The night sky was not meant to look that way.
It was torn open, bleeding red as though some unseen hand had slit the heavens. The moon—once silver, once holy—burned dark crimson, its glow pouring down on the earth like a curse. Wolves howled in terror, owls hid their faces, and even the rivers seemed to still, as if the world itself held its breath.
On that night of unnatural silence, seven children were born.
Not to mothers, not to fathers, not to the warm cradle of human love—but to the shadows themselves. From the graves of kings, from the blood of warriors, from the whispers of dying women, they were shaped. The eclipse birthed them as a mockery of life.
The first to rise was Varrek. His skin was pale, yet within him burned the fire of a hundred pyres. Even as an infant, sparks danced at his fingertips, and the midwives who touched him screamed as their flesh blackened. He opened his mouth and cried, but smoke poured out instead of tears.
The second was Syrath, whose eyes were mirrors that showed not the world but the deepest fears of those who gazed into them. The midwives who dared look ran screaming into the woods, never to be seen again. Syrath's lips curled into the smile of a child who already knew the taste of cruelty.
The third, Kaelith, had a voice that was wrong—too sweet, too soothing. The moment he cried, his mother bent down, kissed his forehead, and willingly slit her own throat, whispering, "Yes, my lord." The others understood then that this child would never need to raise a weapon. His words alone would conquer.
The fourth was Drosan, whose arrival shook the kennels and forests. Wolves, bats, and serpents gathered at the walls of the birthing hut, their eyes glowing. They were drawn not by fear, but obedience. Drosan did not cry. He only lifted his hand, and the animals bowed.
The fifth, Malvora, entered the world with a hiss. Her veins glowed green, filled with venom rather than blood. Every touch she laid upon her nurses left behind sores that rotted in seconds. Her laughter—sharp, cruel—was the last sound her caretakers ever heard before their lungs melted within them.
The sixth was Ithar. His arrival dimmed the lamps, stole the warmth, and filled the hut with the smell of the grave. When he opened his eyes, souls fled from bodies. A priest who tried to bless him collapsed, his spirit trapped in a crystal that formed in the boy's tiny hand. Ithar smiled and clutched it like a toy.
And last came Zephyros. Born during the height of the eclipse, the storm itself bent to him. Winds howled around the hut, lightning scorched the earth, and thunder rattled the mountains. He cried, and the world shook with the voice of a tempest.
The seven were gathered together at dawn, though the sun dared not shine upon them. Cloaked figures came, their faces hidden, chanting of prophecy.
"Seven born of eclipse. Seven to rule the earth. But beware… for one shall rise above the rest, and the others shall fall to ash. The weapon of dawn awaits, and only the Sovereign shall claim it."
The infants did not understand, yet the shadows around them seemed to stir, as though they too listened.
The prophecy had been spoken.
The world would never be the same.