Somewhere far from Earth, in a galaxy 13.4 billion light-years away, a child was born beneath twin moons that hung like ancient sentinels—watching, waiting.
Her first breath split the stillness inside House Skywhisper, a manor carved from frost and shadow.
Sir Marek Veldrin's ice-blue eyes fixed on the newborn—pale as snow, wide-eyed, silent.
Too silent.
Like she carried truths too old for crying.
Recognition flickered behind Marek's frozen gaze, but the world beyond the chamber did not stir with hope.
In the highborn heart of Skywhisper Hold, silence reigned.
Not the kind that cradles peace.
Not the hush of reverence, nor the quiet of rest.
But silence like the aftermath of fire—
The silence where dreams lie scorched, and no one dares to breathe the smoke.
The birthing chamber stood like a cathedral chiseled into winter. Its walls were veined in glacial marble, alive with ancient cold.
Lanterns hovered above, dangling from gold chains, trembling like the flames themselves feared to stay.
The floor bore the crest of House Veldrin—etched in lapis and steel. War. Legacy. Conquest.
Nobles stood shoulder to shoulder in silver-threaded cloaks, their names older than maps.
Mages in robes dyed the color of storms.
Generals in silence harder than steel.
They had gathered for an heir.
A second son.
A mirror to the first.
A spare sword to seal the future.
But fate offered them… something else.
No prophecy. No trumpets.
Just blood-stained sheets and shallow breaths.
Lady Elira Veldrin lay unconscious, hair clinging to her brow, skin drained of light.
Arcane sigils on her wrists blinked dimly, flickering like stars gasping their last.
The child had already been born.
The nobles had already gathered.
And now, the verdict fell.
A midwife, pale and shaking, bowed her head as she spoke through the cold.
"My Lord Marek… it is… a girl."
The words dropped like ash.
Not a gasp. Not a scream.
Just stillness—
Like a blade pressed flat against the neck of a dynasty.
Air folded in on itself.
As if even breath dared not speak.
Legacy, oaths, futures... they all curdled in the silence.
Not mourning.
Not shock.
Something worse.
Expectation—rotting.
The air collapsed inwards...
Time froze.
Disappointment clung to the room like soot, coating lungs and legacy alike.
There were no congratulations. No wine. No joy.
Only the distant ticking of the grandfather clock, and the wind clawing at stained-glass windows.
And in that silence, the world held its breath.
The sea-winds outside faltered—caught between cliffs and generations of expectation.
The shadows stretched.
The air thinned, like even it was afraid.
A third daughter.
In a house where sons were more than heirs—they were pillars.
House Veldrin, rulers of sky and steel for six generations.
They already had one son—young Lord Irian Veldrin.
Bright-eyed. Born to lead.
But Marek had wanted another.
Not for pride.
Not for vanity.
For legacy.
A second sword.
A mirror.
A failsafe.
A shield against chaos. And yet… again, fate answered with lace.
Eyes fell. Some with pity. Others with revulsion.
Whispers flared and vanished like sparks in a graveyard.
"Another daughter? Impossible."
"The bloodline weakens."
"The stars have turned against them."
The cradle sat like a ghost in the center of the storm. No crest. No silk. Just pale linens in white and blue. The name they had stitched—the name meant for a son—was already folded beneath the cradle. Tucked away like a failed prophecy.
Lord Marek did not move.
His shadow stretched across the marble like a curse unspoken.
Frost clung to his boots.
His spine, carved from command, held.
But in his breath—no fog.
No warmth.
Not rage. Not sorrow.
He was the silence before the silence.
A storm holding its breath.
He was not in rage. Not despair.
He was silence calcified into bone.
Then—
He moved.
One step.
Then another.
Each step cracked like a gavel in a crypt.
The court parted without parting.
The air itself bent, retreating from judgment.
Every footfall carried the weight of oaths, of gods, of blood once spilled to make this house stand.
And now, they would witness judgment.
He reached the cradle.
Looked down.
The child stared up—eyes wide, blue, unblinking.
She didn't cry.
She simply watched.
As if weighing the world.
Marek knelt.
Snow melted beneath his knees. His glove hovered above her brow, trembling—not from cold.
"…You see the world already, don't you?"
(He whispered—not a voice. A breath.)
The silence shifted.
Not into anger.
Not grief.
Not surrender.
Something worse.
Recognition.
Marek looked up.
To his father—Lord Halric Veldrin, unmoved near the hearth, sapphire eyes locked like storm-hardened stone.
To his wife—Lady Elira Veldrin, unconscious, fading like ink in starlight.
To his brother— Lord Kael Veldrin, cold and judging, arms crossed like a closed gate.
To his stepmother— Lady Varena Veldrin, veil fluttering with a sigh too deliberate to hide.
And to the court:
Every noble.
Every vulture.
Waiting.
Hoping he would flinch.
Waiting for him to cast the child aside.
Servants lowered their heads. A court mage murmured a cleansing spell.
Tick.
Tock.
Midnight struck.
Outside, thunder whispered like a threat.
And then—Marek moved.
He pulled off his glove.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Like a knight shedding steel.
His bare hand touched the child's brow.
No magic surged. No runes flared.
Just skin.
And silence.
She blinked.
Once.
Still watching.
"They wanted a son," he said. "The court. The bloodline. Even me."
His voice cracked—barely.
"But none of them see what I do now."
He stood.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Glove returned.
Spine straight.
But inside—something had not shattered.
Something had been forged.
He turned.
Faced the court.
The hush was no longer silence.
It was anticipation.
"Her name…"
His voice carved through the room.
"…will be chosen tomorrow."
A pause.
Then—
Like frost splitting open to reveal fire underneath:
"She may not be the son you wanted…"
"…but she is mine."
No one moved.
Something had changed.
The chamber didn't break.
It shifted.
Like tectonic plates beneath a throne.
Like the first breath before a war.
Marek turned. His coat trailed behind like a banner stitched in midnight. His boots left no echo—only weight.
Behind him, the nobles stood frozen.
Caught between eras.
Outside, the winds stirred once more.
But they no longer howled in mourning.
They howled in warning.
A Moment Later...
At the far end of the hall, in the mirrors no longer watched by mortal eyes, a flicker stirred.
A shimmer.
Faint.
Like a candle burning behind silvered glass.
A ripple in the glass.
A whisper stitched from dust.
"Born beneath the thirteenth star…"
Another, layered over the first:
"Where no heir should rise."
A third. Sharper. Older.
"The Blood wright will break. The blade will bow."
And then—one final voice.
Barely a breath.
"He has chosen… her."
The mirror dimmed.
Not quite.
Listening.
Like a storm remembering its name.
TO BE CONTINUED…