The Boy with No Sigil

Eclipse of the Eternal Throne Chapter 1: The Child Who Should Not Exist The Cursed Birth

The sky split open with a deafening roar.

Dark clouds churned above the small village of Elnor, an insignificant speck on the vast continent of Elyndor. A storm brewed, though no rain fell. The air was thick with something far worse than water—fate itself trembled.

Inside a dimly lit hut at the village's edge, a woman screamed. Her cries echoed through the wooden walls, sending shivers down the spines of those outside. The village elder stood among the gathered, his wrinkled face twisted in dread.

"This is an ill omen," he murmured.

Inside the hut, the midwife wiped sweat from her brow. "Push, Myra! Just a little more!"

The mother, Myra Kael, sobbed, her silver hair drenched in sweat. "Something's wrong," she gasped, eyes wild with terror.

Then, the cries of a newborn filled the room.

For a moment, everything was silent.

The midwife's hands trembled as she held the baby. "This... this is..."

Myra weakly reached for her child, but the midwife stepped back, her face pale.

"What's wrong?" Myra rasped.

The midwife didn't answer. The child in her arms bore no Celestial Sigil.

Every being in Elyndor was born with a Sigil—a mark of fate, a divine blessing. Warriors bore sigils of fire and storm, healers carried sigils of the Everlight, and scholars wielded sigils of wisdom.

But this child...

Had nothing.

A being without fate.

An abomination.

The midwife turned, horror in her eyes. "This child should not exist."

The Harbinger of Ruin

Word spread.

The village, once a peaceful place, now whispered in fear. They called the baby a curse, a herald of destruction.

Elder Brann gathered the people by the sacred shrine. "We have lived by the Celestial Laws for generations," he said, voice grave. "A child born without a Sigil is a stain upon the world. If fate itself has rejected him, how can we allow him to live?"

A woman stepped forward, holding a bundle in her arms. It was Myra, clutching her newborn son. "You cannot harm him," she pleaded. "He is just a child."

"A child who will bring ruin," Brann snapped. "You know the prophecy."

The prophecy.

It was an ancient tale, spoken in hushed tones.

"When the sky weeps without tears and the wind howls without voice, a child will be born without fate. He shall walk the path of destruction, and the world will tremble in his wake."

The people murmured. The storm that had raged on the night of his birth had been unnatural. The prophecy had spoken of a child without a Sigil.

The pieces fit too well.

"Let him prove the prophecy wrong!" Myra begged. "Please, I—"

But she was silenced.

The decision was made.

The child was to be cast out into the wastelands, where death would come swiftly.

That night, Myra held her son close, her tears falling onto his small face.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "You deserve more than this cruel world."

And with trembling hands, she carved a name into the cloth wrapped around him.

Ashen Kael.

Then, under the cover of darkness, she fled.

The Wastelands of the Forsaken

The wastelands were a place where only the dead belonged.

Jagged cliffs rose like broken teeth, the ground cracked and lifeless. Ashen, barely a few months old, lay wrapped in the tattered cloth, untouched by the scavengers that prowled the night.

For days, he cried. For days, no one came.

Until they found him.

A group of wanderers—exiles, outcasts, criminals. They were the Forsaken, those abandoned by fate just as he had been.

Among them was a man with a scar across his eye, his presence towering and grim. Zephyr Varian.

"A child?" he muttered, peering down.

One of the Forsaken scoffed. "He won't last a day. Leave him."

But Zephyr stared at the name carved into the cloth. His eyes narrowed.

"Not yet."

Against all odds, Ashen Kael was spared.

And so, the boy who should have died was taken in by those who had defied fate itself.

Years Later: The Unwanted Son of the Forsaken

Ten years passed.

The boy who had been abandoned now stood among warriors, but he was different. Weaker. Slower. Powerless.

The Forsaken were strong, their bodies carved from suffering, their techniques forged in blood. But Ashen? He had no Sigil, no strength, no future.

Still, he trained.

Day after day, night after night, he stood beneath the shattered moon, his fists bloodied from striking the hardened stone.

But no matter how hard he tried, he could not grow stronger.

Zephyr watched from the shadows, arms crossed. "Why do you fight?" he finally asked.

Ashen panted, sweat dripping down his brow. "Because if I don't... I'll always be nothing."

Zephyr was silent for a long time. Then, he tossed something at Ashen's feet.

A rusted sword, its edge chipped, its hilt worn.

"The world is cruel," Zephyr said. "Fate has already cast you aside."

Ashen clenched his fists. "Then I'll carve my own fate."

Zephyr smirked. "Good answer. Now fight."

First Blood, First Betrayal

One night, Ashen returned to the camp to find it in flames.

The Forsaken had been ambushed. By their own.

Betrayal.

Zephyr stood amidst the carnage, his blade dripping with blood. His comrades—his family—lay dead around him.

Ashen trembled. "Why...?"

Zephyr turned, his eyes cold. "Because the strong survive."

The boy who had once been saved now stood alone, staring at the man who had raised him.

And so, the Forsaken were no more.

And Ashen Kael was truly alone.

But not for long.

For in that moment, something deep inside him awoke.

Not a Sigil.

Something far more terrifying.

And thus began the legend of the Eclipse Sovereign.

End of Chapter 1

This sets up Ashen's tragic beginning, his rejection by fate, his first mentor, and the betrayal that will define his path.

What do you think? Want to expand or tweak anything? This is just the beginning of his journey!