Far from the silence where stars once burned, deep within the Bloodstained Palace, a scream tore through the air like prophecy undone.
Kray writhed atop a grand bed veiled in black silk, her body seizing in waves of agony.
Sweat clung to her skin.
Her feverish eyes locked on the ceiling—unseeing, terrified—as if expecting heaven to collapse.
Around her, maids stumbled in panic, their cries drowned in the storm of her suffering.
At her side, a lone handmaid gripped her hand with white-knuckled desperation, voice cracking through sobs:
"Please, my lady… hold on. The child you bled everything for is coming!"
But Kray's mind had already fled.
She felt her soul split with every contraction—as if the child tore his way through her past as much as her flesh.
It drowned in a flood of memory—
Forbidden flight.
A love abandoned.
Betrayal that still screamed.
And now…
A birth that could be an end—
Or the beginning of something no one could stop.
Meanwhile, beneath banners soaked in the memory of war, Reiner Noxfaire reigned in stillness.
He didn't sit. He anchored.
Even the shadows held their breath around him.
The throne beneath him—carved from black stone and veined like dried blood—seemed built not for comfort, but to withstand the weight of his silence.
His presence was unyielding as steel, and his silence louder than any decree.
Before him stretched the assembled might of House Noxfaire:
Swordmasters whose names bled across history—names that turned cities to ash and children to soldiers.
His five sons, cloaked in pride and cold ambition.
And the Standard-Bearers, the next generation, marked by banners that hung from their backs like vows not yet fulfilled.
Around them stood knights and advisors, faces drawn in reverence and fear.
No one dared to blink before the patriarch of blood.
The name Noxfaire was not just noble—it was the last bastion between the human lands and the horrors that stirred within the Abyssal Expanse.
From the line of knights stepped an aged man with a spine still unbent—Falco, steward of the house.
His voice, polished by decades of service, rang clear through the hall:
"My lord, disturbances are rising within the Expanse. The creatures grow bold. We suspect the Krismer family's hand behind this… but no evidence remains. As if scrubbed clean."
Before Reiner could reply, the chamber shifted.
A presence entered—needing no introduction, no title, no name.
She was draconic, ancient, wrapped in the shape of a woman but never pretending to be one. Crimson hair floated behind her like smoke in still water, and her eyes shimmered with memories not meant for mortals.
Her footsteps made no sound—yet the marble beneath them cracked.
The air tightened, the firelight dimmed.
Silence fell like reverence.
Then, with a voice like molten iron drawn across stone:
"Krismer fools… still blind after centuries."
Kaldiras, eldest of Reiner's sons, turned slowly.
His voice was calm, but his eyes flicked briefly to his father, seeking approval.
"Standard-Bearers. Speak."
They stood like statues of war, carved by legacy.
Aziphera, the First—draped in silence, her posture proud yet distant. The blade she wore was ceremonial, untouched by recent battle.
Xypher, the Second—his armor still smelt of oil and flame. His fingers twitched near the hilt, not from nerves… but from hunger.
He stepped forward, a dry smile on his lips—more twitch than joy.
"My lord," he said, with the voice of someone savoring violence,
"allow me to lead a scouting force. I'll bring you proof… or their heads."
Reiner narrowed his eyes.
"Go," he said, voice firm and low.
"But do not engage. Watch. The war we seek must not begin with your pride."
Before any answer could follow, the council doors creaked open.
A servant stood there—nervous, young, eyes darting between giants.
"My lord… the young lady is on the verge of childbirth. Shall we begin preparations for the Naming Ceremony?"
The air shifted.
Murmurs broke the discipline of the hall.
One knight scoffed:
"This is what interrupts the council? A bastard's birth?"
"Utter nonsense," muttered another.
Even the banners seemed to sag, as if the word 'birth' stained the stone.
Reiner said nothing.
He exhaled—not at the news, but at them.
"Prepare the ceremony," he said at last, not loud, not soft.
Just final
The screaming faded… and silence took its place.
And from that silence, something entered the world.
No cries. No breath.
The air itself seemed to recoil as he emerged.
A presence—raw and rooted—pressed against the very fabric of the room.
She had endured hours of agony, but when the child came forth—
They did not hand him to her.
Not to Kray, once the pride of Noxfaire, now cloaked in quiet disgrace.
She wasn't even granted a look.
Instead, they placed him in Lara's arms—the handmaid, or perhaps now… the one fated to raise him.
Lara's hands trembled like autumn leaves.
Her breath caught. Her face went pale—as if she carried a secret she couldn't name.
Her eyes flickered toward the child in brief, terrified glances.
Something in her blood warned her—not danger… but desecration.
Despite the pain, Kray forced her body forward. Her voice cracked with fear she tried to hide:
"Lara… what's wrong? Why do you look at him like that? Is there something wrong with him?"
Lara hesitated. Her lips trembled.
"No… nothing, my lady…"
But her eyes said everything.
She looked at the child as though he were a curse…
A curse not yet given a name.