The inn reeked of damp wood and boiled stew. Shadows clung to the corners as the storm outside hammered the roof tiles. Chris stood by the narrow window, his breath forming pale mist, eyes fixed on the torchlights of the guards moving from house to house. The clatter of steel boots against cobblestone echoed like the toll of a bell—closer, heavier, inevitable.
The kingdom was under lockdown.
He turned, staring at the woman clutching the newborn, her hands trembling as though the weight of the child might shatter her fragile arms. The infant squirmed and whimpered, the sound a soft wail that threatened to betray them all. Chris's jaw tightened. He was a soldier, a sword sworn to the king, but now the life of a single crying babe outweighed the blood oath he had pledged to the crown.
"Listen carefully," he said, his voice low, sharp. "If the guards find us, both you and the boy are dead before the dawn. The queen's wrath will not hesitate. The palace wants this child gone from existence."
The midwife nodded, though terror clouded her eyes. Her body still shook from the birth she had assisted, but she clutched the bundle of cloth tighter. "What… what do we do?"
Chris thought quickly. His mind raced through alleys, escape routes, smuggling channels he had once used in another life. But the kingdom was sealed. No gate would open, no carriage would slip past the barricades. The net was drawn too tightly. They needed something else—an illusion, a mask.
He crouched before the midwife and placed the child in her arms more firmly. His voice dropped into a command.
"You are no longer a servant of the palace. From this moment, you are a mother. This is your son. Birth yourself into a lie if you must. The guards will see a poor woman with her newborn, not a hunted treasure of royal blood."
Her lips parted as though to argue, but Chris's steel eyes silenced her. She swallowed hard and clutched the boy closer.
"And you?" she whispered.
Chris rose to his full height, his armor clinking softly as he adjusted the sword at his waist. "I will draw them away. Soldiers chase shadows easily enough if you give them one. When they are gone, leave this inn. Find the farthest corner of this cursed kingdom. Hide."
The midwife looked down at the boy. His tiny fingers twitched in sleep, innocent and unknowing of the storm his birth had unleashed. She nodded.
Outside, the sound of boots grew louder. The search had reached their street. Chris's face hardened. He took a final glance at the child—unaware, fragile, yet destined for something no mortal should bear—and then slipped out through the rear door, his figure swallowed by the rain.
Moments later, the door of the inn burst open.
"Search every room!" a captain barked, his men scattering through the hallways. Blades gleamed in the candlelight, armor clattered as they tore through doors, overturned furniture, and frightened the inn's poor occupants.
The midwife sat by the fire, rocking the newborn. Her face was pale but calm, her trembling masked by the motions of a mother's care. When the door crashed open and two guards stormed in, their swords already drawn, she looked up with wide, frightened eyes.
"A child," one guard muttered.
The captain stepped forward, his armored boots crushing straw across the floor. He studied the scene—the woman's sweat-streaked face, the blood-stained cloths from the birth, the swaddled infant sleeping in her arms. He narrowed his eyes, suspicion flickering in their depths.
The midwife swallowed and whispered, "Please… he was just born. Don't wake him."
The captain's gaze lingered too long. But outside, a sudden crash resounded—shouts, the ring of steel, the cry of soldiers clashing. A diversion. Chris had struck.
"Move!" the captain barked, gesturing to his men. They pulled back, their boots pounding out of the room. Within moments, the inn was left in silence again, save for the distant screams of soldiers chasing a phantom.
The midwife exhaled, clutching the child so tightly that he stirred, whimpering softly. She kissed his forehead. "Sleep, little one. Your guardian is buying you time with his blood."
Far across the kingdom, in the palace shrouded in firelight and shadow, another game was unfolding.
The great throne hall stretched endlessly, its pillars carved from black stone veined with glowing silver. Upon the throne sat the king, shoulders slumped, eyes cast downward. His crown seemed heavier tonight, a shackle rather than a symbol.
Before him, the doors opened, and a figure entered. His presence was suffocating—like the weight of mountains and oceans pressed into a single frame. His steps echoed, not in sound alone but in the marrow of all who heard them.
The High Lord. The Queen's father. The true power behind the kingdom.
He walked with the authority of one who did not rule a throne but was the throne, the very foundation of dominion. His gaze was sharp as iron, his aura crushing. Even the torches dimmed as if fearing his approach.
The king fell to his knees, head bowed low.
"My lord," he whispered.
The High Lord's eyes flicked to his daughter—the queen—standing with her guards at his side. She said nothing, her lips curved into the faintest smile of victory.
The High Lord's voice rumbled like a storm contained within stone walls. "Is this true?" His words cut like blades. "You dare betray my daughter? Betray me? Have you forgotten the trust I gave you? The crown you wear exists because of her. Because of me."
The king did not lift his head. He could not. The very weight of the man's presence forced him lower, his pride crumbling like sand beneath the tide.
"I…" His voice faltered. "I sought only to protect what was mine."
"What is yours?" The High Lord's voice grew thunderous. "This kingdom is mine. Its walls, its towers, its people, even the breath in your lungs—you are king only because I allow it. And yet you dared hide a child from me. A child born of betrayal."
The queen's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, her silence more damning than any word.
The High Lord raised his hand, and the guards moved like shadows. Their blades clattered as they seized the king, wrenching him to his feet. He did not resist.
"Take him," the High Lord commanded. "Chain him in the dungeons. Let him learn the price of forgetting where true power lies."
The guards obeyed, dragging the king through the throne room. His crown clattered to the floor, ringing through the silence like a dirge.
The queen watched, her expression unreadable. When the doors shut behind her husband, she finally turned to her father.
"It is done," she whispered.
The High Lord's lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile. "No, daughter. It has only begun."
Back at the inn, the rain had quieted. The midwife bundled the child, preparing to move. But beyond the safety of those walls, the kingdom had shifted into something darker, more perilous. Chains of power rattled unseen, and in their echoes, the fate of one child—Kai reborn—was being written in blood and silence.