The storm came with the birth.
Thunder shook the marble towers of Valeria's royal palace, rattling stained-glass windows in their golden frames. Wind howled across the ramparts as if the heavens themselves demanded witness. Servants whispered prayers to the gods, clutching charms at their necks, their eyes darting to the sky with every crack of lightning.
Inside the queen's chamber, heat and pain ruled. Anastasia's cries filled the air, her hair clinging to her sweat-soaked brow as midwives urged her to breathe, to push, to endure. King Richard stood nearby, his Golden hair, and blue eyes are confirmation of his royal status, still as carved stone, though his clenched fists betrayed the tremor in his body. He did not look at his wife's face — he could not — but his ears strained at every sound she made.
At last, a new cry pierced the storm.
The midwife lifted the child, her eyes wide with awe. Golden hair shimmered wetly in the torchlight, brighter than the fire itself. The boy's skin glowed with health, his small body strong, and when his eyelids fluttered, twin sapphires peered into the world.
The high priest gasped. He rushed forward, robes dragging against the floor, and held the boy reverently. "Praise be to the Crowned Gods," he whispered, voice trembling. "The prophecy fulfilled."
He turned the child gently, pushing aside the damp curls at the back of the neck. Gasps filled the room.
There, etched into the flesh like an ancient seal, lay the mark: a tiny crown, no larger than a fingernail, glowing faintly with divine light.
The priest fell to his knees, holding the child aloft as though offering him back to the heavens. "Behold! The sign of kings! This is the chosen heir — Kaizen Valor! The golden prince, light of Valeria's line!"
Applause and weeping broke out among the attendants. The midwives bowed their heads. Even the storm seemed to quiet for a heartbeat, as though granting reverence.
Richard's breath left him in a rush. For the first time in hours, his shoulders eased. His voice cracked with relief as he stepped closer, resting his hand on the boy's head. "Kaizen. My son." He turned toward Anastasia, his eyes wet despite his rigid jaw. "Our future. Our crown."
Anastasia, pale and trembling, gathered the boy into her arms when they returned him to her. Tears spilled down her cheeks, but these were sweet tears, born of joy. She kissed his tiny forehead, whispering against his skin, "You are loved, Kaizen. Always."
But the chamber had not yet grown still.
Anastasia's body tensed again, her breath hitching in sudden pain. The midwives exchanged startled looks. One cried out, "Another! Majesty, there is another!"
The room froze.
Richard's head snapped toward the bed, disbelief flickering in his eyes. Twins were rare in Valeria — rare, and dangerous. The prophecy had always spoken of one.
The storm thundered again as the second cry filled the air.
The midwife lifted the child hesitantly. Her face paled. His hair was dark, slick strands clinging to his head. His eyes opened briefly — and where Kaizen's had been blue, this boy's glowed faintly red, as if embers smoldered inside them.
The chamber's joy curdled into unease. Murmurs rippled. The priest stiffened, his mouth tightening.
"Another son," the midwife whispered, though her tone carried fear.
The high priest advanced slowly, his gaze wary. He repeated the ritual, brushing back the child's hair with rigid fingers, searching the back of the neck. His silence grew heavy.
Nothing.
The skin was bare.
The priest's lips pressed thin before he spoke, his voice sharp as the storm outside. "No crown. No divine mark." He lifted his head, eyes burning with severity. "This child is not chosen. He is flaw in the divine design."
Anastasia's heart clenched like a fist. "A flaw?" Her voice trembled, then rose, fierce and wild. She reached for him, snatching him from the priest's hands. "Do not call him that! He is mine! He has my black hair color! He is my son!"
The priest recoiled at her fury, but did not back down. "Majesty, the prophecy speaks clear: one heir shall be born with the crown upon his flesh. To reveal this second child is to reveal imperfection in the royal line. Yes he has your hair, but why does he have red eyes then? The people will not forgive it. They will call him cursed. They will call him a demon. For the sake of Valeria — for the sake of Kaizen — he must be removed."
Anastasia cradled both infants now, Kaizen nestled against one breast, the dark-haired boy against the other. Tears streaked her face. "Both breathe. Both cry. Both live. How dare you say one is worthy and the other is not? What kind of gods condemn a child for the color of his eyes?"
Richard had not moved. His face was carved in shadow, unreadable, but his hands trembled at his sides. His voice came low, hoarse. "Anastasia…"
She looked at him with desperate eyes. "You will not agree with them. Say you will not. Say you will not take him from me."
His gaze lingered on the dark-haired boy, and in his eyes was something raw — grief, sharp and unspoken. But when he spoke, his words cut like steel. "If the people see him, they will see weakness in us. They will doubt Kaizen's crown. They will doubt everything. I… I cannot let that happen."
"You cannot?" Her voice broke, half-sob, half-scream. "You would kill your own son, Richard? Your blood? Look at him! He is no demon. He is a child — our child!"
The priest's voice boomed, drowning her cries. "Majesty, mercy here is cruelty to all! Valeria's throne stands on the perfection of its blood. Without it, the kingdom falls into chaos. Do not let your heart endanger your people."
Anastasia rocked the boy, her tears falling onto his small face. The child whimpered, then quieted against her warmth. She kissed his brow again and again, her body trembling.
"I will not give him up," she whispered. "Not yet. Not tonight." Her voice grew stronger, fueled by desperation. She lifted her head, glaring through tears at priest and king alike. "Two months. Give me two months with him. Then… then I will not resist you. But not tonight. Not tomorrow. Two months."
The chamber went silent. Only the storm answered, lightning flashing across the high windows.
The priest's mouth opened, scandalized. "Majesty, this defies the will of the gods—"
Richard's hand rose, silencing him. His mask of stone did not falter, but his eyes were wet. He looked not at Anastasia, not at the court, but at the boy — his second son. He stood there long and silent, torn between crown and heart, before finally speaking.
"Two months," he said. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, speaking louder. "Two months, and no more. After that… the gods will have their due."
The priest bowed stiffly, anger flashing in his eyes. "So be it. But know that delay is not reprieve. The mark is law. The gods will not be mocked."
Anastasia bent over her children, clutching both to her chest. She pressed her lips to Kaizen's golden head, then to the dark one's brow, her tears dripping into his hair.
"Two months, my little flame," she whispered fiercely. "Two months, and I will love you with all that I am."
Richard turned away, hiding his face in the shadows. His hands bled from where his nails had dug into his palms. He did not let them see.
----
The windows of Queen Anastasia's chamber glistened with rain, and the air was heavy with the scent of lavender oil and smoke from the torches. The queen lay against her pillows, her body weak, her arms full. In one she cradled the golden child, Kaizen, already quiet, already watching the world with solemn blue eyes. Against her other side wriggled the darker child, unnamed, his ember-red gaze darting everywhere, his fists swinging wildly as he squealed.
Anastasia kissed them both, tears spilling down her cheeks. "My sons," she whispered. "Both of you. No matter what the world says."
Kaizen blinked slowly, almost gravely, his small fingers curling around hers as if to anchor her. The other boy let out a sharp cry and kicked against her gown until she pressed him closer, whispering to soothe him. They were different — one calm, one restless — but when she placed them side by side, Kaizen's hand would reach instinctively for his brother's. The tiny fingers clasped, and the dark-haired boy quieted instantly, his mouth breaking into a bubbling laugh.
Every time Anastasia saw it, her heart shattered anew. "They know," she murmured to herself. "They know they belong together."
A maid with brown hair and rich green eyes, lingered nearby, half-hidden in the shadows of the chamber. Only twenty-three, she had been chosen to tend to the second child — not for honor, but because no one else wanted to. Among the palace servants, whispers called him cursed, a blemish on the divine line. But Serenya had always been different.
She was a girl born to common blood, raised in the palace from her thirteenth year. She had no lineage, no wealth, no voice among the nobles — only her work. Ten years of fetching water, scrubbing floors, carrying trays through glittering feasts where she was never truly seen. Her hands were scarred, her back bent from labor. But in her heart, she held a secret tenderness. A longing for something she had never been given: to matter to someone.
The first time Anastasia placed the child in her arms, Serenya expected to feel only fear — fear of the curse, fear of the priest's words. Instead, she felt warmth. His tiny hands clutched at her sleeve, his head pressing against her breastbone, and he looked up at her with those ember eyes. Not cursed. Not monstrous. Just alive.
He laughed — a bright, sudden sound that startled her into a laugh of her own.
"You're trouble," she whispered, pressing her forehead gently to his. "And I think I already love you for it."
From that moment, her heart was opening up.
The weeks that followed were bittersweet.
Kaizen remained the quiet one, content to lie in his cradle, his blue eyes following his brother's every motion. He rarely cried, but when he did, it was always when the darker boy was taken from the room. Whenever Serenya brought him back, Kaizen would reach with unerring certainty, his small fingers seeking out his brother's. And every time, the restless one stilled, giggling as though Kaizen had whispered a joke only he could hear.
Anastasia watched them constantly, her grief stitched into every smile. She adored Kaizen's calm, kissed his brow each night, and whispered prayers for his future. But it was the other one who consumed her heart with pain. She cradled him in secret, kissed his cheeks until he squealed with laughter, and whispered the words she dared not say aloud: "I love you, too."
There were nights when Richard found her with both boys in her arms, her tears dampening their swaddling cloths. He never stayed long. His mask was always stern, but in the faint lamplight she saw his eyes linger too long on the child without the crown. His hands clenched at his sides before he turned away. She knew he loved him. She knew — but love was not enough.
Whenever Richard would see the boy, he'd always go into his study. Alone.
"I'm sorry... I fail as a father. And a King."
He would cry, and he would feel sadness for the boy just born.
And Serenya — oh, Serenya loved him most fiercely of all.
She became his shadow, carrying him through the gardens at dawn, rocking him when he cried, humming old lullabies from her childhood. She whispered secrets to him, half to him, half to herself. "I was no one, once. No crown, no mark, no family. But... nevermind"
When he laughed, she laughed louder. When he sobbed, she pressed him to her chest and promised, "I'm here, little one. I'll always be here."
She began to dread the passing days, counting them like grains of sand slipping from her hands.
The chamber became a haven of fragile joy — laughter, warmth, and two brothers bound by instinct. But the shadow never left. The servants whispered, the court watched, and the priest waited.
On the last evening of the second month, the high priest entered. His robes dragged across the floor, the gold of his crown glinting coldly in the torchlight. His gaze fell on the boy in Serenya's arms — wriggling, squealing, clutching at her braid with a giggle.
Serenya held him tighter, her face pale. The boy laughed again, oblivious, burying his tiny fists into her chest.
The priest's voice broke the fragile warmth like shattering glass. "Majesty," he said, bowing stiffly, "the time you begged for has run its course. The gods demand obedience. At dawn tomorrow, the child without the crown will be taken from this world."
Anastasia gasped, clutching Kaizen as if the words threatened him, too. Her tears spilled instantly, her cries silent but devastating.
Richard, standing behind the priest, said nothing. His jaw was iron, but his eyes betrayed him.
And Serenya — her heart thundered so loud she thought they might hear it. She looked down at the boy in her arms, his ember eyes bright, his smile like sunlight. She had spent two months convincing herself she could bear the inevitable. But in that moment, with the priest's words hanging like a noose, she knew she could not.
Her arms tightened around him. He gurgled happily, pressing his tiny hand against her lips as if silencing her fear.
The night of reckoning had come.
----
Anastasia lay back on her bed, her arms cradling both sons. Her tears had not stopped. They slid silently down her cheeks, dripping into the swaddling cloths. She pressed Kaizen against one breast, the dark-haired child against the other, and whispered broken words into their tiny ears.
"I am sorry," she wept. "I am so sorry. I was not strong enough. I could not change the crown, or the priest, or your father's silence. Forgive me, my little ones."
Her sobs shook her shoulders.
Kaizen stirred, his blue eyes blinking wide. For the first time since his birth, he began to cry — soft at first, then louder, as though his mother's grief had passed into him. His tiny hands clutched at her gown, his voice carrying sorrow he could not understand.
The other child responded differently. His ember eyes opened, and instead of crying, he let out a bubbling laugh — a bright, sudden sound that echoed in the heavy air. He flailed his fists and kicked, squealing as though mocking the darkness that surrounded him.
The contrast broke Anastasia's heart all over again. She bent and kissed Kaizen's head, whispering, "Hush, my crown, it's not your fault." Then she kissed the darker one's brow, whispering, "And you… you laugh even at the end, the end that you don't know. You are stronger than I ever could be."
Her tears fell between them until exhaustion finally claimed her. The queen drifted into restless sleep, her arms locked tightly around both sons.
"im sorry..."
The chamber was still.
The creaking of the door could be heard opening the room.
The maid's bare feet made no sound on the marble floor. Her hands trembled as she reached the bedside, her green eyes glistening with fear. She had not slept all night; her heart had burned with the priest's decree, and she knew she could not let dawn come as commanded.
She gazed at the queen, who slept with tears still on her cheeks. Kaizen lay silent now, his tiny hand gripping his mother's gown. The other child wriggled in her other arm, his ember eyes flicking open to meet hers. When he saw her, he laughed again — soft, delighted, unknowing.
That sound shattered her.
She bent over him, tears spilling down her cheeks, and whispered, "They'll take you from her arms at dawn. They'll smother your flame before it has a chance to burn. I cannot let them. I will not."
Her hands hovered, trembling. Then she steeled herself, sliding him gently from Anastasia's embrace. He stirred, but did not cry. Instead, he pressed his tiny hand against her chest, as though he had chosen her already.
Her breath broke. She pressed her lips to his forehead. "You'll live. If I must run until my feet bleed, you will live."
Clutching him close, she wrapped her cloak around his small body, hiding his face. With one last glance at the queen, she turned and slipped into the shadows.
The storm had ended, but clouds still veiled the moon. She fled through the palace corridors, her steps swift and silent. Past guards who never stirred, past tapestries of golden crowns. Through servants' passages, down stairwells, out into the night.
By the time the horizon began to pale, she was gone — carrying him into exile, into survival, into a life not written for him.
"We will live.... Aiden."
-----
The chamber glowed with pale morning light, its warmth a cruel contrast to the emptiness in Anastasia's arms. She jolted awake with Kaizen pressed against her breast, his tiny body warm, alive, safe. But her other side — her other son — was gone.
Blankets lay twisted where he should have been. The cradle at the foot of her bed was bare. Her hands searched frantically, pulling covers, scattering pillows. "No… no, no, no!" Her voice cracked, rising into a shriek. "Where is he? Where is my son?!"
Kaizen began to wail, his cries sharp, raw, echoing his mother's anguish. Anastasia clutched him tightly but stumbled from the bed, bare feet striking cold marble. She flung open the chamber doors, her voice carrying down the corridors.
"Richard!"
The king was in the council room, bent over scrolls with sleepless eyes, when she burst in. Her hair was wild, her nightgown clinging to her damp with sweat and tears, Kaizen wailing in her arms. Guards at the door flinched at the sight.
"Where is he?!" she screamed, her voice ragged. "Tell me they did not take him in the night! Tell me they did not kill him!"
Richard spun, stricken. "What—?" He strode forward, his mask of stone shattering at the terror in her voice. "No. I gave no order. The priest swore dawn would be the hour. Anastasia—he is not dead."
Her knees nearly gave out. Relief crashed into her like a wave, but it was laced with panic. "Then where?" Her tears blurred her sight. "He was in my arms, Richard! Both of them, sleeping against me, and now—now he is gone!"
Richard's jaw clenched. He turned to the guards at the door. "Search the palace. Every hall, every chamber, every servant's passage. Find him!"
The guards bowed and scattered, but Anastasia knew. Deep down, she already knew.
She staggered back to her chambers, Kaizen's cries muffled against her shoulder. The bed was as she had left it — one side warm with her golden child, the other empty, irrevocably empty.
Her legs gave way, and she sank to the floor, rocking Kaizen and sobbing into his hair. "Gone," she whispered. "He's gone."
For a long time she sat there, her grief rolling through her in waves until only a hollow ache remained. And in that hollow space, a thought took root.
Perhaps this is mercy.
Her tears slowed as she stared at the empty cradle. If he is gone, if someone has taken him… then at least he will not die by priestly hands. At least his blood will not stain these floors. At least… he will live.
A broken laugh tore from her throat, wild and shaking. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, this is better." She pressed Kaizen to her chest, kissing his golden head as her tears wet his hair. "Your brother is gone, but he is not dead. Wherever he is… he is free."
She lifted her head suddenly. "Serenya!" she called. "Bring me his swaddle! Bring me his blanket—"
No answer.
"Serenya!" Her voice grew desperate, echoing against the marble walls. She called again and again, but the chamber remained silent.
The realization came like a blade sliding into her chest. She looked at the cradle, at the blankets, at the space where the maid always sat. Empty.
Anastasia began to laugh through her tears. It was soft at first, then bitter, then tender again. "You," she whispered, a smile trembling on her lips. "It was you."
Of course it was Serenya. The girl with the green eyes who had cradled him as if he were her own, who had sung to him when no one else dared. The one who smiled when he laughed, who whispered secrets to him in the dark.
"You stole him," Anastasia murmured, almost lovingly. "You foolish, brave girl. You could not watch him die."
Kaizen hiccupped softly against her chest, his cries fading into uneasy silence. Anastasia rocked him, her eyes fixed on the empty cradle, her voice breaking one final time.
"Live well," she whispered into the quiet.
And though her arms held only one child, her heart prayed for two.