She hurried her pace, but only slightly. Running would be foolish; it would attract too much attention, would create a stir. She held her breath, trying to pacify her surging lungs, and focused on the stone path ahead.
The town around her buzzed with energy. She had always enjoyed her trips through the commons, had found the people lively and joyful, but today they felt different. Threatening. They’re watching me. Anxiously, she scanned the peddlers, shopkeepers, and passersby, searching for someone suspicious, yet she wasn’t even sure what they would look like. She tugged at her cloak’s hood, bringing it closer to her face as she had a hundred times already, though nothing could keep her from feeling utterly exposed.
Her throat tightened; the path was dense, packed with too many people to count. With her jaw clenched, she plunged into the crowd, forcing her way through as if her body were a battering ram. Hands brushed against her, elbows jabbed at her, and she instinctually rested her hand on her belly before pulling away.
Keep going.
A clearing appeared a short distance ahead. The edge of town—her escape. She charged forward, her heartbeat reverberating through her bones, her sights set exclusively on the clearing. The noise around her faded, the people a haze. Freedom was within reach. She was going to make it.
Run.
A man glided in front of her, flicking his wrist in her direction. He sneered.
“Blessed be The Savior.”
Her eyes panned from his beady glare down to his hand—and his blade, covered in blood.
Her blood.
She felt it then—the wetness coating her neck. No pain. Just wet. She grabbed her throat, convulsing once her hand met the gaping gash, the blood saturating her cloak’s front. Her knees buckled beneath her, no longer governed by her will, and she crumpled to the ground.
Cries sounded around her, fading into a ghostly silence. All that remained was the blood pulsing from her neck, each beat of her heart forcing more from her body. Her assailant wove among the people, disappearing from view as her world fell to darkness.
“Miss? Miss, are you hurt?”
A man in a metalsmith’s apron hunched beside her and frantically pointed into the crowd. “Stop him!”
Men darted after the assailant, and the smith once again set his attention on the woman curled on her side. He flipped her onto her back, and her hood dropped, revealing a spray of white light emanating from the woman’s skin.
“Dear God!”
The smith staggered backward, his legs suddenly weak. A horde encircled the two, gaping at the Woman: Her strawberry-blonde hair, icy-blue eyes, and skin glowing with a white, celestial light.
The Savior.
Several people toppled over, stunned, while others stared in slack-jawed bewilderment. The smith contained himself and rushed back to The Savior’s side. Crimson covered Her chest, Her throat spread wide like a mouth, and he clutched the wound.
“She’s bleeding!”
A woman pointed a trembling finger forward. “She’s pregnant.”
A large, round belly poked out from The Savior’s cloak.
“How far along is She?”
“Did anyone even know?”
The smith madly scanned The Savior’s body before staring into Her eyes—sharp crystals, empty. Lifeless. He pulled his shaking, bloody hands from Her throat.
“She’s dead.”
Cries rang out from the crowd. The Savior’s dead. It couldn’t be true, yet the reality was directly in front of them lying in a pool of Her own blood.
A woman holding a small child tore through the horde. “The Baby.” She crouched beside The Savior, her gaze frantic. “We need to save the Baby.” She pried her child from her chest. “Hold her?”
The smith obliged, cradling the child in his arms. The woman ripped open The Savior’s cloak and hoisted up Her dress, exposing Her large, white belly.
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Yes.” She scanned the surrounding people. “Does anyone have a blade?”
“A blade?”
“We need to move quickly,” the woman said. “We need to deliver the Baby.”
“You’re going to cut open The Savior?”
“She’s dead,” the woman barked. “We need to deliver the Baby, and we need to do it now.”
“You can’t just carve Her apart. It’s an abomination!”
“Would you have Her Daughter die too?” the woman spat. “Is that what you all want?”
An old man wriggled through the crowd and plopped a worn knife into her palm. “Does this work?”
“It’ll have to.” She turned toward the body, trying to keep herself from wincing. Before her lay The Savior. Bloody. Dead.
She pressed the blade against The Savior’s flesh, softly at first, then hard, maneuvering the dull edge with force and skill. Blood pooled at the steel tip, and she dragged it across the