The newborn's cry split the dawn like a fragile oath. Wrapped in linen against the cool of the birthing chamber, the baby's fists opened and closed, unaware of crowns or curses. His mother kept him close, pale and exhausted, hair damp with sweat, yet her eyes shone with fierce love as she smoothed the blanket.
Footsteps approached — measured, regal. Darma Lesmana, King of the Kaerion Gods, entered and, when she offered the child, took the small weight with practiced gentleness. For a moment something in his face shifted; a shadow as swift as a thought. He felt an odd presence — a chill beneath warmth — but Darma set it aside. He would not let omen alone define his son.
The queen rose, wounds of childbirth closing like slow-lidded stars. Arm in arm, they walked toward the Tower of Kaerion Origins. Below its stone ribs a vast assembly waited: humans, gods, and other races bound to Kaerion legend. Their voices rose: "Hail, Lord Darma Lesmana!" The chant folded like tide.
Darma lifted the child high and light from the tower's sigils played across his face. Then, as if summoned from the tower's memory, a figure resolved — not flesh but a manifestation. The Founder of the Kaerion Origins stood, and the assembly bowed.
"My lord," the apparition intoned. "This son is no ordinary heir. He is the blending of your holy line and the demonic seed of Velrathis. He carries both Kaerion legacy and Velrathis shadow. I beseech you: prevent this. Kill him now, lest you summon calamity."
Silence fell. Murmurs stuttered. "I will not slay my son," Darma said. "What ruler destroys his own blood because it fails a lineage's ideal?"
"KILL HIM NOW," the founder thundered. Confusion rippled through the crowd.
Before the founder could press further, the queen moved. Her arms flared with sudden light. She charged at the spectral figure, voice raw with devotion, and the manifestation faltered. With a sound like wind closing doors, the founder vanished. Where legend had stood only the tower's cold air remained, heavy and expectant.
Around the ring, eyes watched in different languages. Some crossed themselves; elders spat to ward off omen. A few leaned forward as if to touch destiny. The child's skin bore no obvious mark, yet a tiny dark fleck in one eye caught the sigil-light like a secret ember. Wherever the boy's shadow pooled, the air tasted faintly of ash.
Darma closed his fingers tighter. The queen's chest heaved; she met the vanished accusation as one meets a blade. "He will live," she said, not merely defiance but promise. Around them the crowd exhaled in waves. The tower's runes hummed, as if listening. This night would be told and retold — some as warning, others as prophecy. For now, the newborn slept on, held safe between two sovereign hands whose choice would echo through the seven realms.
A temple-priest edged forward, robes whispering, eyes narrowed as if reading runes in the air. He offered a trembling benediction, but his voice barely carried. Above the tower, clouds scudded and a low thunder answered like a distant drum; the scent of incense mixed with something metallic, a faint tang that set teeth on edge.
Among the crowd, faces shifted — some to stone, others to pity. A woman from Ormythos pressed her palms together until the knuckles shone white. A young godling tried to joke and failed. A child pointed, wide-eyed. Darma felt the pressure of those gazes; fear breeds decrees and exile faster than thunder storms.
He looked down: the infant's chest rose in small, steady waves. A tiny dark fleck in one iris flashed like an ember when light struck it. The presence within the boy felt not purely malignant to Darma, but sharp — like a storm waiting to be named. The king's hand tightened around the infant, not in anger but in resolve.
The queen met him with a smile that was all steel and softness. "He will live," she said. It was promise enough for now. Around them, the crowd exhaled; the tower's runes thrummed as if listening. This night would become tale — a warning to some, prophecy to others. But at the center of that tale slept a child, held by two sovereign hands that chose life over fear. The choice had been made; history would judge them later.