FIVE YEARS AGO
The woman stood before the Council, a trembling figure shrouded in a cloak of dirt and soot. Her arms clutched a bundle close to her chest, an infant whose soft breaths barely registered in the tense silence of the chamber.
Mreka, the elder and voice of the Council, leaned forward, his weathered face etched with suspicion. "Who are you?" he demanded; his voice gruff.
The woman mumbled a response, her words muffled and unclear. A wave of pity flickered across Resi's face, one of the younger members of the Council.
"She is afraid," Resi offered, her voice a gentle counterpoint to Mreka's harshness.
Mreka shook his head, his gaze hardening. "Fear or no," he retorted, "she is a stranger. These are war-torn times. Our lands are overrun by enemies. Allowing a stranger to stay is a risk I cannot take. I cannot allow her."
The other members of the Council, their faces lined with worry and distrust, murmured agreement.
Resi's heart ached for the woman and her child. "She needs our help," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "Yes, I caught her stealing food, but I later learned she did it to feed her child. We carry the burden of war, the hatred for our enemy, but must it consume us even further?" Tears welled in her eyes as she folded her hands in supplication. "Please, reconsider your decision."
Silence stretched, thick and heavy, in the chamber. Mreka turned and beckoned the other members closer, their hushed voices weaving a tapestry of concern. After a gruelling exchange, Mreka returned, the weight of their decision etched on his face.
"She can stay," he announced.
Relief flooded Resi's face. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice filled with gratitude.
The woman mumbled something in a foreign tongue, her voice a mere tremor in the silence.
"What did she say?" Mreka asked, his curiosity piqued.
Resi, sensing Mreka's shifting mood, intervened before the woman could answer. "Please," she interceded, "she must have faced terrible hardships. She is likely traumatized." She placed a reassuring hand on the woman's shoulder, silencing her.
Mreka's gaze met Resi's, suspicion lingering in his eyes. "If she speaks of… it… again, there will be consequences."
"She won't repeat it," Resi assured him, her voice firm. "I will personally make sure of it."
Mreka eyed the woman warily, then stalked back to his quarters, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.
As Resi led the woman and her child away, the woman's words echoed in her ears, a chilling prophecy that sent shivers down her spine. "When the sky will bleed," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "and the moon will rise crimson… Sleep, my dear one, for The Creator is dead, and the end is about to come."