The square of Valyar was packed with crowd. The banners of the kingdom he had built with his own hands swayed in the wind, but none of them were lifted for him. They weren't here to honor him. They were here to watch him die.
King Alaric, seventy years old, knelt before the wooden block, his arms were bound behind him with a rope. His long white beard brushed against his chest.
His knees ached from the stone floor, and the cold air burned through his thin clothes. The same people he had once fed during famine, the same families he had protected from raiders, now screamed for his blood.
"Traitor!" one man shouted.
"Thief of the crown!" another woman spat.
Alaric lifted his head. His faded blue eyes scanned the crowd. He saw farmers he had once given land to, soldiers who had sworn loyalty, priests who had eaten at his table. Their faces blurred into one mass of hatred.
He swallowed. "Is this how it ends?" he thought. "Not in battle. Not in bed. But like a criminal."
The executioner stood beside him, tall and broad, dressed in black leather. His axe gleamed in the gray light, freshly sharpened. Alaric had knighted this man's father thirty years ago. Now the son would end him.
The herald's voice cut through the noise. "Alaric of House Deymour, once called King, you stand condemned by the council of lords and the voice of the people. You are guilty of tyranny, treachery, and betrayal of your oath. The punishment is death."
Alaric tried to laugh, but it came out as a bitter cough. Treachery? He had given them peace. Tyranny? He had built roads, healed wounds of war, united warring clans. He had sacrificed everything, even his youth, for them. And yet here he was, treated worse than a thief.
The crowd roared approval. The executioner raised the axe.
Alaric clenched his jaw. His pride screamed at him to curse them all, to spit on the faces of his betrayers. But his heart, old and tired, only whispered one thought: Why? Why would they turn on me after all I gave them?
The axe came down a flash of steel. A rush of air. A final moment of silence.
Then it was done. His head rolled into the straw, and the crowd erupted in cheers.
Blood pooled around the block. The once-mighty king lay broken, his crown already melted down, his name already marked for erasure in the records.
But then—amid the cheers, a voice rose. A woman's voice. Thin, yet loud enough to cut through the chaos.
"He will not stay dead," she cried.
The crowd turned. A hunched old crone, her hair wild, her clothes torn, stood at the edge of the square. Her eyes glowed with a strange light.
"The king's bloodline isn't broken!" she yelled. "You can't destroy him with fire or steel. He'll be born again from your own families, and when he returns, he'll bring judgment with him."
The people jeered at her, some threw stones, others laughed. The guards dragged her away, but her words lingered in the cold air.
A hundred years had passed since that day. The kingdom he had built fell into decay, his name nearly forgotten, and his bloodline ended with no heirs to carry it on.
Far away, in a medieval room that resembled an old European palace, with rich decorations and golden furniture, a young lady lay on a dark red king-sized bed, her head resting on a velvet pillow. Beside her stood a woman with long, silky black hair that reached her waist, watching over her closely.
The lady on the bed was Princess Elaria of House Valenor. She was the only daughter of the royal bloodline, known for her rare silver hair that marked her family as touched by the gods. All her life she had been treated with honor, yet also with great pressure to carry her family's legacy.
Now, lying in labor, none of her titles or wealth could shield her from the sharp pain tearing through her body. Her silver hair spread across the pillow like strands of light as she sat upright, trembling.
"Ahhhhhh! Gods help me!" Her cry filled the room as her midwife beside her urged her to keep going.
"Almost there—push, my lady, push! I see him!" urged a woman in her thirties, dressed in a long medieval gown, serving as the midwife. She held the legs of a young lady in her twenties, who strained with all her strength to bring forth her child.
"Hmmmnnnn!" Elaria's cry rang out, filling the chamber..
With another scream—"Errrrhhhhh!"—the baby finally emerged. The midwife caught the child and quickly wrapped him in a cloth.
"Congratulations, it's a boy," The midwife said warmly.
Elaria's face softened as she reached for her son. She cradled him close, but her expression soon twisted with fresh pain.
"No… no, something's still inside me. It hurts! Please, help me!" she gasped, her body trembling. Weakly, she handed the baby back to the midwife.
The midwife placed the infant carefully in a crib, tucking him in a blanket. Then, placing her hand on Elaria's swollen abdomen, she froze. Her eyes widened.
"Another child? How did I not see this?" she murmured, shocked that she had missed the presence of a twin.
Elaria's strength was fading fast—her skin pale, her body drenched in sweat and blood. Seeing this, the midwife clasped her hands together, weaving them in slow circles. A golden light sparked between her palms, forming a glowing orb. She pressed it gently onto the young woman's body, sending a warm radiance across her.
"This should give you strength." Elaria assured softly. Minutes later, the young lady stirred with renewed strength.
"Now, you must push again—harder this time," the midwife urged firmly. "If the baby remains inside, he may not survive."
"Hmmmnnnnn!" Elaria cried, her body straining.
The baby's head began to show as the midwife urged on,
"One more..."She said as she positioned her hands.
"Arrrrhhhhh!" The young lady arched from her pillow, pushing with the last of her strength. At last, the second child slipped into the midwife's hands.
"Congratulations… another boy," she whispered, though her smile faltered. The infant was pale—silent.
"Please… let me hold him." Elaria pleaded weakly, eager to hear his cry. But silence met her ears. Her body could take no more; her eyes fluttered shut, and she sank into unconsciousness.
The midwife looked at the lifeless infant in her arms, "Breathe, little one. Come back to me… breathe." Her eyes glowed gold as she lifted the child into the air as tendrils of light spilled from her hands, wrapping around the small body.
"By the power within me, I restore you!" she declared. The golden light pulsed brighter, weaving desperately around the child.
Hours passed. She poured every ounce of strength into the effort, but nothing changed.
At last, Elaria stirred. "Ahhh…" she groaned, clutching her head. Turning toward the crib, she saw only one child resting there.
"Where is he?" Elaria asked, panic flashing in her eyes. The midwife hesitated, her silence betraying the truth.
"Where is my baby?" Elaria cried, desperately, lowering her gaze as the midwife whispered, "I'm sorry… I tried everything, but..."
"But… what! What are you saying?" Elaria snapped, struggling to rise despite her weakness.
"My lady, you mustn't..."
"Tell me where my baby is!" Elaria shouted, her frail body trembling with rage and grief.
The midwife's shoulders sagged. "I… I'm so sorry. He didn't survive."
The words cut through her like a blade. She staggered forward, shaking her head in disbelief. "No… no, that can't be true."
Ignoring the midwife, Elaria stumbled to the crib. There, swaddled and lifeless, lay her second son. She scooped him into her arms, clutching him desperately as tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Why? Why did you leave me? Why leave your brother behind? I never even knew you existed… and now you're gone." She held him close, rocking him gently though he was lifeless. Her lips trembled as she whispered through sobs,
"Why give me two sons only to take one away?"