Labor screams echoed through the birthing chamber, bouncing off stone walls etched with holy symbols meant to ward off divine attention.
"Huff… puff…" Queen Leora struggled for breath, her body shaking beneath silk sheets soaked with sweat.
"Push, my queen!" the head doctor commanded. "One final push!"
With a cry torn from the depths of her soul, the queen bore down—and the child was born.
A baby's cry rang out.
Thin. Sharp. Alive.
"How is my baby?" Leora asked, her voice trembling with hope and exhaustion.
No one answered.
The air grew heavy. Too heavy.
Candles lining the chamber flickered violently, flames bending inward as if bowing to something unseen. One doctor stepped back, crossing himself in a forbidden prayer.
Leora lifted her head.
She followed the doctor's frozen gaze downward.
Fear stared back at her.
She looked at her newborn son.
At first glance, he lived—his chest rose and fell, his fingers twitched. But then she saw it.
Marks.
Red and black patterns etched into his skin like living scripture, faintly glowing with a cold, unfamiliar light. Not illness. Not injury. Something written into him. His skin was dark, unlike hers, and his hair—thick, coarse, unyielding—stood in sharp contrast to the royal lineage.
A low murmur rippled through the doctors.
"Impossible…" one whispered.
"This… this resembles an Authority's mark," another said, voice shaking.
Leora clutched the child instinctively.
"There is nothing wrong with him," she said, forcing strength into her voice. "He breathes. He cries. He is my son."
The baby's tiny hand wrapped around her finger.
Warm.
Alive.
Then it happened.
The room seemed to press inward—as though the world itself leaned closer. Stone creaked. The air grew dense, suffocating. One of the silver instruments bent slightly on the tray without being touched.
Leora's heart pounded.
Not cursed, a thought echoed through her mind, foreign yet certain. Never cursed.
Her vision blurred.
"This child is—" a doctor began.
Darkness overtook her before the sentence could be finished.
⸻
She awoke to shouting.
"How dare you!" King Gabriel's voice shook the chamber. "You would betray royal blood with people of that stature?!"
"No, my king!" the doctor cried, falling to his knees. "The queen was faithful—this child is yours!"
"Then explain THIS."
"He's—he's—"
"HE'S WHAT?" Gabriel roared, rage cracking through his words.
"He's cursed," Queen Leora whispered weakly.
The room went silent.
The king stared at the child.
His expression did not hold disgust.
It held fear.
"What authority would dare mark my son?" Gabriel muttered. "Why…?" His jaw clenched. "No. It doesn't matter."
He turned sharply.
"This child cannot remain."
"No!" Leora forced herself upright. "Please—he is still our son. Flesh of my flesh. You cannot abandon him!"
"A cursed child in the holy royal family would doom us all," the king replied coldly. "If the God of the North learns of this birth, Elorea will burn. Our bloodline has survived centuries of war—I will not let it end tonight."
"But he's innocent!" she cried.
"Innocence means nothing to gods."
The king raised his voice.
"I, Gabriel, Eighteenth King of the High Realm of Elorea, name this child Zafar. He is to be exiled west, to the orphanage beyond the river. I will not look upon this sin again."
Leora broke.
She seized her son, pressing him to her chest, tears falling onto his marked skin.
"Be kind," she whispered.
"Be gentle."
"Be safe."
"And never stop seeking the truth."
That night, secrecy ruled.
The baby was wrapped in pure white sackcloth—no sigils, no name.
The three doctors who witnessed the birth were executed before dawn.
Zafar was placed in a basket and set upon the western river, its waters black under moonlight.
The current carried him away.
And with him, the youngest prince of Elorea was declared dead.
Time Skip 8 Years Later
Loud footsteps were heard along with a boy breathing really hard.
Zafar – I must escape, they're coming.
Jumping through trees and sliding into a hole in the wall in an alleyway, the boy felt safe.
Zafar – I've escaped.
Bully 1 – No you didn't.
The boy was grabbed by his hair.
Look at this dirty hair, as the boy was smacked across his face.
Zafar – HELLL—
A punch shut him up.
You dirty black boy, why does your nasty kind exist? You know what, hey guys, I got an idea.
Bully 2 – what
Bully 3 – what in unison
Let's jump him.. Hahah.
⸻
Hours later,
A heavy rainfall was seen falling in an alley. A half-dead boy was laid out in the alley, nearly dead. Blood from his face, his eyes, nose, mouth, ears. Minor cuts on his chest and major cuts on his arms. He began to weep.
Zafar – Why must I be treated in this way? What have I done to anyone to deserve this treatment?
Mysterious Woman – Poor child, grace has not fallen upon you.
She then grabbed the bloodied, almost-dead boy, and a white glow of pureness and grace covered them in her hug. Pure white feathers fell. The deep gashes on his arms turned into scars, the cuts on his chest, his face fully healed, eyes back to normal, nose and ears well also recovered.
Zafar – who a-are you?
The boy curiously asked.
Mysterious Woman – Do you want to be strong?
Zafar – Strong?
Mysterious Woman – yes. Do you want strength?
Zafar – what's that? I've never heard of it.. Strength, mmm, what I want.
As the boy remembered his father's exiling voice, I want to rise up to the king and face him with… with the boy fast asleep in her arms.
Mysterious Woman – haha yes dear, you will rise up and I will teach you strength. You will be the strongest. After all, you are cursed by the Black Constant.