The room was heavy with exhaustion, the scent of sweat mingling with blood. Outside, the palace basked in the golden light of late afternoon, but shadows stretched and deepened within these walls—a glint of ambition, sharp as a drawn blade. The air was thick, not just with the heat of labor but with the weight of expectation.
Estella, the seventeenth concubine of Valgulas, lay slumped amidst a bed of floral cushions, her body trembling from the ordeal. Sweat matted her hair to her forehead. Despite the ache spreading through her limbs, a cold calm washed over her, stilling the tremors in her hands. She gazed at the newborn in the midwife's arms—not a girl, but a boy. Relief surged through her like a river breaking free from a dam and a flood of bitter determination with it.
This was her only chance. Years of careful plotting, of surviving whispers and rivals, had led to this moment. A son was her lifeline in the palace where concubines lived and died by the power of their offspring. A son meant survival. A son meant power. But only if he were special.
Her eyes, fierce and calculating, locked onto the midwife and the mage standing by the bedside. "Check if he has magic," she barked, her voice hoarse but commanding. "Does he have magic?" If he did not, her fate would be sealed—cast back into the shadows to wither, another failed mother of a worthless pawn.
The mage, a wiry man with deep lines etched into his face, approached with a practiced air. His expression remained unreadable, though a flicker of reluctance crossed his eyes. He had seen this too many times: concubines rising and falling with the flicker of light, their hopes snuffed out as quickly as a candle. He knew the risks of this revelation; a child's fate, and his mother's, could pivot on the tiniest glimmer. Without a word, he extended his hand, letting his magic flow as he brushed the infant's tiny, purple-tinted fingers.
Silence. Thick and oppressive. The boy's skin glowed faintly, pulsing under the mage's touch. Estella held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs. The mage's eyes widened just a fraction, his well-practiced indifference faltering. The child had accepted the magic.
"He has magic," the mage said, his voice carefully measured. Estella's chest tightened, hope flickering like a fragile flame. "But we must see if he is gifted."
Her eyes narrowed. "Is the child gifted?" she snapped, each word cutting through the thick air like a blade. She couldn't afford another failure. Not now.
The mage reached into the folds of his robe. It produced a bracelet—a relic of ancient craftsmanship designed to measure the nature of magic. Its metal shimmered faintly, inscribed with runes of divination. He slipped it around the infant's wrist with slow, deliberate movements. The room seemed to hold its breath, the shadows drawing closer as if to witness the outcome.
A soft, white light appeared, then shifted to grey, faint, and serene. Estella's heart plummeted.
Grey magic. The most common, the most insignificant. In this world of high-born power and intrigue, it was nothing but a symbol of mediocrity. Her throat tightened, the future she had envisioned slipping away. Another worthless son, like the three she had lost before, discarded into obscurity. She could almost hear the mocking whispers of the court, ready to consign her to oblivion.
But before she could dismiss the child, the light shifted again.
The grey swirled, darkening like ink in water, flickering erratically as if caught between colors. It glowed with a brief, almost blinding flash of white, then a deep black as midnight. The room grew colder, and everything felt... still for a heartbeat. The air ceased to move; the shadows stopped flickering. An unnatural calm descended a silence that pressed on the ears. Then, the light settled into its final form—a darkness that consumed the space around it.
The mage stiffened, his eyes wide. "This... This is not normal," he muttered, his face blanching. His hands shook as he peered at the bracelet, unable to comprehend what he witnessed. "It's... impossible," he finally whispered, glancing at Estella with fear. "It... appears to be void magic."
Estella's heart stuttered, but her gaze remained fixed on the bracelet. Void? Yes, this was the power she needed. A force spoken of in legends feared for its destructive potential. And yet, there was a moment—just a flicker—when the light seemed to encompass darkness and something else. But she brushed it aside. She couldn't afford doubt.
A slow, cold smile crept across her lips, spreading like frost over water. This was not just victory; it was her ascension. A son with void magic meant her ambitions could stretch beyond mere survival. This was her key to the throne's shadows, a place of reverence—and fear. With this child, she could become more than a mere concubine. She would be a queen in all but name, commanding the darkness others cowered before.
The mage stood frozen, his eyes lingering on the bracelet, lips parted as if to speak. There was a hesitation, a question he dared not voice. But Estella had no time for doubts. "Spread the word," she commanded, voice now steady, cold as the void her son supposedly possessed. "The kingdom has been blessed with a prince of darkness. Let them know that Valgulas will have a new power to fear."
The mage swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He knew what this meant, the storm that was to come. Bowing stiffly, he turned and left the room, each step echoing the weight of impending chaos.
Estella watched him go, then looked down at the small, fragile life in her arms. His eyes were shut, his tiny hands curling unconsciously into fists. She leaned closer, pressing her lips to his ear, her voice a honeyed mix of tenderness and command.
"Mommy will love you forever as long as you protect me," she whispered, the words a binding vow. "You will be my shield, my weapon against all who stand in our way. That is why you will be named Ulrik, which means power—Mommy's power."
As she cradled him closer, a chill rippled through her. The air around him felt different, unsettlingly calm, like the quiet eye of a storm. It was not just darkness; it was... nothing. It was a fleeting sensation that vanished as quickly as it came, leaving her with only her ambitions and a son destined for fearsome greatness.
Outside, the kingdom continued its ceaseless bustle, blissfully unaware of the storm that had begun to brew within the palace walls. But soon, they would learn to fear the darkness that now stirred—a darkness molded and shaped by her will and ambition. They would learn to fear Emrey.
And in time, they would learn that even the darkest power was nothing compared to a mother's ambition armed with her child's terrible gift.