The kingdom rejoiced when Prince Kaelen was born, but behind the banners and cheers, the whispers never stopped.
No one forgot that the queen had been barren for twenty years. That she had been near death—pale as bone, eyes glassy with fever—yet survived a birth that killed every midwife who touched her. Some called it a miracle. Others, a curse.
But Aldric cared little for their rumors.
He had an heir now.
A future.
And so Kaelen grew in the velvet halls of Castle Varanor, beneath painted ceilings and the watchful eyes of tutors and guards. Yet from the beginning, it was clear the boy was… not ordinary.
He spoke early—full sentences before his second year. He walked before most children crawled. His eyes, molten silver, never changed color. They glowed faintly in the dark. Some servants refused to meet his gaze, claiming it made them dream of fire and screaming.
By age five, he could recite ancient histories without a mistake. By seven, he bested the swordmaster in drills. By nine, he asked the court mage why the sun obeyed the sky and not the will of men.
The mage had no answer.
One winter night, a wolf strayed into the royal garden. The beast, half-starved and mad, charged at Kaelen. The guards were too slow.
But Kaelen raised one hand.
No spell was spoken. No sword was drawn.
The wolf stopped mid-leap, suspended in the air as though frozen by an unseen hand. It whimpered—then dropped dead.
The boy blinked. "It was scared," he said. "I calmed it."
After that, no tutor dared discipline him. No one, not even the king, raised their voice.
Yet Kaelen remained polite. Gentle. Obedient.
Too obedient.
Queen Elyra watched him with loving eyes, but Aldric noticed it—that strange stillness when the boy sat too long. The way he spoke without childish clumsiness. The way the shadows near him always seemed to stretch just a bit too far.
And sometimes, at night, the king would wake to find Kaelen standing silently at the foot of the bed.
"I had a dream," the boy would whisper. "Of a man made of smoke. He said my time will come."
Aldric never told his wife what those words meant.
Years passed. Kaelen grew into a young man—tall, graceful, sharper than a knight's blade. The nobles praised him. The people adored him.
But the king lived in quiet dread.
He remembered Malreth's promise: "When the boy comes of age, I will collect."
And Kaelen's sixteenth birthday approached.
The night before the celebration, Aldric climbed the Tower of Embers, the oldest part of the castle, where only dust and silence dwelled. He locked the doors behind him and lit a black candle.
Then he spoke the forbidden words.
The shadows twisted.
And Malreth appeared.
The devil had not aged. His cloak still rippled with starless dark. His voice remained silk wrapped around a blade.
"You summon me, old king," he said, his tone amused. "Is the boy not pleasing?"
"He is," Aldric said hoarsely. "Too much so. He's… perfect."
"And yet you fear him."
"I fear you," the king said. "What do you want? You said the price would come. I want to know what it is."
Malreth stepped forward. "The boy was born of your desire, but he is mine in truth. On his sixteenth night, I will awaken what lies dormant. He will become what he was meant to be."
"What is that?"
"A king. Of more than just this realm."
Aldric felt ice settle in his veins. "You mean to take him."
Malreth's laughter echoed through the stone walls.
"No, Aldric. I mean to elevate him. The world you rule is but one drop in a vast sea. I offer him dominion over fire and shadow, over realms mortals do not know. His blood sings with power. You gave me permission when you asked for him. Do you regret your bargain now?"
The king's fists clenched. "He is my son."
Malreth's voice darkened. "He is mine."
And then the devil vanished.
On the day of Kaelen's sixteenth birthday, the castle bloomed with banners, music, and feasts. Nobles from across the kingdom came bearing gifts—golden circlets, enchanted blades, books of old magic. Dancers spun in the halls. Fireworks lit the sky.
Kaelen wore royal blue and silver, his hair swept back, his gaze serene. He thanked everyone with perfect manners. But his eyes… they burned brighter than ever.
As the moon reached its peak, he stood beside his father atop the grand balcony, addressing the people.
"I vow," he said, voice clear, "to be a just ruler. To protect Varanor. To carry on the legacy of House Caelthorn."
Cheers rang out like thunder.
But Aldric's heart pounded like a war drum.
That night, alone in the dark, Kaelen came to his father's chambers.
"Father," he said softly. "I need to speak with you."
Aldric turned. "Do you feel it?"
Kaelen nodded. "Something… stirring. Inside me. Like a gate opening."
He looked down at his hands. "I see things when I close my eyes. Cities not of this world. Stars that burn with voices. A name calls me. Malreth."
Aldric stood slowly. "Son… there is something you must know."
But before he could speak, the floor trembled.
The windows shattered.
And the shadows came alive.