Chapter 3: The Iron Star

Ilsa pressed her palms flat into the cold soil. The dirt crumbled under her fingers, rough and damp with evening dew. She dug her nails in deeper, focusing on the grit against her skin, the small stones pressing into her flesh. The warmth of the earth seeped into her hands, and slowly, the burning hunger in her belly began to subside.

She stayed on her knees for a long moment, breathing in ragged gulps. The craving receded like a wave pulling back from the shore, leaving behind a dull ache and a trembling weakness in her limbs. She wiped her hands on her dress and pushed herself upright, swaying slightly on her feet.

The iron star still lay on the ground where it had fallen. A faint shimmer of heat rose from the metal, visible in the dim evening light. She did not touch it. Instead, she looked toward the treeline.

Sister Alcmene stood at the edge of the woods, half-hidden in the shadow of an old oak. Her gray robes blended with the bark, and her still form might have been a tree trunk if not for the pale oval of her face. She had not left. She had only watched.

Ilsa stared at the woman. A question formed on her lips, but she swallowed it. The stranger had given her the charm and spoken her cryptic words. She would not give the woman the satisfaction of asking for more.

She pulled a scrap of cloth from her apron pocket and bent down. She wrapped the iron star carefully, folding the cloth around it several times, and stuffed it deep into her pocket. The warmth of the metal seeped through the fabric even wrapped in layers.

When she looked up again, the treeline was empty. Sister Alcmene had vanished.

Ilsa stood in her yard for a long while, one hand pressed to her pocket, the other resting on her belly. The hunger had quieted to a low throb, like a second heartbeat. She could live with it, she decided. For now.

She went inside and barred the door.

The fire had burned down to embers. She added a few pieces of wood and watched the flames catch, the light flickering across the walls of her small cottage. She sat at the table with the wrapped charm in front of her, not unwrapping it. The cloth had cooled, but she did not trust it.

The night pressed against the windows. She heard the wind move through the trees, the occasional call of an owl. She should sleep. Tomorrow would bring work, and work did not care how tired she was.

She lay down on her bed fully dressed, her hand still in her pocket, curled around the cloth-wrapped charm. Sleep came slowly, and she drifted in and out, her dreams filled with the sound of hooves on stone and the flash of scales in moonlight.

She woke in darkness. The fire had gone out, and the cottage had grown cold, she had no idea what hour it was. She lay still, listening. Nothing moved outside. No wind. No animals. The silence had weight.

The hunger stirred in her belly, a slow coiling sensation. She pressed her hand to her stomach and felt the warmth there, the slight firmness she had noticed earlier. The child was growing. She could measure the difference even in a single day.

She sat up, and her hand brushed the wrapped charm on the table. She had left it there when she went to bed. The cloth felt cool to the touch, but as her fingers rested on it, the warmth began to rise again.

She pulled her hand away.

The questions circled in her mind. What had Sister Alcmene known? How had she found her? And what had she meant about the stirring of wings?

Ilsa looked toward the window. The moon had risen high overhead, casting silver light across the yard. The treeline stood dark and still beyond her fence.

She made a decision.

She pulled on her shoes, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and slipped out the door. The night air bit at her cheeks. She crossed the yard with quick steps, keeping her eyes on the path that led into the woods.

The grove lay a quarter hour's walk from her cottage, past the old stone wall and through a thicket of pines. She had walked this path in daylight many times. At night, the trees pressed close, and the roots seemed to reach for her feet. She moved carefully, placing each step with care.

The hunger stirred as she walked. Not the sharp, demanding surge of earlier, but a low pulse, steady, patient. It seemed almost curious, as if it too wanted to know what waited in the grove.

She reached the clearing where the bull had taken her. The stone altar still stood in the center, pale in the moonlight. She had expected to find him there—the serpent, the bull, some sign of the presence that had filled her. But the grove was empty.

She walked to the altar and ran her hand over its surface. The stone felt warm, though the night air had chilled. She pressed her palm flat against it and closed her eyes.

Nothing stirred.

She opened her eyes and looked around. In the moonlight, she noticed the details she had missed in the heat of the ritual. The grass lay flattened in a wide circle around the altar, and dark patches marked the soil where the bull had pawed the ground. The air held a faint trace of musk, old and fading, like the memory of an animal that had long since moved on.

And there, at the base of the altar, lay a single black feather.

She bent down and picked it up. The feather measured nearly as long as her forearm, glossy and dark, with a sheen that caught the moonlight. It felt smooth under her fingers, firm at the shaft, soft at the edge. She turned it over, but no writing marked it, no sign of its origin.

"Where are you?" she said aloud. Her voice sounded small in the empty grove.

The hunger pulsed in response, a slow roll in her belly. She pressed her free hand to her stomach. The thing inside her stirred, not in the way it had before, but a subtle shifting sensation, almost like the child was listening.

Something rustled in the trees behind her.

Ilsa spun around, the feather clutched against her chest. A shape moved between the trunks, large and dark. She backed toward the altar, her heart picking up speed.

The shape stepped into the moonlight.

She saw the gray robe first, the same color as Sister Alcmene's, but heavier, made of coarse wool. Then the face beneath the hood—a man, older, with a gray beard and hard eyes. Iron stars studded the fabric of his chest, sewn in rows like armor.

Behind him, two more figures emerged from the trees. They moved in silence, their steps careful and measured. One carried a heavy iron cage, its bars thick and dark, big enough to hold an animal.

Ilsa's hand found the edge of the altar behind her. "Who are you?"

The older man did not answer. He looked at her the way she had seen men look at livestock, assessing, calculating. His gaze moved over her face, her throat, the curve of her body beneath her shawl.

"The bearer must be contained or cleansed," he said. The words came flat, without warmth. "The scripture is clear."

"I do not understand."

"You understand well enough." He took a step forward. "The stain grows in you. We have smelled it for miles. A corruption that poisons the holy ground."

The other two moved to flank her, spreading out on either side. The one with the cage set it down with a clang that echoed through the trees. The bars gleamed in the moonlight.

Ilsa looked for a path of escape. The treeline behind her offered darkness, but the men had positioned themselves between her and the main trail. She could run deeper into the woods, but she did not know the terrain as well at night, and they moved with the ease of hunters.

"I serve no corruption," she said, keeping her voice steady. "I shear sheep and milk cows. I have done no harm to anyone."

The older man shook his head slowly. "You lie. The seed betrays you. It burns in your blood like a brand."

He reached into his robe and pulled out a length of chain, heavy iron links that clinked softly as they moved. The sound made the hunger in her belly spike, sharp and sudden.

She turned to run.

The cramp hit her before she took two steps. It doubled her over, a wrenching pain that seized her abdomen and dropped her to her knees in the grass. She gasped, pressing both hands to her stomach. The hunger surged through her, not craving now but agony, a burning pressure that stole her breath.

The men moved closer. She heard their footsteps in the grass, the soft rustle of their robes.

"Hold her," the older man said.

She tried to push herself up, but the cramp knocked her down again. Her vision blurred at the edges. The pain coiled through her, relentless, and the hunger fed on it, growing stronger, demanding.

A third step brought the older man within reach. He loomed over her, chain in hand.

A branch whistled through the air and struck the side of his head.

He staggered, dropping the chain. A figure stepped between Ilsa and the men, a branch gripped in both hands. She saw a flash of red hair, wild and unkempt, and a face crisscrossed with old scars.

"Run!" the stranger shouted at her.

The other two men rushed forward. The stranger swung the branch at the first, catching him in the shoulder. The man grunted and stumbled, but his companion grabbed the branch and yanked it away, hurling it into the darkness.

The stranger turned and grabbed Ilsa's arm. "Move!"

She dragged herself upright, the cramp still twisting in her belly. The stranger pulled her toward the treeline, half-carrying her as she stumbled. Behind them, the men shouted, and she heard the sound of pursuit.

They crashed into the undergrowth. Branches slapped at her face, tore at her shawl. The stranger moved with surprising speed, leading her between trees, over roots, through thickets that scratched her legs. She lost all sense of direction. Pain and fear and hunger mixed in her blood, and she only focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

The shouts faded behind them. The sounds of crashing through brush grew quieter. The stranger kept moving, dragging her deeper into the woods.

The cramp hit again, and she fell.

She hit the ground hard, her knees striking roots and stones. The stranger tried to lift her, but her body would not obey. The hunger surged through her, wave after wave, and she curled into a ball, pressing her forehead against the cold earth.

They had to stop. She could not run anymore. She could not feed the child and flee at the same time. The thought crystallized in her mind with terrible clarity. The hunger would not let her escape. It would drag her down every time, weaken her, slow her. The child demanded its due, and she had nothing left to give.

The stranger crouched beside her, breathing hard. "We have to keep moving. They will not give up."

She shook her head. "I cannot."

She crawled toward a fallen log, its trunk hollow and dark. She pulled herself into the opening, the rotten wood crumbling against her clothes. She wedged herself into the space, her belly pressed against the damp earth inside. The darkness closed around her.

"You cannot hide here," the stranger said, kneeling at the opening. "They will find you."

Ilsa did not answer. The hunger pulsed in her, rhythmic now, in time with her heartbeat. She pressed her hands to her stomach, feeling the warmth there, the slight swell. The child stirred beneath her palms.

"Leave me," she said. "You have done enough."

The stranger did not move. The moonlight caught the red hair, the scarred face, the wild eyes. "I did not come this far to watch you give up."

"What do you know of me?"

The stranger opened her mouth to answer, but a sound came from the darkness behind them. A shout, distant but approaching.

They were still coming.

Ilsa pressed herself deeper into the hollow log. She heard the stranger's breathing slow.

"Ilsa," the stranger said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Ilsa, can you hear them?"

She could. The sound of branches breaking under heavy feet, the murmur of voices calling to one another. They were still searching. They would find her.

"Stay quiet," the stranger said. "Stay still."

Ilsa curled tighter into the log, her cheek against the rotten wood. The hunger pulsed with her heartbeat, steady, patient, waiting.

"Ilsa," the stranger said again, closer now. "Ilsa."