"The stars are out of line."
The midwife's voice was the last thing heard before her body crumpled to the obsidian floor. Blood ran not from her own veins, but from the very air. Outside, the skies above Vorell Manor screamed.
Lightning split the heavens in spirals. The moon hung low, swollen and crimson, as if mourning what was to come.
Inside the birthing chamber, Lady Valeria Daemonhart writhed upon a bed of enchanted blackwood veiled in white flame. Witches and demon healers surrounded her, their incantations flickering with instability.
"Keep the circle sealed!" barked Maela, the ancient head maid. She had attended nine hundred births. None like this.
Beyond the ring of runes stood Lord Kael Daemonhart. His steel-grey eyes never left his wife. "It's too soon," someone whispered. "No, it's too late," said another.
And then—a cry. Another. And a third.
Then… Silence.
No fourth cry. Only breath. Shallow. Defiant.
The fourth child opened his golden eyes and stared straight at the fire above, unblinking.
"He breathes… but he does not cry," Maela whispered.
Kael took the child, holding him tightly to his chest. "He hears us. He simply… chooses silence."
From a shadowed corner, unseen by all, stood Hector Daemonhart—the one whom even demons feared. His eyes were the color of weathered stone, a pale, unnerving white that lacked both pupil and warmth. He reached out with his mind to probe the infant's soul, expecting to find the scattered thoughts of a babe.
Instead, he hit a wall of absolute, cold iron.
Hector recoiled, his stone-white eyes widening in shock. He could read the minds of kings and gods, yet this newborn was a fortress.
"So it begins," Hector murmured, before disappearing in smoke.
The Celebration: The Naming of the Four
A fortnight later, Vorell Manor opened its black iron gates. The great hall brimmed with nobles, hellspawn royalty, and high elves. Valeria sat on her throne of moon-iron, her face painted in perfection—but no warmth behind her eyes.
The four were brought forward in silver cribs. Maela's voice rang out:
• "The Firstborn: Cedric Daemonhart — peacekeeper, flame-wielder."
• "The Second: Kendrick Daemonhart — wild star, bearer of golden blaze."
• "The Third: Frederick Daemonhart — clever soul, shadow-dancer."
"And the Fourth…"
Valeria's smile faded. The room dimmed.
"The Fourth: Tedrick Daemonhart, named by his father — but he shall be called Draco."
The child was pale as moonlight, his hair a wild mix of white and black. Along his collarbone, faint inscriptions pulsed—runes no one could read. While the crowd murmured, Draco's golden eyes drifted across the room.
He wasn't just looking; he was hearing.
Through a natural mindlink, the greedy thoughts of the nobles and the coldness in his mother's heart poured into his mind. He didn't need a voice; he could hear their very souls. Yet, as he watched them, his own thoughts remained locked behind that iron wall. Not even Hector, watching from the balcony with his stone eyes, could catch a single whisper of Draco's mind.
First Year: The Quiet Divide
Valeria lavished Cedric, Kendrick, and Frederick with attention. Draco? She passed him as if he were furniture. She feared him. Kael and Maela were the only ones Draco allowed to touch him; anyone else felt a strange, cold static in the air.
"He's different," Valeria once hissed to Kael. "He frightens me."
"You fear the one child who has never spoken a word?" Kael replied coldly. "Perhaps it is not he who's broken."
Draco grew in silence, but he was not slow. At eight months, he painted with accuracy none understood. While his brothers played, he watched. He never babbled, but his brothers began to sense him.
"Don't be sad," Cedric would suddenly whisper, looking at Draco. He didn't know why he said it, only that a feeling of comfort had suddenly bloomed in his head, projected from his younger brother.
Draco could touch the minds of those he loved, but he was the only one who held the key to his own. One evening, Hector attempted once more to enter Draco's mind. He pressed his ancient, stone-white gaze against the child's consciousness.
Draco didn't flinch. He simply turned his golden eyes toward his grandfather. The "Iron Wall" in Draco's mind didn't just block Hector—it pushed back, cold and ancient. Hector, the most powerful telepath in the realms, found himself locked out of a one-year-old's head.
On their first birthday, Draco sat at the edge of the feast, unreadable. That night, Maela found him painting with mashed berries. It was a tree burning under a black sky.
She stared. "What do you see, little one?"
Draco didn't answer. But his eyes—they burned.
End of Chapter One