The birth of Elara Veyne was a harbinger of the darkness that would follow her throughout her life,like a sweet medicine that left an after taste of bitterness
The royal birthing chamber had been prepared with all the opulence befitting a queen's labor—candles flickered in silver holders, their light dancing across embroidered silks and fresh rose petals scattered across the floor. The midwives moved with practiced ease, their hands steady, their voices hushed in reverence. Queen Lyrris Veyne, radiant even in the throes of childbirth, gripped the sheets with white-knuckled determination. The kingdom awaited its heir with bated breath...
No one expected death to be the first thing the princess would bring into the world.
Elara came screaming, her tiny fists clenched as if already prepared to fight. The moment her skin touched her mother's, the air in the chamber turned thick with the scent of iron and something fouler—like spoiled wine and rotting blossoms.
Queen Lyrris gasped, her breath hitching mid-labor. The midwives froze as the queen's veins darkened beneath her skin, spreading like ink spilled in water. Black tendrils crawled up her arms, her throat, her face, twisting beneath her flesh like serpents. Her lips parted, but no sound came out—only a trickle of dark blood.
Then, she collapsed.
The first midwife, Sister Marthine, lunged forward to catch the falling queen—only to seize the moment her fingers brushed Elara's damp cheek. Her body stiffened, her mouth opening in a silent scream as the same black corruption raced through her. She toppled to the floor, her limbs locking in rigor mortis before she even hit the ground.
Chaos erupted.
The second midwife, Elyra, reached for the silver birthing scissors, her hands shaking. "The cord—we must cut the cord—"
She never finished. The scissors clattered to the floor as her knees buckled, her skin graying like stone. The third midwife, young and wide-eyed, barely had time to register the horror before she, too, fell—her body crumbling mid-step, her outstretched hand still inches from the wailing infant.
By the time the royal alchemist, Lord Caelis, burst into the chamber, the scene was a tableau of death. The queen lay motionless, her once-vibrant beauty now a withered husk. The midwives were strewn across the floor like discarded dolls, their faces frozen in agony.
And in the center of it all, bathed in candlelight and blood, the newborn princess wailed—innocent, furious, and utterly unaware of the devastation she had wrought.
Caelis did not rush to her. Instead, he pulled on gloves lined with blessed sigils, his breath shallow. Only when every inch of his skin was shielded did he dare lift the child.
At the doorway, King Aldric Veyne watched, his expression unreadable.
"Your Majesty," Caelis whispered, his voice hoarse. "The queen—"
"Is dead," Aldric finished. His gaze never left Elara. "And my daughter?"
Caelis hesitated. "She is... unharmed."
A slow, chilling smile curved the king's lips. "Good." more like he knew this would happen
For in that moment, as the first light of dawn crept through the stained-glass windows, staining the room in hues of gold and crimson, Aldric saw not a cursed child—but a weapon.
And weapons, no matter how deadly, could always be wielded.