Thalven was a kingdom of darkness, where cold never waned, where mists clung to stone towers like a curse, and the wind whispered ancient tales with every breath. Every child born here was forged in the chill of iron, and the names of the weak were forgotten in the shadows of blackened walls. But that night, the sky was heavy and void of stars, as if the world had fallen silent under the weight of what was about to unfold.
Queen Vora's screams echoed through the high walls paved with dark stone, while shadows danced like stormy waves under the flickering light of dim candles. The midwives surrounding her bore pale expressions of fear; they exchanged silent glances, too afraid to even breathe deeply. King Aedrian was absent—away in a distant kingdom for a meeting of vital importance. Perhaps he lacked the courage to bear the burden of a prophecy, or perhaps his heart was simply too cold to care.
The moment the child came into the world shattered the silence. With its first breath, the room was swallowed by a chilling cold that seemed to carry a soul of its own. The flames in the hearth faded into a ghostly blue, lifeless and still, as if something from another realm had slipped into the room. Everyone froze in place, as though gripped by ice.
It was then that an old seer emerged from the shadows—her presence as sudden as it was inevitable. Her eyes were the void itself; her voice, sharp and inescapable, like a blade wrapped in velvet. Her words ricocheted against the walls, ancient and ominous:
"Ex umbris veniet et lux obscurabitur.
Terrae et mentis dominam portabit, et regna tremescunt.
Ubi flamma tangit, cinis renascetur.
Sed obscura anima sui ipsius devorabit."
"From the shadows it shall rise, and light shall be swallowed by darkness.
The bearer of earth and mind shall carry it, and kingdoms shall tremble.
Where flame touches, ash will be reborn.
Yet the darkness of its soul shall try to consume it."
As the final words of the prophecy hung in the air, Queen Vora pulled the child toward her with trembling hands. Her heart ached under the weight of the dark omen, yet amidst the bloodstained cloths, the newborn's hair shimmered—like the deepest night woven with the moon's purest light. And those eyes… silver-grey and endless, storm-burdened and defiant, stared straight into hers, challenging the world even in their first gaze. This was no ordinary child. This was a curse etched by fate.
By dawn, King Aedrian finally arrived. The air in the chamber was thick with fear. Upon hearing the prophecy, his expression didn't change; not a flicker of surprise or emotion. He narrowed his eyes at the child, then spoke a single, ruthless command that cut through the silence.
"Hide it. Keep it out of my sight."
Queen Vora stood, clutching the baby tighter, her eyes ablaze with fury and pain.
"No!" she cried, voice shaking. "That's my child! You cannot take her from me!"
The King's gaze was ice, his tone unyielding steel.
"This child's existence threatens the entire kingdom. If you want her dead, that's your choice, Vora. There will be no discussion."
Vora, her cheeks streaked with tears, held the infant closer still. But she was powerless against the King's decree—especially when it carried the weight of death. And in that moment, something deep within her soul fractured. With hands trembling, she placed the baby into the arms of a servant. Her silent tears vanished into the shadows of the darkened room.