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    Time would tell if evil would be weeded out or if evil was there to weed them out.


    But for now…


    A large pitch-black banyan tree stood with its numerous branches spread for about a metaphorical mile blocking the view of the sky. Its uninterrupted canopy of leaves and trunks seemed like an entire forest, darkening the ground beneath. The five-hundred year old giant had several prop trunks that twisted and wound around the main trunk like vines, some of them thick enough to be mistaken as individual trees; but they all belonged to the same colossal entity. The prop trunks were so dense and abundant that you would easily get lost in the maze of growth. The ground below was uneven, roots protruding from the dirt like jagged rocks, forcing anyone to watch their step.


    The tree was more than just a landmark, it was a living monument that shaped the very land it stood on.


    It was their Holy Tree.


    An unyeilding fortress that marked the northern edge of Tuscanian boundary.


    In the space between the tangle of roots, a bonfire crackled in the wind, piercing the silence of the night. An anxious group of elderly and middle-aged men sat around the fire, their cloaks pulled tightly around their bodies and huddled for warmth, sheltered from the showering rain. The dim light of the bonfire cast shadows over their already worried faces giving them an old and creepy appearance.


    Behind the circle of men, closer to the raised base of the main trunk, a mob of lads stood leaning over the trunks, some scratching their heads and others, the wood of the giant with the edge of their spear heads in borebom. A couple of them were hoping from one root to another and swinging from the arial roots like monkeys.


    Drops of rainwater that had somehow managed to escape the mattress of leaves above dripped from the arial roots of The Great Banyan, splattered over the hard, exposed roots and drenched the ground below. The downpour had been unrelenting for the past two days, turning the already soggy earth into a squelchy mess.


    One of the men shielded his face from the dripping water droplets with one hand. "Seems like Lavalthon might break her banks tonight," he murmured to the one next to him. His name was Phyto, a farmer whose crops grew near the lake''s edge, just ahead of their cremation ground.


    The Great Banyan Tree stood tall and unyielding in the north, guarding over Tuscanvalle. It had been there for as long as anyone could remember, its roots digging deep into the earth, stretching and growing with each passing year. But the south and east were different. The Lavalthon Lake was a force unto itself, vast and mysterious. As much as she supported their livelihoods with her abundant aquatic life and fertile banks for farming, she was also a fickle mistress.


    The lake was known to swell and recede with the seasons, but lately, something felt… off. Rains had been unnaturally heavy, and the water levels had been steadily rising. The banks of the Lavalthon, which had been stable for generations, now looked ready to burst at any moment. Last winter, when the water had reached dangerously high levels, the crops had flooded, and the tribe had barely made it through the harsh months that followed. This time, the villagers feared that if the banks didn''t hold, the water would flood into Tuscanvalle itself. Because winter had just started, the ground was already saturated, and the excess water had nowhere to go but into their homes.


    Marnoell, the chief of the village, nodded solemnly. "Aye, it does. We''ve not seen the likes of this rain in years. And with the banks already swollen from the last flood…" His voice trailed off as he glanced over his shoulder at the youths, their laughter felt like rubbing salt into the wound of his worry.


    "They don''t understand," said Kaius, the tribal medic, with resignation. "We''re being attacked from all sides. God only knows what else is out there, waiting for us to let our guard down."


    Marnoell''s eyes narrowed as he watched the young lads swinging from the roots, their laughter almost drowning the sound of their conversation. The noise grated on his nerves like a stone on a sharpening stone. He stood, the firelight flickering across his face, making his furrowed brows look even more scary.


    "ENOUGH!" he roared, his voice booming over their chatter. The boys froze mid-swing, their laughter choking off.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Marnoell stomped over to the bonfire and grabbed a burning stick, the embers hissing as the rain hit it. He pointed it at the youths. "You think this is a game?!" His face was red with anger, his beard swaying threateningly with every word. "Our village is in peril, and you''re acting like a pack of wild dogs!"


    The boys'' laughter died immediately. Marnoell wouldn’t raise his voice often, and when he did, it was serious.


    The rain seemed to hold its breath too. Even the droplets that had been relentlessly bombarding the leaves above paused for a moment. The bonfire crackled louder in the sudden stillness. The boys looked down at their muddy feet, shuffling awkwardly. They hadn''t realized how loud they had been.


    Marnoell took a deep breath, letting the stick fall to the ground. His eyes searched the tree, finding a root that looked strong enough to bear the weight of his weary body. With a grunt, he sat down, the wood groaning slightly under his weight. The boys watched him with fear and respect before one by one, they took their place around him, sitting on the roots that jetted out from the base of the Great Banyan. The rain had soaked through their clothes, leaving them shivering.


    Soon enough, the boys couldn''t help but let their restlessness slip through. They began to whisper and giggle, their eyes darting around the group to make sure they weren''t caught. A hand shot out and slapped a thigh, another smacked the back of a neck, and before long, the tension around the bonfire had transformed into a game of muffled laughter and sneaky jabs.


    One of the youths, Turo, let out a yawn. The yawn was contagious and spread around the group, prompting a few of them to shift their position. Turo leaned over to one of the roots, the rainwater dripping right into his nose. Turo snorted. A fellow lad, Nox, snickered at his plight, and Turo responded with a scowl while wiping the water off his nose with the back of his hand. "How long will she take to pop the baby?" He raved in general.


    "Probably until dawn," Nox replied, doodling on a relatively dry patch of soil with a twig. "I''ve heard that sometimes delivery takes ages."


    Turo huffed a frustrated breath. "Then why don''t these oldsters let us sleep?"


    Marnoell''s gaze snapped to Turo, his expression stern. "Because this is the most important day of your life, son!" His voice boomed through the night, cutting off any further complaints. "Today, you become men. And men do not cower from their responsibilities, no matter how uncomfortable they might be."


    The boys fell silent, their eyes darting around the circle.


    Marnoell was right.


    A baby was about to be born. It wasn''t just any baby. It was the one, most awaited by every living soul of Tuscanvalle. For months, the villagers had talked about nothing but the impending birth.


    "Ahwww!" A woman howled in pain followed by the distant noise of metal tumbling and some commotion from the house nearest to the Great Banyan.


    The men straightened their backs. Their heads turned in the direction of the commotion as if they expected to see straight through the wall of trunks.


    "What''s that?"


    "Is that the baby?"


    They rumbled in anxiety, getting ready to run down to the rescue. Manroell made his way to the middle where the roots of the tree had protruded so much that it made for a nice raised platform. Once in position, he gestured the crowd to calm down. Men were forbidden to enter the place and Marnoell had a responsibility to remind his men.


    "Silence," he boomed. "Stay down." He slammed his hand onto a prop trunk that twisted like a giant, dangerous serpant. "Birth is sacred, and it is the purview of the womenfolk alone. We, men, are not to gaze upon it, or we will be forever cursed by the sight of it."


    "But Marnoell," Phyto objected, "If it truly is the baby, then wouldn''t someone have to check? You remember the prophecy, right? We don''t want to risk anything bad happening."


    Marnoell glared at him, his eyes flashing dangerously in the dim glow of the bonfire. A lightning flashed, rendering the shadowed part of his face visible. "All the more reason to stay put!" he bellowed. "Do you want to invite more trouble than what we''re already dealing with?" His voice was stern, leaving no room for debate.


    Kaius, the medic, was having none of it. He stood up, brushing off his wet cloak with an agitated hand. "Someone has to check!" he insisted, the quiver in his voice rising to match Marnoell''s authority. "If that prophecy holds water, we might need to be there to contain the situation!"


    Marnoell''s jaw tightened as he contemplated. The prophecy was clear: At the start of this winter a new life would arrive with a curse that will destroy Tuscanvalle. Yet, his niece''s baby was about to be born, and he couldn''t decide what he should do now. The rain''s intensity was increasing, turning the ground into a quagmire, and the air was charged with anticipation and fear.


    "Kaius," he said finally, his voice measured, "You''re right. We must ensure the prophecy doesn''t come true. But we can''t risk tainting our men with the curse of witnessing a woman''s sacred affair." His gaze swept over the group, and he made a decision. "Turo, Nox, you two are the quickest. Go, check on them and report back to me, but do not enter the chamber. Understood?"


    The two young men looked at each other, then nodded. They took off at a sprint, their feet sliding in the mud as they navigated the slippery roots, their cloaks slapping damply against their legs. Turo''s hand hovered near his waist, feeling the cold steel of his dagger. He had never felt such power before, such control over fate.


    The moment was almost here. The moment when he would take the fate of Tuscanvalle into his own hands. He had always felt like he was meant for something more than tilling the soil and herding cattle. Now was his chance to prove it.


    A vicious smile danced on his lips.


    When the baby finally arrived, he would be the one to slit its tender throat.