The shadow that fell across the wing's doorway was more than an absence of light.
It was an entity in itself — a heavy, pressing presence that sucked the warmth from the room and stilled the priests' noisy panic, replacing it with a silent, cold, deeper fear.
The very air froze, and the motes of dust that had been dancing in the crimson light leaking through the window seemed to pause mid-dance, suspended in time.
Then the shadow stepped in and took the shape of a man.
He was Emperor Caius Valeris.
He wore no jewel-encrusted crown, no velvet cloak trailing behind him.
His clothing was brutally practical: a dark treated-leather jerkin snug over a black linen shirt, thick trousers tucked into high leather boots that rose to his knees — boots so soundless on the polished marble they might have trod broken glass without a scratch.
Only one metal ornament marked him: a simple black-iron ring on his finger, said to have been forged from the first sword he broke in his first battle as a boy.
He stood towering, broad as a castle wall; every muscle in his body seemed carved by years of war and hardness, not palace comforts.
But what made everyone hold their breath was not his body, but his face.
It was as if hewn from the stone of northern peaks — severe, harsh, with no room for mercy.
A thin white scar ran from the corner of his left brow and vanished into his cropped black hair, where pale strands were already silvering at the temples.
His skin was pulled tight over prominent cheekbones, and his eyes… they were deeper and darker than a moonless night.
They showed neither rage nor sorrow nor any readable human feeling.
They were an icy void — eyes that regarded the world like chess pieces on a board, calculating every possible move and outcome with an inhuman cold.
He did not look at his wife collapsed and weeping on the bed, nor at the midwives pressed against the walls as if trying to melt into them.
He did not even glance at Cardinal Theron, who represented the most powerful authority in the Empire after him.
All the weight of his gaze, all the focus of that terrifying presence, was fixed on the small, bloodstained bundle lying on the silk sheets.
The silence in the chamber could crush bone.
No one dared to breathe.
The sound of their heartbeats was the only noise — a noise they were sure the Emperor could hear.
Finally, Cardinal Theron broke the oppressive stillness.
His voice, which a few minutes earlier had thundered with authority, was now hoarse and wavering, driven by an almost fanatical sense of duty.
"Your Majesty…" the Cardinal began, each word an effort.
"We have witnessed tonight…the birth of an omen."
The Emperor did not move.
He did not even blink.
His presence forced the Cardinal to continue, to justify himself.
Theron gathered his courage and took a cautious step forward, raising his trembling hand toward the child.
"Look, Your Majesty! The signs are as written in the tomes of shadow. Hair like the color of bones, and eyes the color of sin. She was born beneath the blood moon on a night the sky itself cried out. This is not of your blood…this is a seed of the abyss planted within the sacred royal womb to be our end!"
His voice sharpened with each word and some of his former zeal returned.
"The holy scriptures warn us! They say the Gate of Desolation will open by the hand of a child of great blood who bears heaven's curse. This is she! She is abomination! She must be purified by sacred fire before her curse takes root in these halls, before she brings shame and ruin upon the great Valeris line!"
"Kill her!" cried the younger priest behind the Cardinal — a rash command immediately hushed by a cold sideways glance from Theron, who realized he had overstepped.
But the word had been spoken. "Kill her." It echoed in the silence — a monstrous demand aimed at a child who had drawn breath for only minutes.
Only then did Emperor Caius move.
His motion was slow and deliberate. He turned his head with extreme slowness toward Cardinal Theron.
His features did not change, but the cold in his eyes deepened into a frost that could burn the soul.
The Cardinal — a man who made kings and dukes tremble — felt a quiver run through his spine and suddenly understood that his fine vestments offered no protection against that look.
"You command me…in my palace…to kill one of my blood?"
His voice was not loud. It was calm, deep, with a low tone like great stones grinding together in the earth's depths.
Each syllable carried the weight of a thousand battles and a thousand death sentences.
It was not a question but a delineation of the limits of authority.
Theron stammered and took a step back.
"Your Majesty, I do not command… I beg. In the name of the Light, and of the future of this empire…"
The Emperor ignored him, as if the Cardinal had ceased to exist.
He moved finally from the doorway and advanced toward the bed. His steps were heavy and steady.
Each fall of his boot upon the marble sounded like a hammer upon a heart awaiting judgment.
He passed the priests who bowed quickly, faces drained pale with fear. He did not look at them.
He stood beside the bed, looming like a black tower, and looked down.
The scene was surreal.
The most fearsome, largest man in the world looking upon the smallest, weakest creature in the room.
The child, Eletha, lay quietly and was no longer crying.
Her crimson eyes were wide and fixed upon his face.
There was in them neither infantile fear nor childish curiosity.
There was a piercing, calm look, as though she saw beyond scars and coldness, as though she read the bloody history carved into his soul.
The Emperor bent slowly — a smooth, powerful movement like a predator leaning over prey.
His face neared hers until only an inch separated them.
All saw his stern reflection in her little red eyes.
The world held its breath.
His huge hand — the hand that had crushed enemies' throats and drawn the empire's borders with blood — rose slowly. Everyone thought he would strangle her, end this horror with a single touch.
But he did not touch her.
He remained so for a full minute that seemed an age. He studied her.
He analyzed her.
He saw the white hair as threads of fate and the crimson eyes as glowing coals of some legendary fire.
He did not see the curse the priests proclaimed, nor did he see simply his child as any father might.
He saw something else — something alien, something dangerous, and perhaps… something useful.
He saw in her a distorted reflection of something inside himself: isolation, an unfathomable power, the ability to inspire terror by merely existing.
At last he straightened slowly and turned his back to the room.
A suffocating silence reigned while he stared into the dim hearth-fire across the chamber.
Then he spoke; his voice rolled through every corner, decisive as a sword's edge.
"She is of my blood. She bears the name Valeris."
He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping the room and pinning everyone like nails of ice.
"Curses, prophecies, a ruler's whispers… they answer to my will within these walls. Nothing in this Empire happens without my leave. No one of my blood is slain without my command."
His eyes rested on Cardinal Theron, who wore a mixture of anger, humiliation, and impotence on his face.
"She will live. She will remain here, within this palace, under my eyes. I will watch her. I will see for myself the truth of this so-called 'curse' you speak of. I will decide her fate when the time comes. Not before."
His words were law — not open to debate.
Then, in the same quiet, lethal voice, he began issuing orders.
"Midwives, clean the child and prepare her crib. Speak one word of what you have seen tonight outside this room, and your tongues will be cut out."
"Guards," he said, and as if summoned they appeared at the door, "this wing will be sealed. No one enters or leaves without my personal permission."
Finally, he turned to the priests.
"As for you… your work here is done. Return to your temple and pray. Pray that your gods grant you wisdom so you will not challenge your Emperor's decree again."
It was a clear insult — a humiliating dismissal. The Cardinal's face flushed with rage, but he bowed deeply, lips trembling.
"As you command, Your Majesty."
The priests departed quickly, their cassocks trailing, carrying with them the scent of incense and defeat.
Emperor Caius remained alone with his weeping wife, the trembling midwives, and the silent child.
He cast one last long, unreadable look at the newborn with white hair. It was not a father's look to his child, but a jailer's look at a unique prisoner, a scholar's look at a dangerous wonder, a king's look at a new piece on the board — a piece that might win him the world… or burn it to ash.
Then he turned and left without another word, his shadow vanishing into the palace corridors, leaving behind a deeper silence, a sharper chill, and the fate of a cursed princess hanging by the thin thread of his harsh curiosity.