Marielle pushed. She pushed with all of her might. The doctors shouted orders and rushed around. One of them, tall and thin, put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

   “I’m scared,” Marielle choked out. The doctor grasped her hand.

   “It’s alright,” she whispered, “it will be alright.”

   Marielle nodded weakly and squeezed her eyes shut.

   Hours later, a baby girl was born, but no cry was heard. The baby was announced stillborn, she was completely formed, but not a single breath escaped her mouth.

   Marielle held the baby, frantically searching for any signs of life.

   “No… no,” Marielle rocked the baby back and forth. Her skin paled and sweat trickled down her face.

   Her husband, River, looked at her with tears in his eyes, taking the baby from her arms. She hung her head in exhaustion.

   River examined the baby. A tuft of dark brown hair, deep-set grey eyes, freckles adorning her body and face. He lifted her hand and turned it around so he could see her palm. A crescent moon graced her almond skin, almost like a tattoo.

   “She’s a lune,” he murmured in astonishment to Marielle. He lifted his own palm, gazing at the crest of water. An amni and a procella giving birth to a lune was unheard of. Her palm started to glow with a sparkling light. He glanced at the baby in confusion one more time before she was ripped from his arms. He looked up in bewilderment as the doctor rushed out of the room.

   “Wait!” he cried, “where are you taking her?” No response. Marielle glanced at him in fear.

   The only thing they remembered from that night was the cry they heard, from somewhere in the hospital. The cry had come from the stillborn lune.

   Hazel, daughter of Marielle and River. The Chosen One.