In the dead of night, beneath the cold gleam of the twin moons Elara and Varion, the ancient spires of House Darsha rose like monuments of old magic, cutting across the heavens with their ornate turrets and silvery ward-stones. Wrapped in a timeless silence, the estate seemed almost alive, its very stones humming with a low, anticipatory resonance. Outside, the winds howled in a spiraling madness, bending trees and scattering silver-blossomed petals across frost-dusted courtyards. Snow began to fall—soft, crystalline, and utterly unnatural in the warm southern lands of Vel'Aran.
Inside the central tower, within a chamber ringed by candlelight and spell-wards, Lady Ishvari Darsha labored amidst enchantments meant to ease birth but now strained under an unexplainable force. Magelights flickered erratically. Incantations faltered. The air was thick—not with blood or incense, but with something old and watching. The midwives whispered prayers, their hands trembling.
Then came the cry. Sharp. Piercing. Unnatural in its resonance. It reverberated like the peal of a sacred bell, silencing even the howling wind outside. The flame of every candle surged, then steadied.
The child lay still but alert in the midwife's arms—eyes wide, pupils dilated with terrifying clarity. He did not blink. He stared. Not at random shapes or lights, but at people—recognizing, judging, knowing. Even the most seasoned midwife took a step back. It was not fear that passed through the chamber—it was reverence laced with unease.
Lady Ishvari, drenched in sweat and magic, wept not from pain but instinct. "He's… different," she whispered.