The night the prince was born, the heavens bled.
From horizon to horizon, stars fell like rain, their fiery trails tearing across the skies of the Azure Dominion. The earth trembled under the force of the celestial storm. In the capital, the palace bells rang in panic, summoning priests, generals, and nobles to witness what many whispered was the end of the world.
Inside the royal chambers, the queen's cries echoed against the marble walls. Sweat drenched her face as she clutched the silken sheets, her body trembling with pain and fear. Servants rushed back and forth, midwives bent over her, and the High Priest himself stood at the edge of the chamber, chanting prayers to the heavens.
A baby's cry split the night. High and piercing, it silenced every voice in the chamber.
The child had come into the world.
But as the midwife lifted him, gasps of horror filled the room. Upon the newborn's chest, glowing faintly, was a sigil: a star split in two, etched in light that pulsed like a heartbeat. The glow illuminated the chamber with an eerie silver, unnatural and divine.
The High Priest staggered back, his staff clattering against the floor. His lips moved soundlessly before the words burst out, trembling with dread.
"Your Majesty… this is the Mark of Ruin. The child is cursed. His existence will bring calamity to the empire."
The queen's exhausted eyes widened. She reached out with trembling arms, clutching the baby against her chest. His wails softened as he pressed against her warmth. Her tears fell freely, dripping onto his tiny face.
"No… he is my son. How can my child be cursed?"
But the king, sovereign of the Azure Dominion and conqueror of nations, did not weep. His eyes, sharp as blades, fixed on the glowing sigil. He saw not a child, not an heir, but an omen.
He rose slowly from his seat at the side of the chamber. His crimson robe trailed across the polished floor, and with each step the air seemed to grow colder.
"No son of mine bears the brand of destruction," he said. His voice was calm, yet each word cut like steel. "He is disaster wrapped in flesh. If this child lives, kingdoms will burn."
The queen's arms tightened protectively. "Please, my lord—he is innocent!"
But innocence meant nothing to kings and priests who feared prophecy more than they loved blood. The High Priest dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground.
"The omens are clear. For the safety of the empire, the cursed child must be cast away."
The decision was made. The order was swift.
That night, while the city still cowered under a sky of falling stars, the infant prince was carried out of the palace. Wrapped in cloth, he was taken beyond the city gates, beyond the walls that had stood for centuries, and left in the desolate wastelands where even wolves did not linger.
He was abandoned. Nameless. Forgotten.
The world had already judged him guilty before he could even draw his first breath of freedom.
And yet… the heavens had not finished with him.
Above the wastelands, the storm of stars finally stilled. The night grew silent, heavy with an unspoken promise. In the sky, one last star burned brighter than all the rest. It lingered, refusing to fade, casting its pale light directly upon the crying child.
In that light, the sigil on his chest pulsed again—a slow, steady rhythm, like a second heartbeat. Power ancient and unknowable stirred within his fragile body, defying death, defying fate.
Though cast aside by man, though cursed by priests, though rejected by his own father, the child endured. His cries did not fade. His tiny fists clenched as if grasping at life itself.
One day, the world would remember this night. One day, the forgotten infant would rise.
The people would call him cursed. The kings would call him enemy. The gods themselves would call him heretic.
But to the stars above, he
was chosen.
The Cursed Star Child had been born.