Chapter Text
Hues of daybreak slowly crept up through colored panes and glass as dusk turned to dawn, gold streaking through the endless horizon, signifying a new day. Soon, the townspeople began to flock to the streets, and the once-quiet city became bustling with noise and shouts at every corner. Windows flung open, doors creaked, and the rush of footsteps echoed as the clock ticked on, growing louder—more frantic—as more and more left their homes to do the tasks they set out for that morning.
Above it all, perched on the hilltop, the castle and its residents stirred to life. Its towering spires glimmered faintly in the golden light while the banners atop its ramparts swayed gently with the cool breeze. Within its stone walls, servants hurried through the grand corridors, their arms laden with garbs and linens due for washing. Callused hands polished the great hall anew, its long oak tables decorated with only the finest china.
The kitchens buzzed with the same liveliness, filled with the clatter of knives and plates, as workers prepared for a grand feast. Muffled by the racket, the servants whispered amongst themselves as they tended to their duties.
“I swear it’s true,” said the head cook, her voice low but urgent as she leaned across the butcher block. She glanced around to ensure no one of importance was listening. “The prince has only been acting stranger and stranger leading to his birthday. The curse—” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “it’s real.”
The new scullery maid, a girl barely out of her teens with wide, curious eyes, paused mid-scrub of a stubborn pan. “A curse?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “I heard the villagers talking, but I thought it was just tales.”
“Tales?” snorted the footman, “If only. You’d think so until you saw his chambers—dark as a crypt, curtains drawn tight even at noon. And that mirror. Covered up, always.” He shuddered. “No prince locks himself away like that unless there’s something unnatural at work.”
Another servant, a handmaiden with dark circles under her eyes from long hours, leaned in, her voice barely a breath. "It’s the eyes, you know. They say his eyes aren’t human. Black as midnight, they are, and they seem to look straight through you. As if he can see your very soul."
The cook nodded, her hands busy kneading dough. “The royal family says he’s sick, but sickness doesn’t make a man’s shadow move when he stands still.”
The maid’s eyes widened. “His shadow moves?”
“Quiet, you lot!” snapped the castle’s matronly housekeeper as she entered the kitchen with a glare. “You’ll do well keeping your tongues behind your teeth. Gossiping about His Highness won’t earn you any favors.”
But even as she scolded them, she hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the high, stone walls as if expecting to see or hear something out of place. Then, softer, she added, “The less you know, the better. Just do your work, child, and keep away from the west wing. That’s all the advice I’ll give you.”
The air in the castle was heavy that night, thick with anticipation and dread. Outside, a storm brewed over the horizon—lightning cutting through the sky, thunder roaring. In the queen’s chambers, screams echoed through the stone walls as the midwives rushed back and forth, faces pale and drawn, and their arms heavy with bloodied rags.
The king, Varan, paced outside the room, his fists clenched and jaw tight. Every scream from his wife pierced him like a blade, and yet he could not bring himself to step inside. His advisors stood nearby, their expressions grave in the darkness.
“It’s a bad omen,” one of them muttered under his breath, glancing toward the storm-laden sky. “A child born under such a night... nothing good can come of it.”
Varan shot the man with a glare that could have silenced a lion. “Keep your superstitions to yourself.”
But despite his words, he could not help but doubt.
When the child’s cry finally pierced the night, it should have been a moment of joy. Instead, the wails of the newborn were joined by the anguished sobs of the midwives. The queen was gone.
“It’s a boy,” one of the midwives announced as Varan entered the room, his gaze falling first on his wife's still form and then on his son. “A strong, healthy boy.”
Varan felt his chest tighten as he looked at the boy, despair swirling with unease as he stared at the child’s wide, unblinking eyes. But he forced himself to set the thought aside. This was his son. His heir.
“His name will be Ivan,” he announced, voice booming although with a subtle tremor. “A gift from God.”
The midwives dropped their heads in response, though their eyes betrayed their worry. Varan held his gaze on his son for a moment longer, expression unreadable, before turning sharply and striding out of the room; the crash of the rain drowning out his son’s cries.
Whatever curse or blessing this child carried, it was now bound to the fate of the kingdom.