Born Under Ill Omen

 

The cold had teeth that night.

​Snow lay thick across the valley floor, untouched except for the narrow wagon tracks leading toward the lonely farmhouse. Frost clung to the fence posts like pale fingers, and every breath hung silver in the air. Above it all, glaring down from the clear, cold sky, Morrslieb—the Chaos moon—shone full and swollen. Even through the clear winter sky, its sickly green light stained the snow faintly emerald, as though the land itself had begun to rot beneath the moon’s gaze.

​Baygar Brightsoul drew his fur-lined cloak tighter as he approached the farmhouse. Ice crackled beneath his boots while the wind tugged at the ends of his dark hair and neatly kept goatee. A polished oak staff rested in one gloved hand, its iron fittings glimmering faintly in the moonlight.

​Warm lantern glow spilled from the farmhouse windows ahead—a welcome sight.

​The farmer who opened the door was a broad, sturdy man with weathered hands and tired eyes made kind by years of honest work.

​“Well now,” the farmer said, looking the traveler over carefully. “You’ll freeze solid out there. Come in.”

​“You have my thanks,” Baygar replied warmly.

​The farmhouse smelled of stew, baking bread, and woodsmoke. The farmer’s daughter glanced up from setting bowls upon the table and nearly forgot what she was doing. The stranger was handsome in a way unlike the men of the valley. Refined. Educated. Dangerous, perhaps, though not cruel. His voice carried the confidence of a man who had seen distant lands beyond muddy fields and sheep-covered hills.

​The girl listened to him all through supper. Baygar spoke of towering cities in the Empire, Dwarven halls carved beneath mountains, and ships sailing black oceans under foreign stars. The farmer laughed heartily at every tale while filling the traveler’s cup again and again.

​His daughter barely touched her meal. Several times she caught Baygar watching her across the table. Several times she blushed and looked away too slowly.

​By midnight, the farmhouse had gone quiet. The farmer and his wife snored softly in their bed, and the fire had burned low. But the farmer’s daughter lay awake beneath her blankets, staring at the pale green light creeping across her ceiling. She knew this was foolish. Wicked, perhaps. At least, her parents would think so. Yet her heart would not listen to reason.

​Quietly, she rose, wrapped herself in a wool shawl, and slipped out into the freezing night. Snow crunched beneath her boots as she crossed the yard toward the barn. Her breath misted before her face while Morrslieb bathed the world in its unnatural glow.

​Inside the barn, it was warmer. Horses shifted lazily in their stalls while the scent of hay filled the air. Baygar lay beneath a blanket near the far wall, though his eyes opened before she spoke.

​For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Then Baygar smiled faintly.

​“You should not be here.”

​“I know,” she whispered.

​Outside, the winter wind sighed across the valley under the mournful light of Morrslieb.

​The next morning dawned bitterly cold and grey. The girl woke smiling, but for only a moment before she saw Baygar already dressed for travel, fastening his cloak.

​“You’re leaving.”

​“I must.”

​The hurt in her voice made him pause. Baygar stepped close, taking her hands gently in his own.

​“You are kind,” he told her softly. “And I will remember you long after greater places and greater people have faded from memory.”

​“Then stay.”

​Sadness flickered briefly across his face.

​“My road leads elsewhere. A wizard’s life is not one that leaves room for love… nor for settling beside a hearth.” He kissed her forehead softly. Then he turned and walked out into the snow.

​She stood in the barn doorway watching him disappear down the frozen road beneath the breaking light of dawn, never once looking back.

​Nine months later, the valley shook beneath the fury of a terrible storm. Rain lashed against the farmhouse windows while thunder rolled across the hills hard enough to rattle the shutters. Lightning split the night sky in blinding white flashes.

​The farmer stood helplessly near the kitchen fire, twisting his cap nervously in rough hands while his daughter cried out from the next room. Old Gert stood at the window, peering uneasily toward the heavens.

​“Hmph,” the old woman muttered. “Not seen a storm this wicked since I was a girl.”

​The farmer glanced at her anxiously.

​“They used to say nights like this were bad omens,” Gert continued. “Said it was a sign the Gods were offended.”

​The farmer’s face tightened with worry. Old Gert snorted sharply.

​“All nonsense, of course. Fool tales for frightening children. Don’t stand there looking ready for a funeral. Boil more water.”

​As the farmer turned toward the kettle, Old Gert quietly made the sign of Sigmar behind his back. Just in case. Then she gathered another bundle of towels beneath one arm and added casually, “And be quick about it. Your daughter’s giving you twin boys for grandchildren.”

​The farmer nearly dropped the kettle into the fire.

​A week later, the storm had passed. Sunlight spilled warmly through the farmhouse windows while the farmer’s daughter sat in bed nursing her children. Already, the twins seemed utterly different. One had dark hair and solemn eyes that wandered the room with strange intensity for a child so young. The other was fair-haired and smiling, happily grasping at his mother’s fingers.

​Her father and mother stood nearby, grinning proudly as only grandparents can.

​“Have you settled on names yet?”

​She looked down lovingly at the boys.

​“Yes.” She kissed the dark-haired child gently upon the brow. “Timinus.” Then the smiling blonde babe. “And Adhumla.”

​Outside, the valley lay peaceful beneath clear skies washed clean by rain. No one in that little farmhouse could possibly know what fate awaited the brothers—that Timinus would one day grow into a terror spoken of in fear across kingdoms, a shadow that would darken the world itself; nor that Adhumla would rise against him, a shining beacon of hope in an age drowning in despair.

​For now, they were only children. Two sleeping infants beside a farmhouse hearth while far above them, hidden by the power of the sun's brightness, Morrslieb lingered, pale and watchful.