The clouds crowded from every direction on that ill-fated day, until dawn itself seemed to carry an unspoken obituary. The sun found no path through the heavy gray shroud that loomed over the kingdom, as if the sky had chosen to withhold its light in mourning. Scattered raindrops fell slowly, their cold piercing stone, deepening the suffocating stillness and dragging the Palace of Mertal into an even darker abyss of gloom. Silence ruled everything— a heavy silence, like the king's own silence— as though his exhaustion and fear had been imposed upon the walls, the guards, the servants, and the very breath of the kingdom itself… all except for one heart that knew no rest that night.
The vast corridors of Ordas Palace stretched endlessly, long, dim, and saturated with the breath of history. They had never been a place of light, and no one expected them to shine now. The cold stone walls had witnessed births and assassinations, the crowning of kings and their downfall, yet on that night they were preparing for an event destined to be recorded in the oldest chronicles—an event that would change the fate of this house forever. Queen Izel was preparing to give birth to her second child, after her son Isan, who had turned fifteen only months earlier. But this time, no decorations were raised, no banners unfurled, no music played. The atmosphere was closer to a funeral slowly advancing—steady, merciless.
Years earlier, on a night still carved into the palace's memory, a massive flock of black crows appeared and settled upon the towers, windows, and gates. The guards tried to drive them away, shouting and waving their swords, but the birds did not move. They were motionless, silent, as though not of this world. Forced to kill them, the moment the first crow fell, the palace walls were stained with vivid red blood that flowed like a harbinger of war. That day, the king understood only one thing: what was coming to this family was no ordinary child. For the ancient, forbidden books—read only by kings and ministers—spoke of a clear prophecy beyond interpretation: a son of this blood would kill his father and sit upon the throne atop a sea of blood.
"My king…" No answer.
"My king…"
The king suddenly jolted from his thoughts, as if awakening from a long nightmare, and said in a calm yet weary voice, "What is it, Jan?"
The servant bowed nervously. "My lord… the queen. Labor has begun. She has been moved to the birthing chamber."
The king's eyes widened and his features stiffened. At that moment, the old minister Joseph entered, leaning on his cane, his hoarse voice preceding his steps.
"My lord… the time has come." He drew closer and whispered near the king's ear, "Do not think with your heart. Kings who do not live long."
The king shook his cloak from his shoulders and hurried out, his face a mixture of resolve and turmoil, passing through the southern corridor where Prince Armos's chambers lay—the eldest son and the court's true heir in its eyes.
At the same moment, Prince Marcus was leaving his own chamber. He could not bear staying within the palace or submitting to any command, and he saw the old minister as the root of every calamity that had befallen this place. The king passed before him swiftly with his guards and Joseph. Marcus stopped one of the guards sharply and asked, "What is happening?"
"I… I do not know, my prince," the guard replied hesitantly.
Marcus's frown deepened, and he followed them with tense steps. In the corridor, he coincidentally met his half-sister, Princess Armina, whose beauty was celebrated throughout the kingdom. She called his name, and he asked her anxiously what was happening. She told him the queen would give birth today.
"But she's only in her eighth month," he said, his voice unsteady.
"A premature birth," she replied.
He muttered to himself that the king would not be running like this out of joy, and that those eyes were not the eyes of an expectant father, but of a man afraid of a prophecy. Armina interrupted him, but he shook his head, saying he had remembered something he must do, and hurried away, leaving behind a worry she could not understand.
The king reached the door of the birthing chamber. The moment his hand touched the handle, a horrific scream tore through the palace's silence. His hand trembled. He exchanged a heavy glance with Joseph—a glance that said the moment had come, with no escape. He opened the door.
The chamber was dark and cold, like a tomb. The physicians stood in dreadful silence. A woman in her fifties stepped forward, carrying something small wrapped in white cloth. Her voice shook as she said, "My lord…" and extended the newborn toward him.
The instant the king looked, he froze in place. He closed his eyes, murmured inaudible words, then turned and left swiftly, as if the air itself were burning his lungs.
Joseph said firmly, "Take care of the queen. None of you are to leave this room until I return," then followed the king.
The king entered his private chambers and ordered that the servant Ethan be summoned—his closest and most loyal man. Ethan stood straight, the white apron and black turban framing his weary face.
"You are the one I trust most right now, are you not?" the king asked, staring out the window at the heavy clouds.
"Without a doubt, my lord," Ethan replied.
The king leaned closer and whispered an order that drained the blood from Ethan's face. Ethan tried to object, his voice broken, but Joseph shouted at him to be silent, telling the king that what he was about to do was not for himself, but for the kingdom. The king remained silent for a moment, then said with deadly coldness, "These are royal orders."
Ethan bowed and left, shattered within, torn between obedience and conscience.
In the corridor, he met Prince Marcus, who placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke informally, calling them brothers and friends. Ethan told him there was bad news, and that it would be better to hear it from the king himself. Marcus asked where he was going. Ethan replied that he was heading to his chamber to prepare for something, then left.
Marcus entered the king's chambers and asked about the news. After hesitation, the king told him that his brother had been born dead. Marcus's eyes widened—the seer had confirmed only days ago that the child was well—but the king ended the conversation coldly. Marcus bowed in condolence, then lifted his gaze toward the old minister with suspicion and threat, and left in silence.
The news of the stillborn prince spread across the kingdom like lightning, mingling cries of grief with whispers of fear. In the great hall, the princes gathered around the throne, the air heavy, broken only by the creak of armor. Marcus stood apart, a lump in his chest. Armina stood anxious. Armos sat near Joseph, a malicious smile on his face.
The king announced the news in a broken voice. Silence fell, sorrow appearing on all faces except Armos's. He whispered mockingly that fate had removed a rival from his path. Marcus nearly lunged at him, had Armina not stopped him. Armos withdrew laughing, leaving behind rage on the brink of explosion.
That night, Ethan sat in the corner of his chamber, the light of a single candle casting trembling shadows on the walls. He knew that fear gives birth only to blood, and that carrying out the order would make him the first to stain his hands. Slowly, he rose, donned his dark cloak, and prepared to leave as darkness descended upon the palace like a black shroud.
The hours passed heavily. Queen Izel wept and begged to see her child—even a corpse—but the guards and physicians refused without explanation. When she lost hope, she asked for Marcus, but he had disappeared. She was informed of this and ordered that the captain of the guard be summoned.
And in that very moment, while everyone believed the prince was dead, he was still breathing somewhere, far from prying eyes—so that the curse might take its first steps in the darkness.