Clouds crowded the sky from every direction on that ominous day, which seemed from dawn as if it carried some foreboding. The sun could not pierce the bleak gray expanse, and the scattered raindrops added to the suffocating stillness of the kingdom, pushing Mertal Palace into a deeper abyss of gloom. Silence hung over everything, a silence resembling the king's own, as if his exhaustion were imposed on everyone… except for one person.
The vast corridors of Ordass Palace seemed endless; long, dim, and heavy with the breaths of history. They had never been bright, and no one expected them to shine now. Queen Izel was preparing to give birth to her second child after her son Esan, who had just turned fifteen a few months ago. But this time, no decorations were hung, no banners raised; the kingdom was shrouded in an atmosphere more akin to a funeral drawing ever closer.
Years ago, a flock of black crows had appeared from the west and descended upon the palace. The guards tried to chase them away, but they did not move; they seemed frozen, as if not of this world. The guards had to kill them, and once they did, every corner of the palace was stained with vivid red blood. That day, the king realized one thing: whoever came to this family, whoever it was, was the prophesied one. Ancient books had foretold that a son from this house would kill his father and sit on the throne over a sea of blood.
"My lord… King…" (no answer)
"My lord… King…" (no answer)
The king suddenly snapped out of his reverie and spoke calmly:
"What is it, Jan?"
The servant bowed and said nervously:
"The queen… she is in labor, Your Majesty. She has been taken to the delivery room."
The king's eyes widened sharply.
The elderly minister, Joseph, approached, his hoarse voice trembling:
"My lord… the time has come. She is giving birth."
Then he leaned closer and whispered:
"Remember… do not let your heart dictate your actions. Kings leave no room for emotion."
The king shook the cloak from his shoulders and hurried out, his face resolute yet disturbed. He passed through the southern corridor, where Prince Armos, the eldest son and heir apparent, had his chamber. At that moment, Prince Marcus was leaving his room, as usual unable to stay within the palace or endure any command.
The king hurried past him with his guards and the old minister, whom Marcus greatly despised and blamed for every misfortune that had befallen the palace.
Marcus asked a guard:
"What is happening? Why is the king running?"
"I do not know, my lord," the guard replied.
Marcus left with tense steps, heading down the same corridor. By chance, he met his half-sister, Princess Armina, whose beauty every man in the kingdom longed to marry.
"Marcus!" she called.
"What is happening?" he asked, frowning.
She smiled faintly:
"Haven't you heard? The queen is giving birth today."
He stammered:
"Wasn't she only in her eighth month?"
"An early birth," she replied.
Marcus muttered to himself:
"But why was the king running like that? Could it… be because of the prophecy? Did he think the newborn is the prophesied one? No… those eyes were not the eyes of someone excited."
Armina interrupted:
"Marcus! I am speaking to you."
He shook his head:
"Nothing… I just remembered something I must do."
Then he left quickly, leaving Armina puzzled.
The king arrived at the delivery room door, and as he touched the handle, a terrifying scream tore through the palace's silence. The king's hand trembled, and he exchanged a heavy glance with Elder Joseph, a look that said: the time has come… and there is no escape.
He opened the door.
The room was dark and cold, like a tomb. The doctors stood in eerie silence. A fifty-year-old woman advanced slowly, carrying something small wrapped in white cloth. She spoke in a fearful voice:
"My lord…"
She extended the newborn toward him, but the horror that overtook the king's face was clear. He closed his eyes and muttered inaudible words, then turned and left quickly.
The old minister raised his voice:
"Attend to the queen! None of you may leave the room until I return."
He followed the king.
The king entered his private chamber and ordered his servant, Ethan, the one closest to him and his children, to be brought. After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door.
"Enter."
Ethan, tall, wearing a white apron and black turban, stood at attention. The king looked out the window at the heavy clouds.
"Ethan… you are the one I trust most now. Am I right in this?"
"Absolutely, Your Majesty."
The king approached him and whispered something in his ear. Ethan's eyes widened in shock, but he said nothing… only when Elder Joseph entered.
Ethan spoke calmly:
"My lord… I do not mean to disobey, but you should reconsider. This…"
Joseph shouted:
"Silence! How dare you tell your lord what to do?"
Then he said to the king:
"My lord… do what you must. Not for yourself, but for the kingdom."
Ethan replied sharply:
"What prophecy is this? What curse? And how will you even know for certain that he is the prophesied one?"
The king remained silent, then finally said:
"Do as I have instructed, Ethan. These are royal orders."
Ethan bowed and left, broken inside, torn between obedience… and conscience.
In the corridor, he met Prince Marcus.
"Ethan! I've been looking for you."
Ethan bowed slightly:
"My lord prince."
Marcus said, placing a hand on his shoulder:
"No formalities… we are foster brothers and friends."
Ethan sighed:
"There is bad news… you'd better hear it from the king."
Marcus asked:
"Where were you going?"
"To my quarters… I have something to prepare for."
Marcus left him and went to the king.
The prince entered the room and said:
"My lord… I met Ethan, and he said there is bad news. What is happening?"
The king hesitated a moment, then said:
"It's… your brother."
"What's wrong with him?"
"He was born dead."
Marcus's eyes widened:
"Dead?! Didn't the seer confirm he was fine just a few days ago?"
"That is what happened."
Marcus bowed softly:
"My condolences, Your Majesty."
Then he raised his head and looked at Elder Joseph with a gaze full of suspicion… and something akin to threat.
He then left silently.
The king ordered the announcement of his son's birth… the dead son.
The news spread throughout the kingdom at lightning speed, mingling cries of grief, whispers of fear, and curiosity in every corner and street. The people had been anticipating the king's new child for days, and now they were struck with shock without warning.
In the great hall, all the princes gathered around the throne, waiting for their father's announcement. The atmosphere was heavy, silent except for the whispers of guards and clinking armor.
Marcus, the eldest son, stood apart from everyone, his eyes reflecting the bitter news he had learned minutes earlier. He felt a deep pang in his chest but tried to hide it, for he was the prince who must appear strong before all.
Armina, the younger sister, stood beside them, her striking beauty doing nothing to ease the moment's dread. Her eyes were full of worry and curiosity, for she had not yet officially heard the news.
Armos, the brother long warned against, sat on a chair near Elder Joseph, a sly smile on his face. He made no attempt to hide his pleasure; the death of his younger brother was an opportunity to advance his ambitions, and the minister's support emboldened him further.
The king's deep voice, heavy with grief and awe, rose:
"My princes… our child was born… but he… never opened his eyes to this world. He is dead."
Everyone froze for a moment, then a wave of silence swept through the hall.
Marcus clenched the edge of his seat, trying to calm his racing heart.
Armina raised her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle a scream of shock.
Armos sat calmly, his eyes glinting with inner darkness. He whispered into the elder minister's ear:
"As I expected, this child will no longer obstruct my path."
He seemed malicious, and fate had taken care of him. Linander, his brother, looked at him with a threatening glare: "Silence!"
"And the rest? Isn't it wonderful that our rivals for the throne are gone?"
"It's your brother; how can you think of the throne now, and your child is still alive?"
He hesitated, something nagging at him, then turned and left, leaving Marcus seething with anger, almost striking him.
If not for his sister, he would have committed an unthinkable act in the royal hall.
At that moment, Ethan was still in a corner of his room, deep in thought about what he should do. He knew the king feared what had been mentioned, and he also knew that such actions would bring nothing but more blood upon the kingdom, and he did not want to be the first to stain his hands. He got up, donned his cloak, and prepared to go out as darkness enveloped the palace.
Hours passed, and the news of the prince's death—who still breathed—was spread carefully. Queen Isabel tried repeatedly to issue orders to bring her child, hoping to see him even as a lifeless body, but the cautious doctors refused completely. When she lost hope, she called her stepson, who had been raised by her and always regarded by her as her own son. The guard went directly to Prince Marcus's wing but found no one. He searched every corner of the palace, finding no trace of him, and then returned to the queen to inform her he could not be found and that he was forbidden to leave his duties.
Upon hearing this, she instructed: "Go to Mr. Maran, head of the guards, and tell him my orders; he will take care of it." He nodded and departed.