The storm raged against the highest tower of the Emerald Palace, a furious, weeping sky that mirrored the turmoil in Queen Elara's heart. Rain lashed at the stained-glass windows, each drop a tick of a clock she could no longer outrun. Inside, the only light came from the faint, ethereal glow of the infant in her arms, a child whose very existence was a paradox.
Her daughter. Her beautiful, impossible Elyria.
Elara looked down at the child's chubby wrist, where a faint, star-shaped pattern shimmered just beneath the skin. The Mark of the Breach. A symbol of her heritage, her power, and her curse. With trembling hands, the Queen pressed a single, tear-filled kiss to her daughter's forehead. There was no more time.
"They will not understand," Elara whispered, her voice cracking. She drew a fine silver dagger, its edge humming with contained magic. Not for violence, but for ritual. She pricked her own thumb, the royal blood welling up, a startling crimson against her pale skin. She gently traced the star-shaped mark on the infant's wrist with her blood, the magic in the room flaring as the mark absorbed the offering, turning a deep, permanent shade of shadowed silver.
The room grew cold. Whispers slithered from the corners of the chamber, formless and ancient—the ever-present voice of the Breach she had sworn to contain. They were drawn to the child, to the power she represented. Elara shielded the infant with her body, her own magic flaring like a protective flame.
"Listen to me, my daughter," she murmured, her voice now a low, urgent incantation. She held a simple, unadorned emerald ring over the child's heart, the stone pulsing in time with the infant's breaths. "A child of two worlds, born of a mortal heart. You will hold the power of the Breach. Destiny will not be denied."
She wrapped the infant in a simple blanket, tucking the ring securely within its folds. This was the key. Not just to a kingdom, but to survival.
Heavy, armored footsteps thundered down the hall. They were coming. Her own Royal Guard, swayed by fear, manipulated by those who saw her power not as a gift but as a plague.
She turned to the shimmering, unstable rift in the corner of the room—a secret gateway, a tear in reality she had maintained for this very purpose. It led to a world of steel and smoke, a world without magic, a world of beautiful, blissful ignorance. A world where her child might, if the stars were merciful, be safe.
"I love you more than all the stars in my home sky," Elara whispered, placing the bundled infant into the waiting arms of a hooded figure, a loyalist sworn to see the child to safety. "Keep her hidden. Keep her ignorant. Until the prophecy awakens her. Go. Now!"
The figure nodded and stepped through the shimmering portal. As it began to close, Elara turned to face the splintering wooden doors of her chamber, her hands igniting with a mixture of shadow and flame, her face a mask of defiant, heartbreaking resolve. She was a Queen, and she would not let them see her run.
The doors burst inward, and the last thing the guards saw was their Queen, a terrifying and beautiful storm of forbidden magic, ready to meet her end. The prophecy had been set in motion.