The Weight of Shadows

Prologue - The beginning of the end

The night was unnaturally still, as though the very air was holding its breath. A cold wind stirred the leaves outside the cottage, and the sky, blanketed by heavy clouds, hid the stars from view. The small village nestled in the hollow of a valley had long since gone quiet, its residents safe in their beds, unaware of the terrible fate that was about to befall one of their own.

Inside the cottage, the fire in the hearth flickered dimly, casting long shadows across the walls. The house, though modest, had once been filled with warmth—a sanctuary of love in a world rapidly darkening. The walls were adorned with photographs that moved gently in their frames: a couple, smiling and radiant, holding their newborns, two small figures swaddled in blankets. Laughter had echoed here, the sound of hope amidst the growing fear of the outside world.

But tonight, that warmth had fled. There was a weight in the air, thick and suffocating, as though the house itself knew what was coming.

And then, the door blasted open.

A figure stepped through the threshold, tall and draped in black, his face hidden beneath the shadows of his hood. His presence filled the room with an unbearable chill, a darkness that seemed to seep into the very bones of the house. His red eyes gleamed with a malevolent light as he moved with purpose, gliding toward the stairs.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed from above—a last desperate attempt to flee. But it was too late. He had come.

In the nursery, the air was thick with fear. The mother, her wand clutched tightly in one hand, stood before the crib, her body trembling not from cold, but from the knowledge of what was about to happen. She had tried to shield them, her children, her everything, but no magic, no matter how strong, could stop the darkness that had come for them tonight.

"Please," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please... take me instead. Spare them."

But the figure only laughed, a high, cruel sound that echoed through the small room. He raised his wand, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath once more.

"Step aside," came the command, cold and unfeeling.

The mother shook her head, her resolve firm even in the face of certain death. She stood her ground, her heart pounding in her chest, her back to the crib. Behind her, the faint sound of soft breathing could be heard—two infants, unaware of the danger that loomed over them, sleeping peacefully despite the chaos surrounding them.

"Step aside," the voice hissed again, sharper this time.

But she did not move.

The green light filled the room, blinding and cold, and with a final gasp, she crumpled to the floor. The house seemed to shudder, the very walls groaning in protest as life left her body, as though the world itself mourned her passing. Her hand fell limp at her side, her fingers mere inches from the crib.

The figure stepped forward, his gaze falling upon the two small forms within the crib. Twins. Innocent, fragile, and yet they were the reason for his presence here tonight. The prophecy had spoken of one—the one who could defeat him. But there were two, and in his twisted mind, that meant neither could be spared.

He raised his wand once more, the incantation already forming on his lips. The end was near. But as the words left his mouth, something unexpected happened.

The spell, the same spell that had just ended a life, collided with something far more powerful than even he had anticipated. The air around the crib shimmered, a shield of ancient, protective magic woven not by wands, but by love—a love so strong it defied the very laws of magic itself.

The green light rebounded.

There was a scream—inhuman, high-pitched, filled with rage and pain. The dark figure, once so imposing, crumbled into nothingness, a wisp of smoke and shadow that dissipated into the cold night air. His wand clattered to the ground, useless, abandoned.

Silence fell.

The destruction came in waves after that, a slow collapse as the magic that had held the house together gave way. The walls cracked and groaned under the weight of what had transpired. Windows shattered, glass raining down like broken stars. The ceiling buckled, sending chunks of wood and plaster crashing to the floor. The fire in the hearth was snuffed out, leaving only cold ash behind.

And in the midst of the wreckage, two small figures remained untouched, lying side by side in their crib. One stirred slightly, a faint whimper escaping as the world crumbled around them. The other lay still, unknowing, unseeing, their fate entwined with a future they could not yet comprehend.

The house—once a haven of love, now a ruin of shattered dreams—stood as a silent witness to the horror that had taken place. Outside, the clouds parted just enough for the moonlight to spill across the wreckage, illuminating the destruction in stark relief.

Far off in the distance, the sound of footsteps could be heard—someone was coming. Help, too late to save the lives that had been lost, but perhaps in time to save the ones who remained.

And so, on that night when the stars had fallen, a new story began, written not in ink, but in blood and sacrifice.