient. Something furious.
And far above, unseen, the gods laughed. Not gently, not in amusement, but with sharp, cruel mirth. Their hands reached into the invisible threads that bound life, tugging and twisting with the skill of masters, filling the hearts of women with fear, making men restless, stirring doubts, jealousy, despair.
Mary stumbled slightly, and Tylar caught her. "What… what is happening?" he demanded. "This isn't normal."
Her eyes widened. "It's them," she whispered. "Something… up there. I feel it. They're… angry. They're coming."
Tylar's jaw tightened. He had always known the world held dangers — storms, thieves, misfortune — but this? This was something different. A darkness that had no shape, no weight, yet pressed against the skin, filled the air with its icy breath. He clenched his fists, wishing desperately that the weapon in his hands could strike what he could not see.
Above, the gods argued, their voices colliding in thunderous waves, their forms flashing like lightning. The God of War demanded action. The God of Shadows suggested cunning traps. The God of Fire flared impatiently, impatient for destruction.
"And let the women suffer," the God of Shadows hissed finally. "But not yet… not all. Start with the ones who carry life. Let fear take root. Let them tremble before the dawn of what is to come."
The plan was sealed. The wheels of divine torment turned slowly, deliberately.
Below, on Earth, Mary pressed herself to Tylar's chest. He held her tightly, but even his warmth could not keep the cold at bay.
Shadows lengthened unnaturally across the fields, the wind howled with voices that were not wind, and the farmhouse, so familiar and safe, felt suddenly alien.
Mary's eyes filled with tears. "Tylar… I'm scared."
He held her tighter. "I'll protect you," he said, though even he felt the futility in those words. The darkness was above, around, everywhere, and it was patient, waiting, biding its time. Waiting for the unborn spark, for the child that no one on Earth yet knew, yet that Heaven feared more than anything.
And in that moment, the world held its breath.
The gods' laughter echoed faintly, cruelly, and Mary felt it deep inside her chest. A premonition of suffering, of struggle, of fire yet to come.
The storm had begun.