Before the Eighteen Dawn

Bran lived in fear of the future.

Since his birth, he's been plagued by the words of an old prophet who declared his death before the tender age of eighteen. Supposedly, his life was to be given as a tribute to the forest's evil spirits to strike a deal with them: to leave them in peace until the next worthy sacrifice was born. A long and ancient tradition that dates back generations, possibly hundreds of years. He wasn't keen on dying for the sake of keeping away something he's never seen before.

As the next sacrifice, he was constantly under the watchful eye of the village people. Everyone had to know his steps, where he was going, at what hour he took a bath, when he slept, when he ate, when he-

It was sickening.

His movements were watched now more than ever since his eighteenth birthday was coming up and sooner than he would like. No one could risk their sacrifice escaping. It could mean a disaster for the whole village, and who knows what else.

‘That is, if evil spirits even exist...’, Bran thought.

His mother had grown distant; his father barely left the canteen nowadays. Bran assumed they couldn't take the thought of their only son dying for the sake of tradition. At home, he spent most of his time in his room. A small comfort of privacy where there were no eyes on his every move. It was something he appreciated now more than ever.

There were whispers on the street; they whispered about him. Some people threw him pitiful looks while others shook their heads and walked away. Others insisted that he should be proud of himself for such a worthy cause.

No wonder he hasn't left his house.

At night, he heard other types of whispers, the kind that made your skin crawl in fright. Whispers of his upcoming fate. The date... the hour... how the spirits would take him to the forest and never be seen again. Then he would wake up in a cold sweat and not sleep for the rest of the night.

As the date soon approached, Bran started to think he was slowly losing his mind. He thought he saw shadows following around every corner. Unnatural, inhuman eyes following his every move. He couldn't see whatever was following him, but he knew it was there. Their presence always brought a sense of dread and death.

‘Omens, ’ his father would state in a rare moment of sobriety.

His mother would only cry, and Bran would keep his mouth shut.

The night before his eighteenth birthday, the moon hung low and carried with it a menacing presence. As it slowly moved across the night sky, it felt like the countdown to his death.

Bran had had enough.

When everyone slept and when the guards outside his humble home fell to the inevitable lullaby of the night, Bran made his move. He packed lightly. A piece of bread, a water flask, an apple, and a pocketknife that once belonged to his late grandfather. His hands trembled as he zipped the messenger bag and slipped it over his body. He got up and quietly walked towards the back door and gently pushed it open.

There were no guards. At least, none that were awake. There was one guard sitting on the ground, snoring gently. Bran winced and slowly walked past the guard as quietly as he could. One wrong move could cost him his life. He walked further away. Once he was at a considerable distance, Bran made a run for the forest.

He had half expected someone to be standing there, waiting to drag him back inside, whispering about duty and sacrifice. Maybe his father would grab him by the arm and hold him back. Maybe his mother would guilt-trip him into giving away his life just because an old prophet said he had to.

But there was no one.

For the first time in his life, Bran was free to choose his next step.

He walked faster.

He ran.

It was ironic, really. He was running towards the place where he was supposed to be offered as a sacrifice in the morning. But now, it provided the only escape he could get from his fate.

If he were to die, he'd rather die fighting for his life than be offered to some spirits on a silver platter.

He didn't know where he was going, only that he couldn't stop running. Each step was a rebellion against a fate he wanted no part of. Branches clawed at his clothes, and thorns slashed his skin, but he kept running. The cold night air burned his lungs, but he had never felt so alive. Every step away from the village felt like the chains of prophecy breaking behind him.

When his legs finally gave out, he fell to his knees next to a small stream of water. He panted and laughed at his reflection.

He still had a long way to go; he wasn't safe just yet. But for the first time in his life, he finally felt like he was in control. He was no longer a pawn in a twisted game of superstition, cursed fate, and fear. He was no longer part of a cycle that threatened to take his life away from him.

He took a moment to take a deep breath and steady his heart. Then Bran stood up. His legs shook, but it was a reminder that he was alive and would get to see another sunrise.

Bran gazed at the faint light of dawn poking through the top of the trees and smiled. He did not know what awaited him to move forward. Maybe he’ll go hungry, maybe he’ll have difficulty finding shelter, or maybe the forest will eventually claim his life. But those possibilities would never be because he was a sacrifice, but because of his own choice. He could live with that thought.

Because for the first time since the day he was born, his life finally belonged to him.