The wind blew dust against the wooden shutters of the small cottage. Inside, the room smelled of sweat, herbs, and fear. A single oil lamp flickered, its weak light making shadows move across the walls.
Elara lay on the low cot, gasping for air. Sweat plastered strands of dark hair to her forehead. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the rough blanket. Beside her, Sophia, the village midwife, sat close, whispering soft words.
"Softly Elara, you can do it. "
Roric, Elara's husband, stood near the bed, his large frame tense and his face a bit pale. He twisted a worn leather strap in his hands, his gaze fixed on Elara.
"Almost there, Elara," Sophia continued, her voice soft but contain a hint of firmness. "One more push. You have to all out this time!"
Elara cried out, a raw sound of pain and effort that seemed to tear through the small room. The cry faded into a long, shuddering breath. Silence descended, broken only by the howling wind and Roric's sharp inhale.
Then, a thin, wail cut through the tension. A new life.
Roric let out a shaky breath, a weak smile touching his lips. Relief washed over him, he almost buckled his knees. "Finally," he whispered, as he moved closer.
Sophia worked quickly, her movements incredibly swift and practiced. She cut the cord, her hands surprisingly gentle as she cleaned the small, squirming infant with a damp cloth. He was small, but seemed healthy enough, his initial cries already quieting.
"A boy," Sophia announced, turning to place him in Elara's waiting arms.
Elara reached out, exhaustion forgotten for a moment, her eyes shining with tears of relief and love. She cradled the tiny bundle close, murmuring soft words, stroking his downy hair. Roric leaned over them, his rough hand hovering near the baby's head, a look of wonder on his face.
But Sophia hadn't moved away. She stood frozen, her gaze fixed on the infant tucked in Elara's arms. The professional calm on her face had vanished, replaced by a creeping unease. She leaned closer, peering intently at the baby. Her brow suddenly furrowed.
"Sophia?" Roric asked, his own relief faltering at the midwife's strange expression. "Is something wrong?"
Sophia didn't answer immediately. She reached out a hesitant, trembling finger, hovering it just above the baby's chest, then snatching it back as if burned. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating in the dim light.
She took a stumbling step back, her hand flying to her mouth.
"What is it?" Elara suddenly whispered, her heart lurching, clutching the baby tighter, her voice filled with fear. The baby, Julius, lay quiet in her arms, his eyes closed, breathing softly. Too softly?
Sophia shook her head, her face paling. "I… I don't feel it," she stammered, her voice barely audible above the wind.
"Feel what?" Roric demanded, stepping between Sophia and his wife, his protective instincts flaring.
The midwife swallowed hard, her gaze shifted back and forth between the parents and the oddly peaceful infant.
"The warmth," she whispered. "The light. The… the spark."
Elara looked down at her son. He seemed perfect. Ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes. A button nose. A dusting of dark hair. As she truly looked and felt, a chill spread through her, mirroring the midwife's terror. He was silent and still, missing the energy that should have been there.
"Every child," Sophia continued, her voice trembling now, "every living thing… it has a core. A light. It's faint at first, but it's there. It's the soul. It's what anchors us. It's what… feeds the world, in its own small way."
She took another step back, bumping against the rough wooden table. Her eyes were wide with a horror that went beyond simple fear.
"This child…" she choked out, pointing a shaking finger. "He… he has no soul!"
The words hung in the air, heavy and cold as stone. No soul.
In Aethel, the dying world, souls were everything. They were the faint embers keeping the darkness at bay. They were currency, power, life itself. It was said the world was fading because souls were fading, becoming weaker, fewer. And some… some actively hunted them. The Soul Trackers, servants of forgotten powers, roamed the desolate lands, drawn to the stronger lights, harvesting them to fuel their dark masters, hastening the world's decay.
To have a weak soul was misfortune. To have a strong soul was dangerous, attracting unwanted attention.
But to have no soul?
It was unheard of. Unnatural. An empty space where life's essence should reside. What did it mean? Was he truly alive? Or was he something else entirely? An empty vessel? A void?
Elara pulled Julius impossibly closer, shielding him with her body as if Sophia's words were physical blows. Tears streamed down her face, born not of joy, but of terror. "No," she sobbed. "No, he's my son. He's alive. I feel him breathing!"
"Breathing isn't the same as living, child," Sophia said, her voice regaining a sliver of its earlier firmness, now edged with dread. "Not in the way that matters. Not to them." She gestured vaguely towards the rattling shutters, towards the dying world outside. "A soulless child… it's an omen. Or worse, a beacon for things we don't want finding us. It's… wrong."
Roric stared at his son, his mind reeling. No soul. The midwife's fear was contagious. He thought of the Trackers, of the whispered stories of harvested souls, of the growing emptiness in the world. What was his son? What had they brought into this broken land?
Julius stirred slightly in Elara's arms, his tiny mouth working. He didn't cry. He didn't open his eyes. He simply existed, a quiet presence, a small, warm weight that felt terrifyingly hollow.
Sophia gathered her things with trembling hands, her eyes avoiding the family. "I… I must go," she mumbled, not meeting their eyes. "I can't… I saw nothing. I delivered a healthy boy. That is all."
"Sophia, wait!" Roric pleaded. "What do we do?"
At the door, the midwife paused. Wind pulled at her cloak as she opened it just a little. She glanced back, her face showing both fear and sorrow.
"Hide him," she whispered. "Hide him well. If what they say is true… if the Trackers sense souls… perhaps they won't sense him. Or perhaps…" Her voice trailed off, the implication hanging heavy in the air. Perhaps a void was something else entirely, something that drew a different, darker kind of attention.
"Pray he is merely empty," she finished, her voice tight with unspoken dread. "Pray he is not… something worse."
Then she was gone, leaving the new parents alone in the flickering lamplight with their silent, soulless child. The weight of her words settled over them, heavier than the silence Julius left in his wake.
Elara looked down at her son, her heart aching with a fierce, terrified love. Roric put a hand on her shoulder, his touch a bit unsteady. Outside, the wind howled, blowing dust against the thin walls of their home.
And inside, held in his mother's arms, Julius slept peacefully, unaware. A small, strange child born into a world clinging to hope. The real challenge wasn't just keeping him alive, it was keeping him secret.