The first contractions struck at dusk, under a sky streaked with blood-red clouds. Mara’s hands glowed gold as she pressed them to Lilia’s swollen belly, her mana threads weaving through muscle and sinew. “Breathe, love. The babe’s eager to meet you.”

  Lilia’s laughter dissolved into a gasp. “Eager? She’s trying to kick her way out!”

  Elric paced the cottage like a caged wolf, his aura crackling with restless energy. “Should’ve fetched the midwife. What if—?”

  “We are the midwife,” Mara snapped, sweat beading on her brow. Her healing magic faltered—a flicker of shadow beneath the golden light.

  Liam hovered in the doorway, clutching Grandfather’s grimoire like a talisman. The past weeks had unearthed disturbing passages: “The seventh moon’s child shall bear the Convergence Mark—blessing or curse, none can say.” Amara’s due date fell on the seventh full moon.

  “Liam!” Mara barked. “Boil water. Now.”

  He obeyed, but as he fed kindling to the hearth, the flames spat embers in the shape of eyes. Watched. The Voice’s warning echoed: “They’ll come for the marked child.”

  The Birth

  Amara entered the world at the stroke of midnight, her first cry drowned by thunder. Mara’s magic surged—not gold, but violet—as she severed the umbilical cord.

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  “Gods above,” Elric breathed.

  The babe’s left palm bore a sigil: intersecting circles etched in starlight. The Mark of Convergence.

  Lilia slumped against the pillows, her grin brittle. “Told you she’d be trouble.”

  Mara swaddled Amara hastily. “The Church’s seers detect these marks at birth. We need to—”

  A fist hammered the door.

  “Open in the name of the Holy Inquisition!”

  Chaos erupted. Elric barred the door with an aura-reinforced table. Lilia staggered upright, daggers materializing in her shaking hands.

  “Take her.” Mara thrust Amara into Liam’s arms. “Hide in the root cellar. Don’t make a sound.”

  The infant’s mark pulsed against his chest as he crept downstairs. Above, wood splintered.

  “Where is the child?” The Inquisitor’s voice dripped honeyed malice. “The Goddess demands her sacrifice.”

  Elric’s roar shook the rafters. “Over my corpse!”

  A mana blast detonated. Liam clutched Amara tighter, her whimpers smothered against his tunic. The grimoire in his satchel grew hot, pages flipping autonomously to a warding ritual.

  “Shield the marked one with blood and ash…”

  Teeth gritted, Liam sliced his palm and smeared the symbols. The cellar walls hummed, shadows thickening into a protective veil.

  Amara’s eyes opened—violet, fathomless, ancient. She cooed, and the warding sigils blazed.

  The Aftermath

  Dawn revealed a gutted cottage. Elric leaned heavily on a shattered beam, his left arm mangled. Lilia’s daggers protruded from an Inquisitor’s corpse, her own wounds sealed by Mara’s frantic magic.

  “They’ll send more,” Mara whispered, cradling Amara. The mark had faded, but violet flecks lingered in the babe’s irises.

  Liam stared at his blood-crusted hand. “Grandfather knew this would happen. The grimoire’s rituals… they anticipated the Mark.”

  Elric’s gaze hardened. “Pack only what we need. We leave for the Frostspires tonight.”

  Lilia kissed Amara’s brow. “Welcome to the family, little storm.”