**The air tasted thin—brittle, like frozen glass.** No wind, no birds, just that **damned silence** pressing down.
**Even the clouds had fled, leaving a sky too wide, too empty. Like the gods themselves were waiting.**
This is no ordinary day.
In the heart of this land, a kingdom surrounded on all sides by an unyielding lake—both a natural barrier and an unspoken prison—the people have gathered before the towering royal castle.
Their eyes flicker with anticipation, their hands clasped together, whispering hurried prayers to whatever gods might listen.
Something is happening within the castle walls.
Then—
A piercing scream shatters the stillness. **Not just pain, but fury. The kind that claws its way out of a woman's throat when she's being split in two.**
Inside one of the castle's grand chambers, **the queen writhed like a trapped animal** upon a silk-draped bed, drenched in sweat and pain.
Surrounding her are five masked figures, their robes marked with ancient symbols—the kingdom's revered doctors, each playing their part with unwavering precision.
One doctor wets a towel, his gloved hands working quickly as he places it upon her feverish forehead. **"Breathe," he lied.**
Another douses a cloth with a potent herbal solution, pressing it firmly to her trembling lips. **"Bite down. Unless you want to choke on your own tongue."**
A third massages her belly with practiced care, guiding the child with gentle yet firm movements, ensuring no harm befalls either mother or infant.
The last two stand poised at the foot of the bed, their hands outstretched, ready to receive the child the moment it emerges.
At last, it seems to be over.
A sliver of hope enters the room as the infant's head becomes visible.
One doctor reaches in, fingers steady, attempting to ease the child into the world—
And then he stops.
His breath catches.
**"Saints' blood," he hissed.** The infant's shoulder is lodged behind the mother's pelvic bone, stuck in a position that spells disaster.
A complication.
The child cannot move forward, and now, the limited air it clings to is rapidly running out.
Panic surges through the room.
**"Knife—now! If we don't cut, they both die!"** the doctor commands, **his voice cracking like a whip.**
The others waste no time, rushing to retrieve the necessary tools.
The woman—despite the overwhelming agony—forces out a single, quivering breath. "What… what are you going to do?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.
But no answer comes.
A doctor fills a needle with an herbal mixture steeped in boiling water. He shakes the vial, watching the dark liquid swirl before injecting it into her side.
The room begins to spin.
The once-clear figures blur, their movements distorting like reflections on disturbed water.
Sound fades into an eerie, high-pitched ringing.
Her limbs feel heavy. Her eyelids, heavier.
Sleep… Sleep calls to her like an old friend.
As her consciousness slips away, her lips part for the final words she will utter in this moment:
"Please… survive."
Elsewhere, within the grand throne room, the air is thick with tension.
Gold and black draperies adorn the vast hall, their regal presence only slightly dimmed by the flickering torches lining the walls.
Rows of crimson flowers bloom along the sides, their petals curling slightly in the cold air, a stark contrast to the otherwise somber atmosphere.
At the center of it all, a man rises from the throne.
A golden crown, streaked with veins of black gemstones, rests upon his head.
His long white hair cascades over his shoulders, a sharp contrast to the exhaustion etched into his face. Though barely past forty, tonight he looks far older.
In his trembling grip, a cup of wine sloshes against its edges.
He lifts it to his lips, taking a sip—then grimaces. **The wine was bitter—just like everything else.** With a snarl, he hurls the cup hard enough to **crack the tiles**. **Let the servants scrub the stains out. Let them all choke on his rage.**
The crown follows, slipping from his head as he grips his hair with both hands, tugging hard enough to send a sharp sting through his scalp.
Then—
The doors swing open.
His head snaps up, his eyes ablaze with fury. Who dares disobey his command? He had ordered absolute silence—no interruptions until the child was born!
But the anger flickers.
It is his brother.
Unlike the king, this man possesses shorter, darker hair and a long, neatly kept beard. His gait is slow, deliberate. Without a word, he retrieves the discarded wine cup, setting it back upon the table.
Then, without so much as glancing at the king, he strides toward the balcony.
The city stretches before them, a sea of people roaring with celebration. From above, they appear as a writhing mass, their cheers shaking the very ground beneath them.
The king's jaw tightens.
"Where have you been?" he demands. "This is a crucial moment for the kingdom!"
His brother remains silent.
Instead, his gaze lingers upon the crowd below. There is something in his expression—not quite amusement, not quite concern. Something darker.
**"You think this crowd gives a damn about your brat?"** He spat over the balcony. **"I walked the walls tonight. Too many drunk guards. Too many open gates. This isn't celebration—it's a damn invitation."**
The king steps closer, his voice sharpening. "I will not ask you again."
The man exhales through his nose, then speaks.
"I was patrolling. While today is a day of celebration—for the birth of the little prince, and especially with their king slowly dying—I noticed something troubling."
He gestures vaguely to the gathered masses. "Too many people are celebrating. Too few guards remain at their posts. This leaves us vulnerable. We don't want intruders ruining our precious happy day, do we?"
For once, the king does not respond with anger.
He nods, faintly.
"Yes. It's true. I am dying." His voice is steady, but there is a weight to it. "The doctor gave me only a few more years.
I do not even know how I managed to produce an heir…" His lips twitch into something between a smile and a grimace. "But I am glad I did. And I hope I have the time to make him a proper king."
He turns to face his brother fully.
"But if I cannot… I know you will raise and protect him in my stead." He studies his brother carefully. "We may differ in our views, but in the end, we are still brothers."
Then, shifting topics, the king addresses the concern at hand.
"As for the kingdom's protection…" He places a hand upon his chest, then gestures toward his brother.
"The guards are mere scouts. Their true duty is not to protect, but to watch—to detect the slightest stirrings of unrest."
His eyes darken.
"You and I… We are the ones who truly defend this land."
Beyond the lake that isolates the kingdom from the rest of the world, shadows shift among the trees.
A dozen figures stand cloaked in the black of night, their hoods concealing their faces.
One man steps forward, the leader among them.
His voice is low. Sharp.
**"Its our time to Move."**
Back at the castle, the throne room doors creak open once more.
A doctor enters, bowing deeply before the king and his brother. His face is pale, his hands twitching ever so slightly.
"Your Majesty… My Lord…"
A heartbeat of hesitation.
Then:
"The prince has been born. However… there have been complications."
Outside the castle, in the secluded royal garden, the scent of fresh flowers and ripened fruit lingers in the air. A place of peace, untouched by the weight of war or sorrow.
At its center stands a grand fountain, its carvings intricate—though unlike the usual statues of angels or noble beasts, this one is… different.
Demonic.
Wings spread wide, clawed hands reaching out, its mouth twisted into a sharp-toothed grin.
Water flows freely from its lips—
At first, clear and pure.
Then—
**The demon's mouth spat water, clear at first. Then it gagged—sputtered. A glob of red plopped into the basin. Then another. Like the damn thing was coughing up blood.**