Somewhere deep in the northern Canadian forest, the wind whispered through branches of pine and birch. The scent of wet dirt, evergreens, and rain drifted through the air, carried on the breeze to a low hunting blind nestled close to the ground.

  A deep grunt echoed—twenty yards away, a black bear.

  Inside the blind sat Sam, a retired veteran of the Canadian Forces and a game warden. He was still, silent, cradling a modified Soviet SKS—one of the last semi-automatic rifles hunters were still allowed to use for gathering meat.

  His focus sharpened a thousandfold the moment the sound left the bear’s throat. The 400-pound animal lumbered toward the bait, unaware of its impending fate. The pile of donuts, thick with molasses, was too enticing.

  Sam moved slowly, disengaging the safety and raising the rifle.

  Then—

  A flash of white light. A deafening crack.

  The bear startled, sniffing the air.

  The sharp scent of ozone and scorched gunpowder filled the blind.

  Lightning.

  Pain exploded through Sam’s body. Every nerve screamed as his limbs contorted under the electric force. Then—stillness. He collapsed, motionless.

  When Sam awoke, all he felt was fire. Liquid fire, coursing through him like maple sap in spring. He was paralyzed by the pain, but sheer will pushed him to open his eyes. That was all he could do.

  He lay there, helpless. Watching. Waiting.

  He might have to witness himself being eaten alive.

  The irony stung worse than the burns: after surviving wars and years of chasing poachers, it was lightning that finally caught him.

  When his eyes opened, confusion flooded his mind. He was no longer in the hunting blind—or even in the forest.

  Instead, he found himself in a room filled with bright white light. A hospital, maybe?

  If only the pain would stop. But no—it only grew worse, spreading like wildfire through every vein.

  He could hear voices—alarmed, urgent—but couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Was it the lightning? Had it scrambled his brain so badly that he couldn’t recognize his own language? Or was the fire in his blood making him delirious?

  Then, into his view stepped a young woman. She moved with the grace of wind, dressed in what looked like the elaborate costume of some kind of priestess. Her eyes, though beautiful, were shadowed by exhaustion. She approached the stone slab he was lying on.

  Her brows furrowed before she disapeared with haste.

  Mother Katrina's POV

  Katrina had been working tirelessly since the age of six under the guidance of the Sisters of the White Chapel. By twelve, she had become a full-fledged sister—a record within the Empire of Melenor. At twenty, she was named a Mother, setting yet another unprecedented milestone. Some whispered she would be canonized a Saint before long, should her meteoric rise continue.

  She was a striking brunette, her emerald-green eyes vibrant and commanding. Her figure, though hidden beneath loose ceremonial robes, was said to turn heads when glimpsed. But Katrina cared little for such distractions—her ambitions lay with the divine and the powerful.

  Recently, she had been summoned by the Marquis of Lavendhale to the Empire’s northernmost province on the eastern coast. The mission: to conduct a ritual in strict secrecy. The details were vague, unsettlingly so, but Katrina understood the importance of forming bonds with the nobility. If she wanted to ascend further within the Order, she would need allies in high places.

  The journey took two months by carriage, across rough roads and shifting weather. When she finally arrived at the isolated town, her nerves were taut with both exhaustion and anticipation.

  The ritual text Katrina had been given to study was extraordinarily complex. Written in a long-forgotten runic language, its deeper meanings were lost to time. Thankfully, the Church had preserved the pronunciation of most runes—enough to recite the incantation properly, if not understand it.

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  These ancient rituals were notoriously dangerous. Performing one without knowing its true purpose was the ultimate gamble. Yet the Church still allowed them to be tested—by those within the Order deemed trustworthy, and expendable.

  The scroll had been discovered six months earlier, hidden within the walls of a crypt during renovations at the Provincial Cathedral. After thorough research, it was identified as originating from the Hero Era—over two thousand years ago. A time of gods, monsters, and myths few dared to take literally anymore.

  The ritual, they determined, required a young maiden of considerable power. It wasn’t that Katrina was the best candidate—rather, she was the only one of such renown not backed by a powerful noble house. That made her perfect.

  A pawn.

  If she died, the Marquis would likely craft a heroic tale: the brave Mother Katrina, who gave her life to banish an ancient evil. A convenient legend, wrapped in honor, hiding the truth of her sacrifice.

  However, nothing could have prepared her for what the ritual would do—how it would change everything. Not just her life, or the fate of the province, but everything.

  To maintain secrecy and shield the nearby town from any potential fallout, the ritual was to be conducted in a remote, vacant cabin deep in the woods. Or so she had been told.

  In truth, the “cabin” was more of a small mansion—long abandoned, but still sturdy and hauntingly elegant in the moonlight. She arrived with the Marquis’s personal mage, two of his handmaidens, and four of his knights. A silent entourage, each person carrying the weight of the unknown on their shoulders.

  They shared a quiet, well-prepared meal that evening. No one spoke. Even the clinking of cutlery seemed muted by the tension hanging in the air.

  Midnight approached.

  When the moon reached its zenith, casting silver light through the tall, narrow windows, they would begin the ritual—whether they were ready or not.

  She walked to the garden alone. Not even the servants were permitted to hear or witness the ritual. The isolation was part of the protocol—and perhaps part of the trap.

  Katrina stood before the fountain, nerves coiling in her stomach, but her resolve held firm. She would see this through.

  She began with a hymn to the God-King, her voice trembling at first, then steadying as faith took hold. She unrolled the ancient scroll onto the gray marble pavers, letting her mana flow freely through her body. A pure white aura surrounded her, radiating warmth, grace, and divinity—like a mother’s embrace.

  Then she began to speak the runes aloud, her voice infused with power. The spell was long—far longer than any she had attempted before. The archaic words clawed at her throat. She pushed through. Two-thirds in, she began to feel ill. Over an hour had passed.

  But stopping now would mean certain death. The ritual had to be completed in full to maximize her chance of survival.

  Her vision blurred. Her limbs trembled.

  Then came the nausea.

  She doubled over and vomited, her body rejecting the strain—but even as bile burned her throat, she continued reciting the runes, her will unshakable. She forced the final syllables from her lips and then collapsed, the scroll now silent on the stone beneath her.

  Nothing happened.

  Or so she thought.

  Pain surged in her stomach—sharp, growing rapidly. She staggered to her feet and cast a healing spell, expecting the agony to fade. It didn’t. The magic did nothing.

  A terrible realization took root.

  Was this not a blessing... but a curse?

  Her abdomen began to bulge, her skin stretching taut with unnatural speed. Horror gripped her. She could feel life moving within her—a presence that grew faster than any human child ever could.

  She fell to her knees, then rolled onto her back, writhing in agony. Just then, the two handmaidens burst into the garden, alerted by the commotion. Their eyes widened in shock.

  “She’s... giving birth,” one whispered.

  The mage arrived moments later, but was swiftly turned away by a fiercely protective handmaiden, determined to preserve the Mother’s dignity.

  By the time two hours had passed since midnight, it was over.

  A child—no, a boy—lay cradled in the white grass, his body bathed in radiant light. Before their eyes, he grew—first to a youth, then to a man, his form maturing in moments before the glow finally faded.

  Katrina and the strange boy were carried inside.

  Weakened, confused, yet alive, Katrina healed herself as best she could. Her body was restored.

  But her mind reeled.

  What in the name of the God-King had she just brought into the world?

  She hesitated at the door before stepping inside the room.

  Was he really her son? Everything had happened so quickly—too quickly for her mind to catch up. And yet... something inside her knew. Felt it. A powerful, primal attachment had bloomed in her heart. It wasn’t reasoned, nor logical. It simply was.

  He was hers.

  A treasure more precious than anything she'd ever known. A fierce, almost carnal instinct surged in her chest—the overwhelming desire to protect him.

  She moved closer.

  The young man—if he could be called that—stood over six feet tall, with the broad, honed musculature of a seasoned knight. His eyes, the same vivid green as her own, scanned the room with confused, animal panic. His brown hair, slightly tousled, mirrored hers as well. There was no denying the connection. He was of her.

  His eyes opened wide.

  Then—

  "HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—!"

  A scream erupted from his throat—raw, agonized, primal. He began to thrash, muscles convulsing, back arching, hands clawing at the linens.

  Katrina rushed into the hallway, panic gripping her heart.

  And then she felt it—a sliver of his pain, like fire curling in her own belly. His body was... changing. Burning. Melting from the inside.

  Her hands trembled.

  Something was wrong—terribly wrong.

  “Quick! Get the mage—and my satchels!” Katrina barked, the calm, measured grace she usually spoke with utterly gone.

  The maid blinked, startled.

  “My medicine is in there!” she snapped. “Go!”

  She turned back to the writhing man—her son?—as he gasped and screamed, his skin slick with sweat, veins bulging unnaturally beneath the surface.

  “He’s in pain—his heart can’t take this much longer! We have to calm him down or he’ll—”

  She didn’t finish the sentence.

  Instead, she dropped to her knees beside him, hands already glowing with healing light as she tried desperately to stabilize whatever was happening inside him.