Gabriella, Queen of Kerion, was seven months pregnant — a dangerous miracle. She smiled in secret pride, her hands often resting on her belly as though she alone held the fate of a kingdom.
The prophecy had come, but Gabriella paid it no mind. While others feared the will of Datu, she believed herself above it — just as her husband, King Zica, believed himself above the gods.
In truth, Gabriella was no innocent consort. She had not softened the king's cruelty; she had sharpened it. Every vile decree, every cold execution, had her quiet approval behind it. The law that doomed every pregnant woman in Kerion? Hers was the whisper that turned it into a sword.
No one dared question her. No one lived long enough to try.
The Monicans knew that by the seventh strong wind — their way of marking seven months — a child should be born. Their kind carried fast and delivered early. Gabriella, as Queen, defied every danger. But another woman feared what her own womb might be hiding.
Zena.
She had noticed the changes — the way her body stirred differently, the way her soul trembled. When she told Afroda, he brushed her hair with a trembling hand.
"You're just tired," he lied. "Still… I'll speak to the Seer."
He left that same hour. When he arrived, he found the Seer in wild celebration — twirling around his candle-lit hut, chanting ancient verses to the rhythm of joy.
Afroda blinked, unsure if he was witnessing madness or miracle.
"Has Datu struck Zica down?" he asked, hopeful.
The Seer turned to him with fire in his eyes. "No, my son. But Datu has answered Kerion's cries. The prophecy lives."
Afroda's breath caught. "Where? Who?"
"It's Zena," the Seer said, beaming. "She's carrying her. The child. The one who will save us."
The room grew colder.
Afroda stood frozen, pale as ash.
"She's going to die," he whispered. "Zica will kill her — like the others."
The Seer stepped forward. "No. Datu will protect her. You must believe. This child — your daughter, Afroda — will bring the darkness to its knees. Prepare your warriors. The hour is coming."
Afroda sank into a chair, his mind spinning.
"A daughter? No man has defeated Zica, and you speak of a girl?"
"She will do what no man has ever done."
—
Afroda returned home, body numb, heart heavy. He found Zena sitting on a carved wooden chair, her face lost to thought. Her skin was cold. Her eyes red and distant.
"Zena?" he called.
She turned slowly — then fainted in his arms.
When she awoke, she whispered, "I tested with magic. I'm pregnant."
"I know," he murmured. "The Seer told me. And it's a girl."
Zena sat upright, horrified. "No man has ever defeated Zica, and you speak of a girl? I will die. She will die."
"You will not die," Afroda said firmly. "She will live. She will escape through Micav. She will fulfill the prophecy."
"You speak like a fool," Zena wept. "There's a decree. I'm already dead."
"No!" he snapped, grabbing her hands. "Don't speak against Datu. Stay inside. Never leave. I'll protect you both."
—
The kingdom awoke to tragedy.
Gabriella, queen of Kerion, was dead.
Zica wept beside her lifeless body, unaware that her death had come not from mortal wounds but from the power her child released during birth.
"Elektra," Zica whispered, holding the girl. "You destroyed your mother with your magic… You are powerful. Like me. I will raise you well. You will fight for me when I am old."
The infant blinked. Then cried.
Zica held her closer.
—
One week later, in secret and silence, Zena began her labor. Only her mother — a retired midwife — and Afroda were present.
It was midday when the skies of Kerion shifted.
Mador, the sacred moon, turned deep blue. Stars — stars! — appeared for the first time in Kerion's skies, orbiting the blue moon in a cosmic dance of colors.
None had ever seen anything like it.
Zena screamed, "Sevira!" as the child emerged.
The prophecy was fulfilled.
Far away, Zica paused mid-lullaby for Elektra. He saw the light outside. Felt the magic. He turned to his spellbook, chanted a verse — and saw the vision.
The child had been born.
Zica roared with fury, his voice shaking the stones.
—
Zena woke two hours later.
"Where is she?" she asked, weakly. "Sevira?"
Her mother smiled, lifting the child. "Prophetic," she whispered.
The infant bore a birthmark on the right side of her neck — half moon with stars around it.
Zena gasped. "She's the chosen one."
"She's beautiful," Afroda said, lifting the child in awe.
"You named her, Zena," her mother reminded gently. "The moment she was born."
"Yes," Afroda nodded. "Sevira. A warrior's name."
Zena's mother turned to go. Her steps were slow, but her spirit strong.
"I have seen what I came to see. Now I go to meet your father. To join our ancestors."
Zena chased after her, tears blinding her. She hugged her tightly, weeping.
"You've always been everything to me," she sobbed. "I can't bear to let you go."
Her mother held her once more. "You don't lose me, Zena. You carry me."
——
The next day, Afroda resumed training his warriors. Their skills grew sharper. Their will stronger.
"What did the blue Mador mean?" one asked.
"Maybe the gods have answered," another replied.
But the question hung in the air.
Afroda said nothing.
Later that day, he walked a familiar path to gather herbs for Sevira's bath. A strange, acidic smell stopped him. He followed it — and found a body.
Bloodied. Cold. Lifeless.
It was Zena's mother.
She had been slain — likely by Zica's soldiers. Word spread quickly. All midwives had been executed. Even the Seer had been killed.
Afroda ran home, devastated.
Zena already knew.
"My mother is dead," she said quietly.
"How did you—?"
"She screamed our names — mine and Sevira's — before the end."
Afroda gathered his family in his arms.
"I will protect you, Sevira," he whispered. "You are the dawn after our darkest night. And I will never let him touch you."