The Child Of The Eclipse

The Shadow

The news of Marvin’s unusual birthmark did not remain within the walls of Arthus’s modest home for long. In the town of Toleem, whispers traveled faster than the wind, and soon those whispers swelled into excited voices that carried from one street to another. Word of a child with a mark unlike any other spread like fire leaping from rooftop to rooftop, and before long, people from every corner of the city poured into the quiet neighborhood where Arthus and Elena lived.

The crowd seemed endless, faces of strangers pressing close together, all eager to catch a glimpse of the infant whom they already called the miracle baby. Their sandals scraped against the stone roads; children tugged at their mothers’ dresses to be lifted high enough to see; elderly men and women hobbled forward leaning on canes, their weary eyes brightened by curiosity and awe. Every day, Arthus’s home was filled with a restless tide of villagers who muttered prayers, whispered old sayings, and proclaimed their allegiance to a child they believed had been touched by the heavens.

Arthus stood at the doorway of his house, shoulders squared, trying to hold back the tide of bodies pressing to enter. His heart swelled with pride for his son, but beneath the pride ran an undercurrent of unease. He had not expected such devotion, nor did he know how long he could endure it. Elena, inside, cradled Marvin against her chest, her voice soft as she hushed him whenever his cries rose above the chatter of the crowd.

One afternoon, as the sun cast long shadows across the garden and the air buzzed with the voices of villagers, something strange happened. Arthus, who had been guiding visitors and ensuring they did not overwhelm Elena, suddenly felt the ground tilt beneath his feet. His vision blurred for the briefest of moments, and then—just as if the world itself had drawn a breath and held it—everything stopped.

The chatter of the people ceased mid-sentence. The wails of his son froze in the air like an echo that refused to fade. The breeze that had stirred the branches of the garden halted, each leaf fixed in place as though painted onto the sky. Even Elena, who had been swaying gently while soothing Marvin, seemed suspended in stillness.

Arthus blinked rapidly, convinced he had fainted. Yet when he raised his hand and pinched the skin of his forearm until it burned, nothing changed. The world remained frozen—except for one thing.

A shadow stood in the distance, still yet alive, its form shifting faintly as though made from smoke and darkness. Arthus’s breath caught in his throat. For a heartbeat, he told himself it was a dream, a strange trick of his tired mind. But the figure moved, and with every slow step it drew nearer.

His stomach clenched, and fear rose like a cold tide in his chest. His voice cracked as he shouted into the silence. “Who are you?” What do you want from my family?”

The figure stopped, and then, chillingly, it laughed. The sound echoed like the scraping of stones, hollow and sharp, reverberating through the stillness. When it spoke, its words seemed to pierce straight through him, heavy with a weight older than time itself.

“Arthus, son of Sovarous,” it intoned. “Fifteen years.” That is all you have. Fifteen years before, mothers will weep for their children, and children will weep for their mothers. Fifteen years before, the sky turns dark and brother raises hand against brother. Fifteen years ago, humanity itself is no more.

The voice was both distant and near, both male and female, young and impossibly ancient. Arthus’s lips parted. He tried to speak, to cry out, to warn the townsfolk, but no sound escaped his throat. His tongue was heavy, locked in place, as if unseen chains bound him. Panic clawed at him. He willed his legs to move, to run, but they would not obey.

Finally, in desperation, Arthus closed his eyes. It is a dream. It has to be a dream. He repeated the words in his mind until they drowned out the shadow’s prophecy. He clung to the hope that if he shut it out, if he refused to believe it, he would wake.

And then, slowly, sound began to return. First the low murmur of voices, then the familiar gossip of townsfolk, then the piercing cries of Marvin, loud and insistent, as if demanding his father’s attention. The sound filled Arthus’s heart with such relief that he dared open his eyes.

He found himself not standing among the crowd, but lying in his own bed. His chest heaved as though he had run a great distance, sweat dampening his brow. For a moment, he stared at the ceiling beams above him, confused and shaken, and then he laughed—a strained, uneasy laugh. “What a dream,” he muttered aloud, trying to convince himself it was nothing more than that.

Rising from the bed, he searched for Elena and soon found her in the garden. She was kneeling by the small patch of soil Arthus had tended for her, her fingers brushing the petals of the flowers she had planted there. Her face brightened when she saw him.

“Hello, my dear,” she said warmly. “Did you rest well?" Most of the townsfolk have already gone, after pledging their allegiance to the son of the eclipse. What a marvel. I never imagined our son would inspire so many. We are truly blessed parents.

Arthus forced a smile, though his heart still trembled. “Yes, we are,” he replied softly. His thoughts returned to the dream—the shadow, the prophecy, the terrifying certainty in its voice. Yet he said nothing of it to Elena. Instead, he decided he would seek out Ser Ritchard in the morning, for Ritchard, a man of Santorian blood, was known for his knowledge and his vast library. If anyone could make sense of such a vision, it would be him.

Later, after the last visitors had departed and silence once more wrapped around the house, Elena noticed the tension lingering in her husband’s face. At the dinner table, he barely touched his food, pushing it around his plate.

“Arthus,” she said gently, her eyes filled with concern, “is something troubling you?" You seem weary ever since this afternoon."

He looked at her, fear flickering in his eyes. How could he explain what he had seen? How could he tell her of the shadow’s prophecy without sounding like a man haunted by his own imagination? He did not know if he could protect her from what lay ahead, nor did he know if he could even protect himself.

At last, he took a long breath, steadying his voice. “Today I dreamed the world stopped, and I was visited by someone… a figure." A shadow. It told me of an ending, of a prophecy that would come in fifteen years. I believe it has something to do with Marvin. I don’t know what to make of it. Tomorrow I will go to Ser Ritchard. His people, the Santorians, are said to keep the greatest library in Toleem. Perhaps there I will find answers.

Elena tilted her head, studying him closely. “Did this shadow have a face?”

Arthus’s eyes widened. “Yes." It was the face of a young woman. But the voice… He shuddered. “The voice did not belong to her. It was raspy, ancient, as though it belonged to someone who had lived for centuries.

Elena’s lips parted in shock. “One of the witches of the west.”

Arthus’s blood ran cold. He leaped from his chair. “What?”

“Yes,” Elena whispered, her brows furrowed. “My mother once told me about them. She said that one day, a prophesied child would come and save us, that we would no longer need to live in fear. But she also warned me of the witches of the west. They come as shadows, sometimes appearing with faces so beautiful that villagers mistake them for angels. People stare at them, unable to look away, unable to control their own bodies. But the truth is darker. They spread ruin. Long ago, they came to a village when a rumor spread that foretold a child was expected to be born. They dazzled the people with their beauty, but then they brought death and darkness, destroying the village to ensure the child would never live.

Arthus shook his head, his tone edged with doubt. “If that is true, then why allow Marvin to be born at all?" Why wait nearly two weeks before appearing to me? Why grant me fifteen years? I will not let superstitious tales rule our lives. I will go to Ser Ritchard in the morning. He will help us find the truth.

Elena reached across the table and placed her hand over his. “Yes, you are right." We must not let fear rule us. My mother always clung to the past, but we must look forward. We have each other, and that is what matters.

Arthus’s expression softened. He clasped her hand, grateful for her strength. “Yes, my love." I believe in happily ever afters. This was nothing more than a nightmare. Nothing more.”