The clearing was chaos.
Rogue's scream tore through the forest like the sound of a thousand bells shattering at once. The earth heaved, trees bent as though whipped by an unseen wind, and torches flared wildly in the searchers' hands. Men fell to their knees, clutching their ears, tears streaming down faces hardened by battle and labor alike.
Guillaume de Braye staggered, one arm thrown across his eyes. His sword arm trembled, not from weakness but from the weight of what he saw. "By the Sun…" he rasped, voice hoarse.
For above the boy, in midair, a circle of light had bloomed.
It was massive, dwarfing the clearing, its edges stretching wider than the reach of any torch. Golden lines wove into patterns so intricate no mortal hand could have etched them. Spirals within spirals, runes curling into each other like serpents devouring their tails, symbols that shimmered as if alive. The language was unfamiliar, a script none of them knew, but it hummed with weight, as if every line was a command spoken by heaven itself.
The priests collapsed entirely, foreheads pressed to the soil, mouths babbling prayers half-understood. "Divine! Divine!" one wept. "Not of men, not of men—"
Servants sobbed openly, clutching one another. Even the hardened hunters of the White Gloves stood transfixed, their bravado stripped away by the sheer enormity of what they witnessed.
And at the circle's heart was Rogue.
The boy knelt, trembling, small hands clawing at his face. His left eye burned with molten gold, spilling light so fierce it seemed to cut into the air. The Dark ray, lingering and writhing, lashed against the glowing barrier, shrieking as if alive. But the circle pulled it in. Slowly, inexorably, the shadows bent and twisted, spiraling into the boy's face, narrowing into the left eye.
"No—no, no!" a priest screamed, reaching out as though to pull the darkness back. "Not into him!"
But there was no stopping it.
The Dark seeped inward, clawing and fighting, yet drawn as if by chains. Rogue's small body jerked, spine arching, mouth open in a cry that seemed too vast for his lungs.
And then it happened.
His left eye — once a clear, noble blue — turned black. Not merely darkened, but black as ink spilled across glass. In its depths a faint shimmer of violet glowed, like the ember of a flame that refused to die.
At the same instant, his right eye flared into pure gold. It blazed like the morning sun, too bright to look upon, its radiance casting long shadows that seemed to bow before it.
The clearing was divided again — not by golden shields and black rays, but by the boy himself. Light and darkness, fused in one frail body.
Gasps and cries erupted.
"He bears the Sun!" a priest sobbed, throwing his arms wide. "He is chosen beyond chosen—"
"No," hissed another, clutching his talisman so tightly his knuckles split. "No mortal should carry that. It is blasphemy. It is heresy!"
Guillaume stood rigid, his face carved with lines of strain. He wanted to deny it, to cut down whatever monster had stolen the boy's shape — but when he looked, he did not see a demon. He saw Rogue, Henri's son, Madeleine's boy, crying and writhing, caught in forces greater than any blade could strike.
Madeleine's ashes still hung faintly in the air, drifting like dying fireflies before being consumed into the storm. Her name throbbed in Guillaume's chest, and his throat locked against words.
The golden circle pulsed once, twice, then dimmed. Its runes flared like a final heartbeat before collapsing inward, streams of light pouring into the child's small frame. Sparks rained down across the clearing, dissolving on the skin of the priests, the guards, even Guillaume himself. It left them shivering, as if touched by something beyond comprehension.
Rogue's scream faltered into a whimper. His small body sagged, collapsing onto the soil. His chest heaved, shallow and ragged, but he was still alive.
Alive. Changed forever.
The clearing fell silent. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath, as though in reverence or fear.
One of the younger guards broke first, his voice trembling. "His eyes… by the gods, look at his eyes…"
They all looked. One eye black, swallowing the world; the other golden, burning with radiance. Two truths in one child, two contradictions that should never coexist.
The priests tore at their robes, half in ecstasy, half in horror. One muttered, "A miracle. A new dawn." Another hissed, "A curse. The Abyss walks in him."
The hunters stood rigid, silent, their white gloves trembling as they clutched weapons they knew were useless here. Servants sobbed, whispering Madeleine's name, wondering if she had truly been taken, or if her ashes now lived inside the boy's strange gaze.
Guillaume de Braye sank to one knee, sword point resting in the soil. His breath came harsh, his scarred face shadowed by torchlight. He bowed his head, not in worship, but in grim acknowledgment.
"Baron Henri must see this with his own eyes," he muttered. His voice was rough, but steady. "And the Church will decide if this is salvation… or damnation."
The boy lay in the dirt, chest rising faintly, his face streaked with tears and light. The clearing's silence pressed in, heavy as stone.
And then, as if mocking them all, a faint echo of a laugh drifted again through the trees. Not Rogue's laugh. Something else. Playful. Hungry.
The hunters spun, torches raised. But there was nothing. Only darkness.