Chapter 39:

The kingdom slept under a moonless sky that night, but King Zerach’s heart refused to rest.

He stood at the highest balcony of the fortress, staring into the distance where the dark forest stretched endlessly — silent, secretive, and cruelly calm.

The prophecy haunted him like an echo he could never silence.

A thousand years ago, the scrolls said, a child will be born under a broken moon — carrying both light and shadow. The child will rise to destroy the Beast Kingdom and build a new army from the ashes.

Every king since then had feared that day.

Every newborn in the kingdom was inspected the moment they cried their first breath — to ensure no mark of the prophecy rested on their skin.

Any who bore it were killed instantly.

But now… the cursed mark had appeared.

Not on an enemy’s child.

Not on some distant village babe.

But on his own son — his only heir, the last living memory of his beloved Daphne.

Zerach’s fists clenched as the cold wind brushed his face.

He had checked every child after Daphne’s death; no mark, no sign. Yet, the darkness had been patient — waiting, hiding inside his boy for ten long years before revealing itself.

He turned sharply to his commander, who knelt behind him.

“I heard word tonight,” Zerach said in a low voice. “A woman in the village of Selrun gave birth the same night Daphne died. Another child — a strange one. The midwives say she lived, but vanished before dawn.”

The commander’s eyes lifted slightly. “Do you believe she’s… connected to the mark, my king?”

Zerach’s jaw tightened. “If she lives, she may hold the other half of the prophecy. If we destroy her, perhaps the demon inside my son will weaken.”

He turned, his golden eyes glinting like dying embers. “Gather the night riders. Search every forest, every riverbank, every ruin. Find the child — and kill her.”

The soldiers bowed and disappeared into the shadows.

But no matter how far they rode or how many villages they scoured, no trace of the child was found.

It was as though the forest itself had swallowed her.

Weeks passed.

The search ended in silence.

King Zerach buried the secret deeper than his own breath.

No one — not even his council — knew that his son carried the mark of ruin.

Instead, he poured all his energy into loving Lucien more fiercely than ever.

He gave him everything — gold, jewels, tutors from distant lands, rare beasts for pets, and armor forged from celestial steel.

He thought perhaps, if the boy’s heart remained pure and full of joy, the darkness would never find space to grow.

Every day he smiled for his son’s sake, even when his own soul trembled with fear.

Lucien grew into a handsome young prince — curious, sharp, and stubborn. His hair shimmered like black silk under the sun, his small horns curved delicately from his forehead, and his smile had his mother’s warmth.

But sometimes, when the light dimmed, Zerach swore he saw something else in those bright eyes — a flicker of crimson that vanished too quickly to be sure.

The months drifted into years.

And then came March 22 — the day the kingdom had long awaited.

Prince Lucien’s eleventh birthday.

From dawn, the palace was alive with music and color.

Golden ribbons fluttered across balconies, the scent of baked honey filled the air, and bells rang from every tower.

The people danced in the streets, tossing flower petals as a sign of blessing for the young heir.

Inside the grand hall, hundreds gathered — nobles, servants, children, warriors.

The king had spared no expense: chandeliers dripped with crystals, the tables overflowed with food, and the walls shimmered with silk banners embroidered with the royal crest — a flaming horn.

Lucien sat at the center of it all, dressed in a dark blue velvet suit. His small horns were polished till they gleamed, and a thin gold crown rested above them. He looked proud, radiant — though a mischievous spark played in his eyes.

“Your majesty!” laughed one of his friends, a young noble boy named Rehn. “I wager you can’t lift that silver jug by yourself.”

Lucien smirked. “Watch me.”

He grabbed the jug and easily hoisted it high, spilling some wine on the floor. Everyone laughed — including the king, who watched with quiet pride.

As the music swelled, Lucien’s friends teased and joked. He was the youngest among them but always the boldest.

Then came the cake — towering and golden, with eleven flames dancing across its surface. The crowd cheered. Zerach walked to his son’s side, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Make a wish, my son,” he said softly.

Lucien smiled up at him. “I already have everything I wish for, Father.”

The guests clapped warmly.

But one friend — Rehn again — playfully nudged him. “Except your patience! You always shout when you lose in training.”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “That’s not true—”

Rehn chuckled and, in jest, tipped his glass. A splash of red wine stained Lucien’s velvet suit — his favorite one.

The music faltered.

“Are you mad?” Lucien’s voice thundered, sharp and fierce.

Everyone froze.

But it wasn’t the shout that stunned them — it was what came after.

Lucien’s pupils dilated until his eyes blazed crimson red, glowing like molten fire.

His breath came ragged, his fingers stretching and curving until they resembled claws — sharp and black.

His teeth lengthened into points that caught the candlelight.

Gasps filled the hall.

“What—what’s happening to him?” a woman whispered.

King Zerach shot forward, panic flashing across his face.

“Lucien!” he called, grabbing his son’s shoulders. “Look at me, my boy! It’s all right!”

But the prince’s body trembled violently.

The veins in his arms darkened, pulsing with unnatural energy. His horns turned from gold to onyx, a faint crimson mist rising from them.

“Lucien! Listen to my voice!”

The boy’s scream tore through the hall — raw, guttural, and filled with agony.

Every candle flickered.

Every shadow trembled.

And then, as quickly as it began — it ended.

Lucien’s eyes rolled back.

He collapsed into his father’s arms, motionless.

The entire room was silent, too afraid to breathe.

At that same moment — far beyond the palace, deep in the quiet woods — Lyra knelt by a small stream, washing the dinner plates beside Mira.

The night was still. The crickets hummed. The moonlight kissed her hair — golden like sunlight woven through silk.

Then suddenly, her hand slipped, and the plate shattered.

She gasped — clutching her chest as pain exploded inside her.

“Mama—” she cried weakly, eyes wide with terror.

“Lyra!” Mira rushed to her, catching her before she fell.

The girl convulsed, her body trembling just like Lucien’s miles away.

The same mark on her back — the one Mira had sworn to hide — flared with blinding red light, pulsing as if alive.

The trees around them shuddered.

The river darkened for a breath.

And then she went still, collapsing into Mira’s arms.

“Lyra! Lyra, open your eyes!” Mira sobbed, pressing her trembling hands over the mark. “Not now, my child… not now!”

But Lyra did not stir.

Only a faint whisper of wind passed through the trees — a whisper that sounded almost like her brother’s name.

Back in the palace, chaos erupted.

“Summon the healers!” Zerach roared.

He carried Lucien in his arms, his heart pounding like thunder. “Everyone out — now!”

The guards obeyed, clearing the hall. Only the king and his trembling son remained.

Zerach laid Lucien on his bed, brushing the boy’s hair from his face.

“Please, my son… stay with me.”

For a moment, Lucien’s lips moved — whispering something too soft to hear.

Then he went limp again, lost to unconsciousness.

The king bowed his head. For the first time since Daphne’s death, tears filled his eyes.

He finally understood — the prophecy was not distant anymore.

It had begun.

And somewhere out there, the other half of the curse — the twin he never knew — had awakened too.

The storm that night was fierce.

Winds howled across the mountains, lightning tore the sky in two, and thunder echoed like war drums.

King Zerach stood by the window, drenched in sweat, his reflection broken by the rain.

He knew what he must do — though the thought sickened him.

He would have to find the other child.

He would have to kill her.

Because if both lived — the prophecy would rise in full.

And no power in heaven or hell could save them all.