Dawn touched the Third Emperor's palace. Light spilled over tiled roofs and painted walls;
gilding dragons and phoenixes carved into the eaves. Yet the north wing lay heavy with silence.
Seven hallways. One staircase thick with carpet. At the end, the birthing chamber waited.
Paper lanterns floated above the bed, painted with war, harvest, and judgment. Blue light
spilled through silk curtains, pale as frost. The Empress gripped the bedding until her knuckles
whitened. Sweat streaked her face, damp hair clinging in strands.
Two midwives hovered, one old, one young, moving like worshipers at an altar. At the foot of
the bed, the senior physician stood poised, hands steady, trained for kings and condemned
alike. Silent attendants poured water, readied the cloth, and trimmed the candlewicks. No one
spoke a word. Even breath felt borrowed.
The labor stretched through the night. Screams ripped the chamber raw, then quieted to
shallow breaths. At the seventh bell, the Empress arched her back. Her cry split the silence,
sharp as steel. The younger midwife froze, but the elder caught the child in a white cloth and
gently laid her in the mother's arms.
Time stopped. The Empress stared down at the small, trembling body. A daughter. Alive! Her lips
brushed the damp brow. Above the left ear, a dark birthmark shaped like a drop of ink. Her
thumb lingered on it, rubbing again and again.
"Bring the cradle," she whispered.
A servant stepped forward with a basket of gold-lined reeds, lined with lambs' wool soft as a
cloud. The Empress placed her daughter inside. Drained, she fell back, her heart torn between
loss and gain.
The chamber shifted. Clothes cleared. Basins lifted. The physician scribbled notes in his record.
The Empress drifted, half in sleep, half tethered by pain.
Then the air changed. A low hum stirred the curtains. Lanterns shook, flames bending sideways as though in a storm.
The elder midwife froze mid-step, eyes wide. The newborn's gaze, dark and steady, stared at
something beyond the room.
Above the cradle, a spark appeared. No larger than a firefly, orange and pulsing, alive. Servants
fell to their knees, muttering prayers. The physician's brush slipped from his hand, ink blotting
the page like spilled blood.
The spark grew. Sparks spun like constellations. Mist poured from the corners of the chamber,
rising against gravity, circling the cradle like smoke caught in invisible hands. Then it struck
downward.
The elder midwife stumbled, knocking over a copper basin with a crash. The physician clutched
his prayer beads. One servant covered her mouth to smother a scream. The Empress, too weak
to rise, could only watch in terror.
Flames wrapped the infant. The child cried, small fists clenched, yet the fire did not burn her. It
coiled around her like a serpent, then shrank into a sphere of gold and bronze hovering above
her chest. It pulsed once, twice, thrice, before sinking into her skin.
Her cry softened. The chamber reeked of old iron, smoke, and incense. When the Empress drew
The cradle closer, a faint heart-shaped mark glowed warm on the baby's chest.
The child stared back with impossible calm, her eyes deep and ancient. For a moment, the
Empress felt the entire world tilt toward her daughter, as though heaven itself had bent.
The servants cowered, making warning signs with trembling hands. The elder midwife
whispered, "By the ancestors… the fire has chosen."
Above the cradle, the ember flickered again, bright and watchful, before dissolving into air.
Shadows stretched unnaturally across the walls. None dared speak the truth aloud. Never in the
empire's history had fire marked a child. And never, not once, a daughter.
The Empress held her close, her pulse racing, yet she could not look away. The fire had chosen
her daughter. Nothing in heaven or earth would remain the same.
Far beyond the chamber, in the ruins of the Jade Spire, an echo stirred. The Dragon King's
golden heart, cast free with his last roar, beat once, then twice, before sinking into silence. It
had found its vessel.