Chapter 37

The night had a strange stillness to it — the kind that came before great storms.

The moon hung low over the Beast Kingdom, bleeding silver light across its dark towers and ancient walls. In the royal chambers, where tapestries whispered stories of blood and conquest, King Zerach sat in silence — and dread.

There had been a prophecy, spoken long before his reign — before even his ancestors had carved their names into the stone of history.

It was said that once every thousand years, a child would be born under a cursed eclipse. A child whose blood carried both light and darkness — whose heart would command the shadows and whose wrath would shake the heavens.

“From the blood of kings and demons combined,” the prophecy had said,

“a child shall rise to burn the Beast Kingdom to ash and forge an army of fire. None shall rule after him, for he shall end the age of beasts and birth the age of ruin.”

For generations, the kings of the realm had feared those words.

And so, it became law — every newborn child in the Beast Kingdom was inspected at birth.

If the mark of the Fallen Star — a faint, glowing sigil said to appear between the shoulder blades — was found, the child was executed instantly. No pity. No delay.

It was cruel, but it was survival.

Until now, Zerach had believed the curse had skipped his bloodline.

Until now…

He stared at his son through the dim candlelight — his only heir, the only living proof of his love with Daphne.

But there, clear and undeniable, burned the mark across Lucien’s back — a faint golden flame etched into his skin, pulsing like a heartbeat.

His throat tightened.

No. This couldn’t be real.

He had seen this mark only once before — on an old battlefield when he was still a prince. The bearer had gone mad before his eyes, slaughtering friend and foe alike until nothing but fire remained.

And now… the same sign cursed his child.

“Lucien,” Zerach whispered, his voice hoarse. “Has anyone… seen your back recently?”

Lucien looked up, confusion clouding his bright eyes. “No, Father. I don’t let anyone bathe me anymore. I’m grown now.”

Zerach nodded slowly, forcing a small smile though his heart was breaking.

“Good. Don’t let anyone touch your back or help you change. Do you understand? I’ll tell the maids to stay away — and your tutors too.”

Lucien tilted his head. “Alright, Father. But… why?”

Zerach turned away quickly, hiding the fear in his eyes. “Because I said so.”

He made for the door, trying to keep his composure, but his steps were heavy — as if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen upon his shoulders.

Lucien’s small voice stopped him.

“Father… are we not training tonight?”

Zerach froze.

He turned halfway, meeting his son’s hopeful gaze — so much like Daphne’s, bright and innocent and trusting.

“Not tonight, my son,” he said softly. “I have something important to do. Rest now. I’ll return before dawn… to tell you your favorite story.”

Lucien smiled faintly and nodded, unaware of the storm gathering in his father’s heart.

“Goodnight, Father.”

“Goodnight, my boy.”

As the door closed behind him, Zerach’s face hardened.

He leaned against the cold marble wall, every breath sharp with pain.

How could this be?

How had the mark hidden itself for so long — ten whole years — undetected by his physicians, unseen by his guards?

Was it waiting? Growing?

He clenched his fists, the echo of prophecy tearing through his mind like thunder:

The child shall not be known until his tenth year, when the light and darkness within can no longer hide from fate.

That was the truth of it.

The mark had been there all along — buried under flesh, sleeping in silence. And now, it had awakened.

Zerach’s pulse raced as he walked down the corridor, the words of his ancestors ringing in his skull.

What would they do if they found out? What would the Council demand of him when they learned the heir to the throne bore the mark of destruction?

He couldn’t let them know. Not now. Not ever.

The kingdom had barely recovered from war — from loss, from blood.

If the elders discovered that Lucien was the cursed child of prophecy, they wouldn’t hesitate.

They would demand the boy’s death.

And Zerach… he could not kill his own blood.

He would rather burn the world himself.

He stopped before the great window of his hall, staring out into the night. The wind howled through the mountains like a voice from another world.

He remembered Daphne’s last words — the way she had looked at him before her final breath.

“Promise me… you’ll protect him, no matter what.”

He pressed his forehead against the glass. “I promised you, my love,” he whispered. “But how do I protect him… from destiny itself?”

A tear slipped down his cheek — rare for a man like him.

He quickly wiped it away, straightened his cloak, and strode toward the chamber of the royal scrolls. Somewhere in those old texts, there had to be an answer — something, anything — that could undo a thousand-year curse.

But as he disappeared into the shadows, a sense of dread followed him — quiet, patient, inevitable.

Meanwhile, far from the palace, the forest slept beneath a gentle rain. The trees swayed softly, and the scent of wild blossoms carried through the air.

Deep within that forest, in a humble wooden hut tucked between roots and vines, Mira knelt by a steaming basin.

Beside her, Lyra laughed — her laughter light and innocent, echoing off the wooden walls.

“Hold still, child,” Mira scolded gently, pouring warm water over her hair. “You’ve grown too restless lately. Are you planning to run off into the woods again?”

Lyra giggled, splashing water back at her. “You always say that. But you never let me go anywhere!”

“Because the world beyond this forest is cruel,” Mira said, her tone sharpening slightly. “You wouldn’t survive a day among those who hunt what they don’t understand.”

Lyra sighed, brushing her golden hair from her face. “But I don’t understand what’s so dangerous about me.”

Mira froze for a heartbeat, her fingers tightening around the towel. “You ask too many questions, Lyra.”

“I just want to see the world,” the girl said softly. “To meet people. To learn who I am.”

Mira looked at her long and hard, then forced a tired smile. “One day, perhaps. But not now.”

She motioned for Lyra to turn around. The girl obeyed, sitting on the small stool, her back exposed to the candlelight.

As Mira dipped a cloth into the basin, her eyes fell upon the girl’s bare shoulders — and what she saw made her hand tremble.

There, glowing faintly beneath the surface of Lyra’s skin, was a mark.

The same shape, the same fire. A mirrored image of the one that haunted Zerach’s dreams.

For a moment, Mira couldn’t breathe.

The mark pulsed — a soft, golden light shaped like wings unfurling from her spine. It was beautiful and terrible all at once.

Her mind reeled.

“No… it can’t be,” she whispered. “Not her too.”

Lyra turned, eyes wide. “Mira? What’s wrong?”

The older woman forced a smile, though fear danced behind her eyes.

“Nothing, my dear. You just startled me. The candle flickered — that’s all.”

But inside, her thoughts spiraled into panic.

Two children. Two marks. Two hearts born from the same blood.

The prophecy had spoken of a child — not children.

But what if the prophecy had been wrong?

What if the power had split — divided at birth between two souls?

If that were true… then killing one would not stop destiny. It would only awaken the other.

Mira’s chest ached with terror as she looked at Lyra — innocent, radiant, unaware of the doom that shadowed her every breath.

She quickly rinsed the soap from the girl’s hair, murmuring old prayers under her breath.

When the bath was done, Lyra smiled up at her. “Mira, do you believe in fate?”

Mira swallowed hard. “I believe fate is cruel.”

Lyra tilted her head, puzzled. “You sound sad.”

“I’m just tired, child.” Mira brushed her hair gently. “Now go to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll start your reading again.”

Lyra nodded and ran to her bed, curling under her blanket. Within minutes, she was asleep — peaceful, unknowing.

Mira sat in the dark long after, staring into the dying embers of the fire.

Far away, in the high tower of Ge Palace, King Zerach stood over an ancient scroll — reading the final verse of the prophecy that the scribes had long tried to erase.

“When two suns rise from one womb, their union shall unmake the crown and burn the kingdom. One shall rule the light, the other the dark — and only their blood united can end the age of beasts.”

Zerach’s hands trembled.

Two suns.

He whispered into the emptiness, “Daphne… what have we brought into this world?”

And in the forest miles away, as if hearing him through the night, Lyra stirred in her sleep.

The mark on her back glowed faintly — pulsing in rhythm with another heartbeat far beyond the palace walls.

The twin flame.

Awakening.

The prophecy had begun.