Part 1 – A Royal Crib, Minus the Love
Silk blankets. Golden rattles. A cradle carved from white crystal, polished so smooth it reflected the flicker of candlelight like a mirror.
Ah yes, the noble life.
From the outside, my crib looked like a fairy tale. Nobles who visited the Duke's manor would peek in, smile politely, and remark on how "fortunate" I was. "The heir of a mighty house," they'd say. "Surrounded by luxury since the day of his birth."
From the inside, however, it was a prison with better cushions.
The maids bowed with grace, their voices sweet but hollow. The butler managed every detail of my schedule like I was livestock to be fattened for auction. The wet nurse ensured I didn't starve, but her eyes never softened—not even once.
Warmth? Affection? A mother's lullaby? Forget it.
I was less a child and more a political ornament, an object to be displayed when useful and hidden when inconvenient.
And sometimes, when they thought I was too young to understand, I'd catch the whispers:
"Poor thing. To be born on the Crimson Moon…"
"Cursed child. His own mother won't even look at him."
"Better if he hadn't been born at all."
I couldn't form words, but my mind was plenty sharp. So I just lay there drooling, staring at the canopy above me, thinking: Wow, thanks for the motivational speeches. Really nurturing my self-esteem here.
Luxury without love. That was my inheritance.
And somehow, that stung more than poverty ever could.
Part 2 – The Emperor's Shadow
Even as a baby, I noticed it—the shift in the air whenever his name was spoken.
The Emperor. My dear uncle.
His shadow loomed over every hallway of the Duke's estate, though he rarely bothered to visit. It was in the way servants stiffened when they heard his title, how conversations fell into uneasy silence. Even the priests lowered their voices when his name passed their lips.
And the whispers always returned to the same refrain:
"The Emperor already has an heir."
"Why would he care for the Duke's brat?"
"This child… he's only a reminder."
A reminder of what?
The pieces weren't hard to put together. My father had been the Duke—respected, powerful, beloved by his people. My uncle had sent him to war, and Father never returned.
Which left me: an inconvenient byproduct of their feud.
Not an heir. Not even a spare. Just… an error.
And I understood that much, even before I could speak. If I could've, I'd have said: So basically, I'm the human equivalent of a paper jam. The kind you keep hitting "cancel" on but it never goes away.
Part 3 – Mother's Smile, Never His
My mother was beautiful—everyone said so. White hair like snow. Eyes bluer than ice. Skin so pale it seemed carved from porcelain. A goddess draped in silks, untouchable, untarnished.
Beautiful—and utterly unreachable.
When she looked at me, her gaze was empty stone. No warmth, no hint of affection. Sometimes, even disgust. As if my very existence was a blemish on her perfect life.
But when the Emperor visited?
The transformation was unbearable.
Her cheeks flushed pink at his presence. Her lips curved in laughter. Her eyes glistened with admiration as though he'd hung the moon himself. When he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, she leaned into the touch as though starved for it.
She looked like a bride basking in her husband's affection, not a widow mourning the man she'd supposedly loved.
And there I sat, chewing on my fingers like a fool, watching her glow with joy and thinking: So that's what it takes to make her smile. Being him.
A newborn shouldn't understand betrayal. But I did. And it burned deeper than any lullaby could soothe.
Part 4 – The Forgotten Son
By the time I turned five, I could walk, talk, and think like a person again. Which, as it turned out, was both blessing and curse.
Because that was the year the Empire celebrated the birth of another child.
Not me. Her.
My mother gave the Emperor a daughter. A beautiful little princess, born in chambers lined with silk, welcomed with cheers and fireworks.
The entire capital rejoiced. Music spilled into the streets. Nobles feasted for days on end. Even peasants were thrown scraps of bread and wine, so they too could celebrate the "blessing" of the royal child.
And me?
I wasn't invited.
While the city toasted the Emperor's daughter, I sat alone in my quarters. The only feast I received was a stale biscuit, pressed into my hand by a maid with pity in her eyes.
The muffled sounds of laughter and song seeped through the walls, each cheer like a nail hammered deeper into my chest: I wasn't family. I wasn't wanted.
I stared at the biscuit, its dry crumbs sticking to my lips, and thought: I'm basically the free-trial version of a child. Nobody bothers to renew the subscription once the premium heir arrives.
Part 5 – Decline of the Duke's Land
It wasn't only me they abandoned. It was the land too.
The Duke's territory—my inheritance—was being strangled to death, one decree at a time.
The Emperor appointed governors to "manage" it, and manage it they did—straight into ruin. Taxes soared. Roads cracked. Farms failed. Trade dried up. Peasants starved while officials sipped imported wine from golden goblets.
I overheard the butlers muttering in dim hallways. I glimpsed farmers begging outside the manor gates, their ribs visible beneath ragged clothes. I heard soldiers curse their halved wages while sharpening rusting blades.
I may have been a child, but I wasn't blind. This wasn't mismanagement. It was sabotage.
My uncle wasn't just stealing my mother. He was dismantling my future.
And the worst part? Everyone accepted it. My mother. The court. Even the priests, who had once labeled me cursed, now dismissed me altogether.
That was the moment I realized: if I wanted to survive, I couldn't wait for anyone to save me.
I'd have to save myself.
Part 6 – The Boiling Point
That night, lying in my oversized bed with silk sheets that felt more like shackles, I made my first true vow in this world.
I was born cursed. I was born unwanted. I was born beneath a crimson moon that marked me for death.
But curses… curses could be turned into weapons.
Let them laugh. Let them sneer. Let my mother smile only for him.
Because one day, they'd regret it.
One day, they'd kneel.
For now, I was just a child. Small. Powerless. Drooling in my sleep.
But in the quiet of the night, with only the moonlight bearing witness, I smiled bitterly to myself and thought:
Too bad no one suspects the drooling toddler is plotting their downfall....