The evening was a tempest of wind and rain. This was supposed to have been a special day for the Bladehaven family. Why? Because on this day, their third child had opened his eyes to the world. It should have been a time for everyone to celebrate in happiness and joy. Corks should have been popped, glasses raised, and laughter should have echoed through the halls.
Yes, that is how it should have been… if this were a normal family.
In a chair beside the bed sat a man, his hands clasped and his head bowed. He was in his late thirties, with coffee-colored eyes, a short beard, and hair that fell to his shoulders. His was a physique honed by war and training. He said nothing, merely staring at the floor in silence.
On the bed lay a woman whose hair, like a cascade of gold, spilled down to her waist. Her eyes were the color of emeralds, and she looked as if an angel had taken mortal form. In her arms, she held a newborn child. Her clothes were soaked with the sweat of childbirth, and tears streamed down her face. Yes, it is normal for a new mother to weep with joy—a heartwarming sight. But these were not tears of joy.
Silence reigned in the room, broken only by the incessant cries of a child and the occasional, violent crack of thunder. The weather seemed to mirror their tension, growing ever more severe.
After a long silence, the man spoke.
"Mary."
But the woman did not answer, for she already knew what he was about to say—something she could never bring herself to accept.
The man took a deep breath and spoke again.
"Mary, I know how hard this is for you, but we must. For the safety of our family, we have to do this."
Silence fell upon the room once more. The man gave her time to speak.
A single, fierce bolt of lightning flashed, illuminating one side of her face.
"Do you understand me? No, Edward, you don't understand. If you did, you would know what it means for a mother to abandon her child to death."
Her voice rose with every word.
"To say such a thing so calmly… he is your son, too. Just like our other two children, he is human."
The man spoke with a heavy sigh.
"Do you think I am not suffering? Do you think I am happy to make this decision? Do you think I wanted our child to be born with this curse? No. I never wanted any of this."
Yes, the child was cursed.
Lilith's Curse…
It was one of the Empire's darkest legends.
Once, there was a witch named Lilith, a being so potent she held dominion over the heavens and the depths of the earth. She could cup storms in her palms and swallow mountains in a single gulp. She demanded not prayers, but fear. Sacrifices were made in her name, and cities were burned to appease her.
But 600 years ago, a group of heroes raised their swords against this tyranny. After a long and bloody war, they succeeded in weakening the witch and destroying her soul. But one of such power could not die without leaving a final scar upon the world. As her body was torn asunder, she whispered a curse with her last breath:
"The blood of those who slay me shall carry my torment…"
From that day forward, children among the descendants of those heroes began to be born with this sinister curse. It functioned like a sacred, divine punishment. It shattered the child's veins, corrupted the flow of mana, and consumed their soul with every passing second. The blood that wept from their eyes and the decay that claimed their bodies day by day were proof that Lilith's fury still lived on in their blood.
In the first centuries, these bloodlines nearly vanished. Infants died at birth, and the young perished in unbearable agony. Many families chose to secretly kill their own children, for a cursed child brought misfortune not only upon the family but to all who surrounded them.
However, as the centuries passed, the witch's curse began to weaken. The number of those born with the curse decreased with each generation… The last time a child was born with it was fifty years ago.
And now, six centuries later…
The great bloodlines that had once carried the blood of dozens of heroes were almost extinct. Only two hero lineages still endured in the Empire:
One of them was the Dukedom of Bladehaven—the Swordmasters of the West.
Their ancestor was Sir Alaric Bladehaven, the swordsman who had dealt the final blow to the witch's heart. For centuries, the members of this lineage had reached the pinnacle of martial arts, known as those "born of steel." Their swords were not just weapons but symbols of their family's honor. Yet, the curse still hung over their blood like a heavy shadow. In every generation, at least one child was born bearing Lilith's wrath.
The woman continued, her voice now a scream. "We can at least try to heal our son!"
"Mary, you know as well as I do that there is no cure for this curse. And you know our family rules as well as I do."
He looked at the red-eyed child, blood seeping from his eyes, and said, "The weak have no place in our family."
Indeed, the Bladehaven family was known throughout the Empire for its power. Their position as one of the four pillars of the Empire was a testament to their strength. It was a family where only the strong were respected. Weakness? There was no room for such a thing in their traditions.
That single sentence struck the woman's soul like a sharp sword, and the words caught in her throat. She knew that no matter how much she argued, no matter how much she resisted, it would be futile. Even if she managed to persuade her husband, convincing the family elders?
That was another war entirely.
Age had left its mark only on their faces and hands; their bodies were still strong.
Though canes might dangle from their hands, they could fell a man with a single move, their years of accumulated strength and experience allowing them to parry any attack.
Their eyes alone… were sharp and terrifying enough to break the courage of an army.
A knot formed in Mary's throat as the poison of helplessness coursed through her veins.
She clenched her teeth so hard that a sharp pain shot through her jaw.
If only…
If only she had the strength to strike them down, one by one.
If only she could wipe them from this world and leave silence and peace in their place.
But these elders… they were not merely old. They were still warriors.
Like poisonous ivy with roots sunk deep into the earth, they were cunning and strong, experienced and deadly.
Neither easy to burn down… nor to ignore.
The man stood and walked toward the door. He opened it, then looked back over his shoulder and said in a resolute voice:
"At dawn, the child is exiled from the family. Until then, you are free to do as you wish."
He said this and left the room.
The words spread through the room like a cold dagger, shattering the woman's soul with every second that passed. The tiny body in her lap was crying; each cry was a testament to his helplessness and pain. The blood that had leaked from his eyes had dried on his cheeks.
The woman knew there was nothing she could do for him. Still, she gathered him into her arms.
She held him so tightly, so warmly… as if she could erase all his suffering with her love.
As tears streamed down her cheeks, a pained smile touched her lips. Hearing her baby's ceaseless cries, she brought her trembling lips to his tiny ear.
"Hush, don't cry, my little warrior," she whispered, her voice choked with her own anguish. "Your mother believes you will survive, no matter what."
"I must give you a name, mustn't I? I cannot let you remain nameless in this cruel world."
She paused for a moment, as if sharing a secret she had kept for centuries.
"Your name will be Cassian," she said softly. Even saying the name felt like it burned her lips. "Though it may mean nothing to them, you are everything to me. Remember that, won't you? Your mother loved you, Cassian."
After whispering his name one last time, she pressed him closer to her chest. The final confession of a broken heart fell from her lips:
"For being such a terrible mother… I am so sorry."