The Child of Omen
The figure didn’t move.
Its gray robe stirred in the wind like mist on stone, and the black-silk-wrapped cradle in its arms remained unnervingly still. No sound came from within. No breathing. No heartbeat that Raine could hear.
But the figure’s eyes—those eyes—burned with the same impossible violet that had haunted her since the Severed Moon’s first whisper.
“She has been born,” the figure repeated, voice low and resonant, as though it echoed through dimensions.
Kael stepped in front of Raine and Sira, his blade already half-drawn. “Who is she?”
The figure’s head tilted slightly. “Not yours. Not theirs. But both. The first choice has already been made.”
Liora moved beside Kael, her staff glowing faintly. “You crossed sacred wards. That is an act of war.”
“I carry
