The sky was bleeding.
It wasn't just a poetic metaphor whispered by drunkards in dim taverns, but a bloody truth—visible to every eye that dared to look upward.
Above the vast Valerion Empire, there were no stars to guide the lost, no silver moon to comfort the lonely.
Instead, a great crimson gem hung in the blackness of the sky—an infernal eye gazing down upon the world with disdain.
It was a blood eclipse, one unlike any ever recorded in annals or etched into the walls of forgotten temples.
It looked as though a deep wound had been torn into the body of night, and all that remained was clotted blood.
On the earth below, nature itself screamed in agony.
Winds howled—not with the chill of winter nor the warmth of summer, but with the cold of graves and the scent of earth drenched in fear.
They lashed against the towering spires of the imperial palace like ghostly hands, slipping through the cracks of massive windows to release shrill whistles that sounded like the wails of tormented spirits.
The ancient pines of the royal gardens bent until their crowns nearly touched the ground, bowing in terror to the blood moon.
And from afar, thunder did not rumble like the drums of war, but cracked like the bones of a giant slowly breaking.
In the heart of the capital, the bells of the Grand Church of Light tolled.
They were not celebratory, nor even warnings, but frantic, desperate tolls—chaotic, as if rung by a madman trying to banish unseen evil with sheer noise.
Each strike landed like an iron hammer upon the city's chest, sending waves of panic into the hearts of its people, who barred their doors and windows, huddling their children into dark corners, whispering ancient prayers they had long forgotten.
They felt it in the air, in the taste of water, in the trembling silence…
Something would be born this night.
Something that did not belong to this world.
The imperial palace, that massive stone beast slumbering in the city's core, was the center of this cosmic storm.
And in its deepest, most opulent chamber, a scream tore through the heavy air.
Not a scream of fear—but of agony. The agony of creation and birth.
Inside the Empress's chamber, the atmosphere was even more terrifying than the storm outside.
Hundreds of candles flickered violently with every invading draft, their golden flames casting long, writhing shadows upon marble walls—shadows twisted like demonic specters preparing to witness a dark rite.
The thick scent of incense, mingled with burning herbs, clung oppressively to the air, a futile attempt to mask the dominant scent—the metallic, warm tang of blood.
The Empress, Serena Valeris, lay upon a grand ebony bed, its white silk sheets stained with crimson and sweat.
The beauty sung of by poets had drained from her face, leaving her pale as a corpse, her wide blue eyes drowning in pain and dread.
Her golden hair clung damply to her brow, every breath she drew a ragged gasp.
Her hands clenched so tightly that her knuckles turned white, her body trembling with each wave of labor tearing through her flesh.
Around her, there were no smiling maids with soft encouragements.
Instead, stood aged midwives, their faces carved into grim masks, their hands—once instruments of healing—visibly shaking.
They muttered hushed prayers, eyes darting constantly to the darkest corner of the room.
There, like a statue of black granite, stood Cardinal Theron, head of the Grand Church of Light.
He was clad in full scarlet and gold vestments, yet no brilliance could pierce the icy aura surrounding him.
His face was gaunt, furrowed with merciless lines, his sharp, narrow eyes gleaming with fanatic light under the candles.
In his hand, a rosary of polished black beads ran swiftly through his fingers, his lips moving in a silent, fervent prayer.
Beside him stood two priests, holding a censer spilling thick white smoke, and ancient scrolls of human skin—rumored to have been inscribed to banish "original sins."
Their presence in a royal birthing chamber was unnatural.
But all signs had pointed to disaster.
A week earlier, the royal seer collapsed while prophesying the "birth of a star of blood that would drink the world's light."
The imperial astrologers whispered in trembling voices that the stars had vanished, and that such an eclipse had not been seen since the First Demon War.
The church had not come to bless the child—but to witness a curse. Perhaps even to purge it.
On a small altar hastily erected in the chamber, a fresh bloodstain remained.
They had sacrificed a pure white lamb only hours earlier, a desperate plea to any heavenly power that might listen.
But the lamb's blood had turned black unnaturally fast, and the storm outside had only grown fiercer, as if the heavens mocked their feeble rituals.
"It's coming! The head is crowning!" cried one of the midwives, her voice hoarse, thick with fear and anticipation.
Cardinal Theron froze, his fingers stilling on the rosary.
His gaze narrowed toward the bed.
The priests beside him shifted forward, as though preparing to face an unseen enemy.
A final scream tore from the Empress's throat—long, sharp, ripping, carrying the agony of the world itself.
It struck in perfect unison with a thunderclap that shook the palace foundations, and half the candles snuffed out at once, drowning the chamber in dreadful half-darkness.
Then—silence.
Heavier than lead. More terrifying than screams.
The winds ceased their howling.
The bells fell silent.
Even the breaths of those within seemed trapped in their lungs.
In that dreadful silence, a new sound rose.
Not the frail cry of a helpless infant.
But sharp, clear, terrifyingly strong.
It was not a plea for care, but a declaration of existence.
The chief midwife, trembling, severed the cord as though cutting the fuse of a bomb.
She wrapped the newborn in white silk—but when she turned to present it, she froze.
Her jaw fell slack, her eyes wide with absolute terror. She staggered backward, step by step, until the bundle slipped from her hands to the blood-stained floor.
"What?" Cardinal Theron rasped, stepping forward cautiously.
"Show me the child!"
The midwife could not speak.
She only raised a trembling hand toward the bed, where the newborn lay amidst warmth and blood.
Theron advanced, flanked by the priests.
And when their eyes fell upon the third princess of Valerion, they gasped in unison—a cold, horrified sound.
There was no golden hair like her mother's, nor black like her father's.
Instead, short locks of pure white crowned her small head—white as untouched snow, as the bones of the dead bleached under the sun.
Hair that shimmered with a strange silvery glow under the dim light, like strands of powdered moonlight in a lightless night.
But it was not the hair that froze their blood.
Slowly, the newborn opened her eyes.
Not blue, nor brown, nor green. But crimson.
Irises the color of fresh blood, cursed rubies, burning embers from the heart of hell.
They were not the blank, innocent eyes of a newborn.
They carried a calm, deep, terrifying awareness.
A gaze that pierced their souls, read their sins, and knew truths no human should know.
She stared directly at the Cardinal, unblinking, as though truly seeing him.
Theron recoiled, stumbling back, nearly tripping over his robes.
His face twisted into pure horror as he raised a trembling hand to trace the sacred star in the air.
"The curse… she bears the curse!" he choked.
"The hair of the dead moon, the eyes of eternal blood… She is the Daughter of Sin!"
"She's a monster! A demon in human flesh!" shrieked one of the priests.
As if those words shattered the silence, the storm roared back to life with double fury.
Lightning struck near the palace, flashing the room in a single instant of pale fire—long enough for them to see the Cardinal's terrified reflection in the child's crimson eyes.
The Empress collapsed into hopeless sobs—not of joy, but of dread at what she had birthed.
The midwives prayed loudly, the priests trembling as they raised sacred symbols toward the infant, who gazed at them all with eerie calm—her silence more horrifying than any scream.
And amid the chaos, the great doors of the chamber opened slowly, soundlessly.
A cold draft swept in, extinguishing the last of the candles, drowning them in near-total darkness, broken only by the sinister red glow of the eclipse beyond the window.
A tall, imposing shadow stood at the threshold—absorbing the light around it.
It did not need to speak.
Its mere presence silenced the terrified priests, froze the Empress's tears, and stilled every movement in the room.
The Emperor had arrived.
His heavy, unreadable gaze fell directly upon the small creature with white hair and crimson eyes—lying amidst the chaos born of its very existence.
Thus was Eletha Valeris, the third princess, brought into the world—
born in a night of blood and fire.
Her birth was not the beginning of life, but the beginning of an end.