Chapter 100: The Womb of Memory
The night air pressed thick and silent over the village. In every home, people stirred restlessly, turning in their sleep as shadows slithered across their dreams like ink in water. Doors creaked open by unseen hands. Windows slammed shut without a breeze. The chickens refused to cluck, the dogs cowered in corners, and the trees whispered in voices no human could understand.
And yet, amid the darkness, Elara and Ariella shared the same dream.
They stood in a field of moonlight, beneath a sky swirling with silver mist. Before them, the Blue and White Queens emerged, not as figures of royalty but as raw light wrapped in grief and urgency.
"Elara. Ariella," the Blue Queen's voice trembled like a bell. "He is slipping beyond reach."
"You must hurry," the White Queen added. "Shaza grows bold. He plans not just to command Albert, but to become him. Body and soul."
Elara's heart clenched. "What can we do?"
"There is one thing left," the Blue Queen whispered. "A token hidden where Mira gave birth. A seed of memory planted in love. Shaza cannot taint what was born pure."
"The sacred grove," Ariella said softly, her eyes wide. "I remember stories of it."
The mist around them shimmered, then collapsed. The dream ended.
They awoke gasping in their beds, hearts pounding.
---
While the girls prepared to leave in search of the grove, the village fell deeper into unease.
A young boy was found sitting on the roof of his house, laughing at shadows no one else could see. A woman wandered the streets at dawn, her feet bleeding, muttering about fire under her skin. In the market square, people accused each other of crimes they hadn't committed. Even the elders spoke in hushed tones, clutching charms, refusing to sleep.
"He is feeding on them," Ariella murmured as she watched a man claw at his own arms, screaming about voices in the village river.
"It's like he's… practicing possession," Elara said grimly. "Using them to grow stronger."
They moved fast, guided by instinct more than memory, until they reached the sacred grove. The trees stood taller here, their roots knotted like ancient veins. In the center lay a single mound of soft earth beneath a wide-bellied tree. The grass was thicker here, greener.
Kneeling, Elara dug gently with her hands. Her fingers brushed something smooth—wooden. She pulled out a small carved pendant, shaped like a mother embracing a child.
"It's hers," Ariella breathed. "It must be."
As Elara touched it, warmth pulsed through her fingers—grief and love wrapped in one.
"We'll need this," she said, gripping it tightly. "It might be the only part of her he still hears."
---
Far away, Albert sat by a quiet stream, staring at the water's slow swirl. In his hand, he held Mira's diary, worn and faded.
He'd read it cover to cover. Twice.
She had written to him as if he were listening—her child, her heart, her reason for enduring.
Mira's Diary – Excerpts
To my little one,
You are not yet born, but I already speak to you as if you can hear me. Maybe you can. They say babies listen from the womb, and I choose to believe it—because I want you to know the truth, even if I'm not there to tell you myself.
The village... it is not what it seems. The peace here is a fragile thing, bought with silence, and silence with blood.
You must understand who they are.
The Shrouded One was not born evil. He was a boy like any other—lost, afraid, used. They say he killed many, but they never speak of who twisted his soul before he turned. Remember this: not every villain begins as one.He died because the master he was loyal to lied to him and was ordered by the devil controlling the master to kill the him and he was Masters favorite son.
The Master wore power like a crown and kindness like a mask. He built an empire out of children, broke them down, and called it salvation. People feared him, yet some still followed, not knowing the pain he caused. He was a prince once who didn't have the ability to rule and the king chose the youngest son as the king over him. He sold his soul to the devil in the end the devil got him killed for failure to deliver his promise.
And then there is the Shadow—Shaza.
Ah, my son, if ever you hear that name… run.
He is not flesh. He is hunger. He feeds on pain and hides behind promises. When the world cast him out, he found the weak and whispered purpose into their ears. That's how he finds his strength—through hearts full of rage and sorrow.
I fear he may one day find you too.
But if he does… remember this: You are not him. No matter what they say. No matter what he promises. You are my child. Born of warmth, not hatred. Carried beneath my heart, not in the shadow's wake.
There are those who will try to use you. Twist you. Lie to you.
Promise me, if you ever feel the weight of darkness in your chest, you will find the light. Even if it is small. Even if it flickers. Hold it.
You are more than what they want you to be.
Mama loves you.
Always.
—Mira
He remembered her voice now. Not perfectly—but enough. Enough to know that her stories were warnings, not weapons. The Shrouded One's cruelty. The Master's hunger for control. The shadow's twisted promises. She had seen them all and still whispered hope into her womb.
Albert touched his chest, confused. Why would she tell him about Shaza's past if she trusted him?
The sound of wind shifted. And then came the smoke.
Shaza emerged from the trees, his form indistinct and roiling, more monstrous than man.
"You are distant," he said slowly. "What troubles you?"
Albert stood but didn't speak.
"You've been reading her words again, haven't you?" the shadow's voice darkened. "The same woman who abandoned you to the cold. Who cursed you by birth."
"She loved me," Albert said quietly.
"She lied," Shaza hissed. "She wanted you to be weak. Soft. Like the villagers who let her die."
Albert's mind wavered. The warmth from Mira's words battled the chill from Shaza's.
The shadow moved closer, tendrils of smoke slipping around Albert's head. "Let me show you the truth."
And then—blackness.
Screams. Blood. Flames.
A vision not of the past, but of what could come: a world where Albert ruled beside Shaza, feared and unstoppable. The villagers bowed or burned. The girls, broken. The Queens, banished into silence.
"You see?" Shaza whispered. "With me, you are more than her dreams. You are power."
The last fragments of Mira's voice slipped from Albert's memory like leaves in a storm.
His eyes dimmed, and he knelt again. "I understand, Papa. I won't question you again."
Shaza's form relaxed. "Good, my son. Very good."
But deep within Albert, the pendant Mira had buried—her last protection—now pulsed, unseen, untouched. It waited. Patient.
And it remembered everything.