It began on a night the world would never forget—when the sky itself seemed to bleed sorrow, and the stars turned their faces away.
The heavens were veiled in a suffocating cloak of black smoke, thick and heavy like a funeral shroud.
Even the skies seemed to mourn, as if the world itself knew what was about to happen.
Storm clouds churned violently, and thunder cracked through the sky like the roar of an ancient beast awakened from centuries of slumber.
The very air was heavy with dread.
Inside the towering palace of Arthellion, screams echoed louder than the storm.
The queen, Evara, lay writhing in agony on the silken sheets of her bedchamber. Her body trembled with exhaustion, slick with sweat. Pain ravaged her with every breath. Her hands clutched the sheets as if trying to anchor herself to life itself.
Beside her, the mighty King Alaric — a man known across the lands for his bravery and strength — looked helpless. His hand gently brushed her damp hair from her face, and despite the chaos, his voice remained soft, desperate.
"Hold on, my love… You're strong. You can do this."
But Evara shook her head weakly, tears spilling down her flushed cheeks.
"I-I can't… Your Majesty, I can't..."
Her voice cracked and faded like a dying ember, sending a spear of panic through the king's heart.
The chamber was filled with chaos. Royal midwives scurried like frightened birds, their hands shaking, voices hushed in panic. Thunder roared again, this time accompanied by the cry of a physician.
"Push, Your Highness! The baby is crowning!"
"Just a little more, Evara" the king urged. "Don't you want to see your child?"
Evara let out a primal scream, one that seemed to silence even the storm.
"I can't do this..." she wept, as thunder outside split the sky.
"I can see the head—" the physician began, but her voice caught in her throat.
She recoiled, hand clapped to her mouth, face drained of all color.
The king narrowed his eyes. "What happened?"
The physician turned to him, her lips trembling. "T-the baby's head... it looks—"
"Do NOT finish that sentence" the king snapped, voice like thunder itself. "Do your job. Or you'll be buried before sunrise."
Shaking, the physician resumed her task.
With one final scream that could split the heavens, Queen Evara gave the last of her strength... and then, there was silence.
What lay in the physician's arms was not a child.
It was a creature.
Glistening with afterbirth and cloaked in a thick, reptilian hide. It bore black, soulless eyes that swallowed the light. Two sharp horns curved out from its skull. A whip-like tail coiled behind it, twitching unnaturally. Its fingers, ending in talon-like claws, flexed against the air.
A shriek — sharp, inhuman, and unholy erupted from its throat.
The physician dropped it in horror.
The creature's scream cracked the stone walls, shattered glass, and sent shivers down the spine of every soul within the palace.
The king approached the creature on the floor, his steps unsteady, legs barely obeying him. Every part of him screamed to turn away, to run — but duty, or perhaps something deeper, kept him moving.
The queen watched him from her blood-stained bed, eyes glassy with exhaustion, but still searching. Still hopeful.
The king glanced at the midwife. Wordlessly, she handed him a silk towel, her hands trembling.
He crouched down — slower than he ever had in battle — and lifted the creature.
It was warm. Breathing. Alive.
But it wasn't human.
"L-let me see…" the queen whispered hoarsely. "Show me my baby…"
"You must rest, my queen" he said gently, his voice shaking.
She shook her head, more stubborn than strong. "I want to see my baby…"
"You mustn't—"
"It's my baby…" she snapped, her voice cracking, fragile but fierce.
The king hesitated, then sighed — not from frustration, but from a grief he didn't yet know how to name.
He stepped closer to the bed, cradling the creature in his arms. Slowly, he lowered it toward her.
The queen gasped.
Her eyes widened in disbelief, in horror.
"N-no…" she breathed.
With trembling arms, she reached for the creature. As soon as it rested against her chest, a strange calm washed over the room. The baby — demon or not — stopped crying. The smoke outside the palace began to thin. For a fleeting moment, peace returned.
Until a midwife cried out, pointing in terror.
"IT'S A DEMON!"
"It's NOT!" Evara screamed, clutching the baby protectively to her chest.
But then, its black eyes ignited— burning red like molten coals.
The midwife who had dared to speak dropped to the floor without a sound. Blood poured from her eyes, nose, and mouth, black and thick like tar, pooling onto the polished stone floor.
Gasps and cries filled the chamber.
"It's cursed…" the others whispered in horror, backing away.
But their whispers cost them.
Without warning, another woman's throat split open — a clean, invisible slash. She dropped, gurgling, her life ending in seconds.
There was no one near her.
No blade.
No shadow.
Just silence.
And death.
The remaining women shrieked, covering their mouths, realizing that even words could doom them.
Silence returned, but it was now tinged with terror. The midwives didn't move, didn't speak. They had learned. Silence was survival.
The baby screamed again.
Not a cry. A deafening, guttural screech that sent cracks shooting up marble pillars and shook the chandeliers from their chains. The very walls of the palace groaned in agony, as though the structure itself feared what it sheltered.
Outside, animals cried and birds fell from the sky. The storm thickened in unnatural waves, spiraling above the royal castle like a curse given form.
The queen, clutching the creature and staring at the fallen bodies, turned to the king with wide, hollow eyes.
"Is it the end?" she whispered.
But there was no answer.
That night was never spoken of in full detail again. It was erased from the official records, hidden from historians, locked behind blood-stained pages of forbidden texts.
But whispers survived.
Whispers that grew louder with each passing year.
They spoke of a cursed heir, born of love but molded by darkness. A child that wasn't meant to exist. A child whose first breath killed, whose first cry shattered marble, and whose very presence warped the world around him.
Some called him 'The Demon Prince'. Others named him 'The Harbinger of Chaos'. But most feared to say anything at all.
Because deep within the ancient walls of that shattered palace, something stirred even now. A power far from slumbering. A curse far from broken.
The birth was only the beginning.
The end... had just been born.
And so, under a sky cloaked in ash and sorrow, began the legend of the child destined to end the world.