Dawn broke red over Verdantia.
Not the red of roses or morning skies.
The red of spilled blood.
A Kingdom in Panic
Word of the birth spread like plague.
The third prince had been born under storms. The sacred flame had flickered. Crops failed. And worst of all:
There was no mark.
The mark the Seer promised — the sign to tell light from darkness — was missing.
In its absence, the kingdom chose fear.
In its fear, it chose violence.
"Burn the Demon"
Crowds filled the Great Square.
Tens of thousands gathered beneath the palace gates.
"Show us the child!" they shouted.
"End the curse!"
"Cleanse the evil!"
These were not warriors.
They were farmers. Mothers. Priests. Nobles.
All united in a single belief:
"If we do nothing, we all die."
The King Decides
King Aldric watched from his balcony, hands clenched at his sides.
He had tried to sleep. He had tried to reason.
But the image of that markless child haunted him.
A being born in silence, beneath thunder, unblessed by prophecy.
"If we wait, he will destroy us."
So he gave the order.
"We burn him."
The Pyre
At noon, the child was brought out.
Wrapped in cloth. Silent. Unblinking.
He did not cry.
He did not resist.
He was days old.
A priest held him at arm's length, as if even his breath was poison.
The pyre was built of holy woods. Oak from temple groves. Ash blessed with sacred oil.
The crowd was silent now.
Not because of pity.
But anticipation.
No Mercy
Queen Isabella did not appear.
Neither did her other children.
The child was placed at the center of the pyre.
Still he did not cry.
Aldric raised his hand.
A priest lit the flame.
Fire roared to life.
People cheered.
"This is mercy," they told themselves."This is safety.""This is right."
The flames swallowed him.
A Mistake
One minute passed.
Two.
Three.
And then—
A sound.
Not screams.
Not silence.
A cry.
A child's cry.
Soft.
Alive.
The fire blazed, but the infant did not burn.
The crowd fell quiet.
Horrified.
Paralyzed.
"It's still alive."
"Why isn't it burning?"
"It's feeding on the fire!"
"He's laughing at us!"
The priests dropped to their knees in terror.
Aldric stepped forward, trembling.
The child sat in the flames.
Crying.
But untouched.
After
When the fire died, the child still breathed.
Skin unburned.
Eyes open.
The people stepped back as if he were plague.
Aldric gave no speech.
Only one order:
"Take it. Lock it away. Kill it if you can. But do not bring it near me again."
The guards hesitated.
Then obeyed.
The First Day in the Dark
No name was given.
No records were kept.
They locked the newborn in the lowest dungeon, deeper than the rats, colder than the grave.
Alone.
Forgotten.
He would not die.
But they would make him wish he had.