The wastelands stretched endlessly under the pale light of the lingering star. Rocks jutted like broken teeth from the barren earth, and the wind carried only dust and silence. No birds sang, no beasts prowled. It was a land that swallowed life whole.
And in the midst of it, a newborn cried.
Wrapped in thin cloth, the abandoned prince lay helpless upon the cold ground. His tiny fists flailed weakly, and his voice cracked from the effort of crying. Each breath was a battle, each moment a struggle against the chill creeping into his fragile body.
Above him, the last star still glowed, as if refusing to leave him in darkness. Its light spilled gently across the wasteland, wrapping the infant in a faint silver glow.
But light alone could not feed him.
Hours passed. His cries grew hoarse. His body weakened. And yet, he did not fall silent. It was as though something deep within him refused to let go, as though the broken star upon his chest beat with more than mortal strength.
At last, a shadow appeared at the edge of the wasteland.
A wanderer trudged through the dust, her cloak torn from travel, a sword strapped across her back. Her steps were heavy, as if she had been walking for days without rest. She should not have been there. Few dared to cross these desolate lands. Yet fate, in its quiet cruelty, had guided her to this place.
She froze when she heard the sound. A child's cry.
At first she thought it a trick of the wind. But as she drew closer, the sound sharpened, raw and desperate. She pushed aside a jagged rock and found him — the infant prince, glowing faintly under the star's light.
Her breath caught.
"A baby… here?"
She knelt, lifting him gently into her arms. His skin was cold, his cries weak, but his tiny chest still rose and fell with stubborn rhythm. She pulled back the cloth and gasped when she saw the mark.
The sigil of the broken star pulsed faintly, silver light searing against the darkness. She had seen many strange things in her travels, but nothing like this.
"Cursed," she whispered, echoing the word the priests had spoken in the palace far away. For a moment, she hesitated. To carry such a child might invite misfortune. The stories of cursed children and ruined kingdoms were known even in distant lands.
But then the infant's hand brushed against her finger, grasping it with surprising strength. His cry, faint though it was, pierced her hesitation.
The wanderer exhaled slowly. "If the world has abandoned you, then perhaps it is not the world that will decide your fate."
She wrapped him tighter in her cloak, shielding him from the wind. Then, with a final glance at the glowing star above, she turned and walked deeper into the wasteland.
That night, as the cursed child slept against the stranger's chest, the mark on his skin dimmed but did not vanish. It pulsed steadily, like a second heartbeat, a quiet reminder that his story was only beginning.
And so the infant who had been cast away by kings found a new protector in the most unlikely of wanderers. Neither of them knew what destiny awaited, nor how the sigil upon his chest would shape the years to come.
But beneath the cold stars and endless silence, a fragile bond was formed —
a bond that would one day shake empires.