"Blood-choked screams quaked through the chamber, rattling every witness to the marrow—so violently they smothered even the storm's roar in their minds. Queen Alder, drowning in tidal waves of agony, clenched her fists until linen grew sodden with blood. The Sacred Tree stood hushed, branches bent in reverence, while the sky—serene till yesterday—now shared her torment as a grieving companion."
A midwife, her face branded crimson with the Queen's blood, trembled: "My Queen, hold on a little longer… Just one more push—"
Alder's whisper scraped like shards: "I know… This child has already read the world's ingratitude in my eyes. He refuses to draw breath in such a world."
Her final scream died unborn. Her flushed face paled like molten wax, veins vanishing. The boy was born into silence heavier than death.
When laid beside his mother—now swallowed by death's absolute silence—the infant suddenly wailed, a shattered lute's cry: not for life, but a lament for the grave.
King Atrius, having raced from the royal pavilion at the newborn's first cry, stood frozen at his wife's bedside. His triumphant smile withered. His eyes locked on the priceless treasure of his heart—now still. The queen, moon of their realm, was gone.
He crushed her lifeless form against his breastplate and howled:
"ALDER! Open your eyes! See your son! PLEASE... ALDER!"
Before the Sacred Tree, every legendh kneeled—knees striking earth as tradition demanded. Their collective roar shook the firmament. The Tree showered every blossom upon its fallen queen; the sky thundered its grief and wept riverous rains.
After hours of silent mourning, Atrius finally rose from his wife's bedside. He approached the midwife cradling his son. The boy was cleansed now, yet tears streamed down his tiny cheeks. With a face emptied of all feeling, the king gathered his child and whispered with tremulous lips:
"Little son… I know you seek not the embrace of this unworthy king and husband, but your mother's warm arms.
Forgive me.
I name you Aryan—the name your mother chose with love: Aryan, child of purity."
Then he turned to the gathered people, his voice thunderous:
"Today, we have all witnessed an abomination. But we cannot drown forever in mourning. A great war marches toward us. I have lost a wife—you have lost a queen! Yet now a son remains: Aryan, whom I have named. He is your Crown Prince. Stand by him... as you once stood by me."
The people sank into leaden silence; fists clenched, eyes swollen with grief yet burning with silent loathing—as if they hated Aryan. For they believed he had ripped their queen from life, that he was their long-foretold curse.
Then King Atrius, with Arian in his arms, moved toward the distant reaches and vanished from all sight within the damp, dark forest. His face was wet—he could not tell whether from the rain or his own tears. Yet he walked on, his heir held fast against him, advancing toward a simple cottage deep in the woods. The boy wept ceaselessly in his embrace, and the rain had soaked his cloak crimson—not with the blood of enemies, but with the blood of his wife. The sound of Arian's relentless crying echoed through the forest, yet no living thing dared so much as stir in Atrius' presence.
The cottage door opened softly, and a middle-aged woman stepped out. Her translucent skin and amber eyes reflected her wisdom and discernment clearly. Atrius approached her, inclined his head, and said in a quiet voice, "Zinarfil... I must go. Please care for Arian."
Zinarfil bowed to Atrius, her sorrow a clear display of mourning for the Queen's passing. She took Arian into her arms and addressed the King: "Rest assured, I will raise your son as if he were my own. Now go."
Atrius replied with deadened eyes and a soulless smile: "I know."
Then he turned and left. His long cloak shifted like a broken wing.
Zinarfil returned inside the cottage and leaned against the wall. She gazed at Arian, now asleep, whispered into his ear, and said: "You too are fated to drink from this cup, just like your father, little one."
A murmur rippled through the Allied Force's camp. Soldiers whispered incessantly until one of the commanders bellowed: "What's all this?! Is this a damn marketplace? Shut your traps and get back to your posts!"
One soldier spoke up: "Sir, one of the scout pigeons just arrived from Bazargan Plain. The message says Queen Alder has died... and Atrius has vanished."
The commander answered in a furious tone: "I know! So what, should I go offer condolences to that filthy Legundi dog now?" The soldiers lowered their heads in shame and hatred, then dispersed.
Within the silk tent embroidered with each kingdom's sigil, a council was underway. The war map lay spread across the ironwood table, all eyes fixed upon King Andreas seated at the head. One king, unarmored, his pale skin shimmering with scales, addressed King Andreas: "Your Majesty! The optimal moment to strike is now. Grief for their lost Queen has made the Legundians vulnerable."
King Andreas replied: "Vulnerable? I think not. But let me say this – you, being Dragon-kin yourself, understand better than any: a dragon mourning its mate breathes hotter fire!" He then turned to the other two kings present and asked: "Incidentally... what is your counsel?"