"Congratulations, Sire! You have an heir. It's a boy!" sang Kore, the midwife, her voice trembling with joy as she cradled the newborn against her chest.
The infant's skin was slick with birth, his tiny fists balled tight asleep. She carefully handed the child to King Michail.
Michail's breath caught in his throat he was a warrior, yet nothing in battle had prepared him for the fragile weight of his son. His arms were broad and calloused, softened as he accepted the baby.
The child's warmth seeped into him, chasing away the cold edge of a lifetime of expectations. He glanced over to his Queen, Eltha, her face was pale and luminous with sweat and tears. Her tangled hair clinging to her brow. She was still but her chest rising and falling with a shallow and spent breaths.
A deep unguarded chuckle rumbled from Michail's chest. His emotion nearly choking his words. "Thank you..." he managed, his eyes brimming with a fierce pride as he finally looked down at the baby, his son, sleeping quietly in his arms.
"This..." Michail's voice wavered, and he raised his head, making eye contact with every soul who bore witness.
His heart thundered with disbelief and longing.
"This calls for a feast. I have an heir," he declared with a voice raw with happiness and something like desperation.
He looked again at the newborn, his son, and his voice broke into a whisper, trembling. "My son. My heir. Ciaran Asger."
Days later, as night thickened over Harcadia, the Great Hall blazed with the golden glow of a thousand torches. Shadows danced along the ancient stone walls, accompanied by the restless flames. Laughter and the haunting strains of harp and flute mingled in the rafters, swelling above the clatter of goblets and the talk of nobles and knights.
Every table groaned beneath the bounty. Roasted lamb glistening with thyme and wild garlic, saffron rice gleaming like sunlight, sea trout lacquered in dark fig sauce, platters of sugared dates, and the sweet, yeasty scent of fresh bread. The mingled perfumes of orange blossom, roasted almonds thickened the air.
King Michail sat at the head of it all with his crown against the coal-dark of his hair. Wine shimmered in his goblet as he stood, his presence like a thunderclap that silenced the hall.
"Let it be known," he boomed, his voice echoing into every corner, "that under the hunter's moon, the gods have blessed this kingdom. My son, my heir, my blood, Ciaran Asger is born!"
The hall erupted. Voices rose in a wild, joyous cacophony. "Long live the prince!" The sound was a living beast, shaking the stones.
The dancers burst into the hall, their silk skirts swirling, silver bells at their ankles casting a wild, sweet music. The drums grew frenzied, and the nobles cheered, lifting their goblets in endless toasts.
The servants flitted between tables, their faces flushed with excitement, refilling cups and gathering scraps.
Behind Michail's throne, the court advisor, Lyle Halvaric watched with his brows drawn together and his eyes sharp as winter ice.
At midnight, the festivities spilled into a more private chamber. The king dined with his closest men in a room thick with music and the scent of spilled wine.
The music faltered then died entirely when a figure rose at the far end of the lesser tables. An old woman, stooped and shrouded in a storm-grey shawl, leaning on a gnarled cane of yew. Her hair was the color of ashes, her face was deeply lined and her eyes watery but unblinking.
She stepped forward, the rhythm of her cane a challenge to the silence. No one recognized her, yet none dared stop her.
"A toast," she intoned, her voice sharp and thin as a blade. The conversation stilled and even the dancers froze.
She plucked a goblet from a servant's tray, raising it with a trembling hand. "To you, Sire. Congratulations." Her eyes glistened, not with joy, but with something colder, ancient. "And to the boy who will be known for his strength… and for what he cannot escape."
A ripple of unease passed through the room. Michail's smile faded and his expression hardening. "Bold words, woman. Say them quick, then drink and be merry."
She inclined her head, mocking and sad all at once. "To King Michail Asger, who has his heir at last. May your line endure… should the moon permit it."
The chairs scraped and whispers darted like shadows. The court advisor mouth tightened.
Michail's hand flexed around his goblet until his knuckles whitened. "The moon?" he echoed, voice sharp.
The old woman's lips twisted into a crimson smile, stained by wine. "When the white moon returns, Sire, the crown will remember what it was promised. Steel will bend. Fire will fail." Her gaze flickered, unexpectedly gentle. "And a son will learn that love is a sharper blade than any forged by kings."
Fear slithered through the hall. Some laughed, too loud and too long, desperate to banish the chill that settled in their bones.
"Enough," Michail snarled, his smile gone, eyes like flint. "Guards... feed her, pay her, and take her."
The old woman did not protest as guards approached. She only looked up at Michail, her gaze unwavering. "It's a blessing your son will live long, but blood runs deep, and the blood that cries isn't in your favor, Michail Asger. For your evil deeds you shall be killed by a witch. At the first full moon, she shall be born blind, but beautiful as the moon, enchanting to men and women's eyes. A witch who shall rule Harcadia." She drank deeply, then dashed her goblet to the stones, wine spattering red as spilled blood. "Tomorrow, the prophecy wakes."
"A witch! Seize her!" Michail roared. The guards lunged, but where she'd stood there remained only her shawl, crumpled and empty on the floor.
A raven croaked from above, its voice harsh. Michail's temples throbbed. His advisor leaned close and whispered, barely audible, "Sire… this must not leave these walls."
Michail drew a deep, trembling breath. Then, with a sudden, wild laugh, he unsheathed his sword. Madness flashed in his eyes as he turned on those present. The governors, dancers, nobles, even the servants. His blade rose and fell, silver and red until the only sound was the drip of blood on stone. Only Lyle Halvaric, his advisor, was left alive, standing paralyzed amid the carnage.
The heavy door creaked open. A manservant stumbled in, then fell to his knees, paralyzed by the horror. His body shook so hard he could barely speak.
"I'm sorry, Sire!"
"How dare you barge in?" Michail's voice was a blade.
"There's news... In the villages... It's spread like wildfire..." The servant's eyes darted, wild with terror, unable to look away from the bodies.
"Go ahead," Michail commanded, voice low and deadly.
"A—" the servant's voice broke, trembling. "A... Sire! I dare not!" Michail's sword pressed cold to his throat, forcing him to meet the king's bloodshot gaze. The servant's breath caught, his soul freezing under Michail's stare with the reek of blood thick in his nose.
"Forgive me, Sire. They say a witch will be queen, born with white hair and moon eyes, or else blind. The rumors—"
Michail's heart hammered in his chest. How could the tale have flown so fast? He stared at the bodies at the ruined feast and cold dread spilling into his bones.
"I see? You all!" he roared, his voice cracking with fury and fear. "You..."
"Sire! I—" The servant's words ended in a strangled gasp as his body convulsed and fell limp at his sword.
"I want her dead," Michail spat, voice shaking with panic and rage. "Every child born blind, or at the full moon kill them all!"