The birth of the Vessel
In the al - halar desert
Inside the carriage, Mary's breath grew ragged, her body trembling as another wave of pain surged through her. Her hands clenched tightly around the fabric of her dress, sweat trickling down her pale face. Beside her, nestled against her chest, was her young daughter—Rosé.
Rosé, no more than five years old, clung to her mother's arm, her golden eyes wide with fear. Strands of her silver hair stuck to her damp forehead as she looked up at Mary, concern evident in her delicate features.
"Mommy... are you okay?" Her small voice quivered.
Mary managed a weak smile, though the agony in her eyes was undeniable. She gently stroked Rosé's hair, her touch trembling but filled with warmth. "I... I'm okay, my little star," she whispered, though her body told a different story.
The butler, sitting across from them, felt his heart tighten at the sight. "Hold on, Your Highness," he urged, leaning out of the carriage window. "Faster! We must reach Losyerè before it's too late!" His voice carried over the wind, urging the riders forward.
Rosé's grip on her mother tightened as tears welled in her eyes. "Mommy, don't leave me…"
Mary pulled her daughter closer, pressing a weak kiss to Rosé's forehead. "Never, my love," she murmured. "No matter what happens, I will always be with you."
Outside, the desert winds howled, and in the distance, the faint outline of Losyerè Town finally appeared on the horizon.
In the middle of Tremory the holy city,
Archbishop said to everyone," every we were fortunate that we survived that hellish attack, There will be many like us under the rubble of the buildings , everyone make two teams one will find all the living people and and other will find the corpses everyone please work together to survive this disaster any medical doctor or nurse or all who know heal magic all gather at the church,"
When everyone were working together to find the survivors one man heard a baby crying, When he followed the sound he saw a brutal scene,
"Lohel i need your help, come to Tremory fast we need help of your healing magic please come faster " Archbishop calling for help to the world renowned healer the' titled with 'healing hand ' Lohel nouju of losyerè town ,
Then from magic lohel said " give an hour to come"
Then a man holding a new born baby in his hand holding a umbilical cord in other covered to save the child from the blood loss came running towards the archbishop Henry saying,"sir, sir , sir save this baby , he is suffering from the blood loss save this child"
Arch bishop came to see the child when he saw the child , he was scared , then he said ,"No way , No way where did you find this child " Then the man said he saw it the baby's coming from the childs mother womb then he performed the delivery of the child and he cut the umbilical cord but after cutting it blood came out like crazy, then the archbishop said what happened to his parents, then thean said his father was dead by a spear piercing his heart and his mother died after delivering the message, take care of my child After that the arch bishop said kill him and throw him in the lake goooo now , but the man said i can't he is also a human i can't kill him i am not an demon" Oh so are you feeling close to him now huh arch bishop says and then the man says if you can't help him i will save him you god damned the archbishop only by his name you are saying to kill him you are a demon, if you can't save him i will raise him i will be his father, angrily the man said , then the archbishop snatched the new born from the hand of the man , when the archbishop snatched the child the childs umbilical cord teared from the abdomen of the child and then he says you see this , this mark on his chest, the archbishop showed a cross mark with some curse spell in the chest , you know what this is this is a forbidden curse the curse of 'Eternal severence' It is a divine malediction forged in the abyss of despair, created by an ancient god who despised love and attachment. Anyone who feels even the slightest emotional bond with the cursed vessel—be it love, friendship, admiration, or even pity—will suffer a death so horrifying that their very soul is shredded into nothing ness.
The air was thick with silence, the kind that pressed down upon the soul like an invisible weight. The baby's wails had faded into hoarse cries, its tiny body writhing in the Archbishop's grasp, blood still leaking from the torn umbilical cord. The gathered priests and healers stood frozen, their faces pale with fear, eyes flickering between the Archbishop and the cursed mark on the infant's chest.
The man who had saved the child, still kneeling, felt his pulse hammering in his ears. His mind screamed at him to act, to rip the child away, to flee. But his body refused to move.
"This thing should not exist," the Archbishop declared, his voice heavy with divine finality. "To allow it to live is to invite calamity upon us all."
His grip on the baby tightened.
It was then that the man moved.
A blur of motion—his hands grasping at the Archbishop's robes, wrenching him backward with a force that sent them both stumbling. The baby fell from the Archbishop's grasp, tumbling through the air—
And into the man's waiting arms.
Gasps echoed throughout the cathedral.
The Archbishop stared in disbelief. Then—his lips twisted into something terrible.
"You've sealed your fate."
The priests backed away as the Archbishop raised a trembling hand and pointed at the man, his voice ringing with unholy resonance.
"You have felt attachment."
A chill shot through the man's spine. His breath came shallow, his grip tightening around the crying infant. He could feel it—something vile, something ancient, slithering into his soul, wrapping its unseen tendrils around his being.
He had been marked for death.
---
The Escape
The man turned and ran.
His feet pounded against the marble floors of the cathedral, slipping on the blood-streaked tiles as he sprinted toward the entrance. Behind him, the Archbishop's voice roared like the voice of a god pronouncing judgment.
"Stop him! Do not let him leave this holy ground!"
The priests hesitated—but only for a moment. Then, they moved.
Shadows flitted across the cathedral, figures in white robes lunging toward him, hands grasping, spells being woven.
The man ducked, dodging a blast of golden light aimed at his legs, his breath ragged as he barreled through the heavy cathedral doors and into the ruined city beyond.
Tremory was still burning.
Fires crackled in the distance, the scent of ash and charred bodies thick in the air. The streets were littered with rubble, corpses sprawled in twisted forms, their lifeless eyes reflecting the crimson glow of the flames.
A world in ruin.
And in his arms—the cause of it all.
---
The Curse Awakens
The moment he stepped beyond the cathedral's threshold, he felt it.
A stabbing pain—sharp and immediate—pierced his skull. His vision blurred, his ears filled with an otherworldly ringing, a sound that scraped against the inside of his head like nails on glass.
His knees buckled.
He barely managed to keep his grip on the baby as he fell against a crumbling wall, his body convulsing.
Something was inside him.
A whisper. No—many. Thousands of voices, screaming in agony.
"You should not have touched it."
"You will suffer. We all suffered."
"Die. Die. Die. DIE."
Blood trickled from his nose, warm and thick. His chest tightened as an unseen force wrapped around his ribs, crushing his lungs, his heartbeat thundering against the cage of his ribs.
The Curse of Eternal Severance had begun its work.
But he had no time to succumb to it.
With sheer force of will, he pushed himself forward, staggering into the maze of ruined streets, the baby still wailing against his chest.
The infant would not stop crying.
And he understood why.
It had been born into suffering.
There had been no gentle embrace, no mother's warmth, no whisper of love. It had entered the world as a harbinger of death, its existence a sin against the divine order.
How could it be anything but cursed?
---
The Hunt Begins
Behind him, the cathedral's bells rang—a hollow, mournful sound.
The Archbishop's decree had been made.
A holy hunt had begun.
He could hear the clamor of approaching footsteps, armored boots pounding against stone, torches flickering in the night.
The Church's knights had been unleashed.
He ran.
Through alleyways choked with corpses, past shattered buildings where the dying whispered prayers to gods who would never answer. His vision swam, the curse gnawing at his insides, but he pressed forward.
He could see the outskirts now—the ruined city gates, their once-grand structure now splintered and crumbling. If he could just make it past them—
Then the first arrow struck.
It tore through his calf, the impact sending him sprawling. The baby tumbled from his grasp, landing amidst the debris with a soft cry.
Pain flared up his leg, searing and unbearable, but he couldn't stop.
He crawled toward the infant, his bloody fingers reaching—
More arrows whistled through the air.
One embedded itself into his shoulder. Another grazed his side, carving a deep gash into his ribs.
He collapsed against the rubble, gasping, choking on the blood rising in his throat.
The knights closed in, their silver-plated armor glinting in the firelight, their weapons drawn.
The Archbishop himself stepped forward, his expression one of triumph.
"You should have let it die."
The man coughed, tasting iron. He looked down at the baby—so small, so fragile, its body barely more than a wisp of existence.
And yet…
Even now, even knowing what it was…
He did not regret saving it.
---
The Final Curse
The Archbishop raised his staff, golden light gathering at its tip, forming a spear of divine power.
"This is mercy," he intoned. "For you. For the world."
The man did not resist.
He did not beg.
He simply smiled.
Because he knew something the Archbishop did not.
The curse was not done yet.
As the divine spear plunged downward—
The curse erupted.
A sound unlike anything ever heard before tore through the air—a cacophony of wailing, the agony of countless souls fused into one unholy cry.
The knights screamed.
Their bodies twisted, their limbs contorting in unnatural angles. Their armor imploded, crushing them from the inside out.
One by one, they collapsed, their faces frozen in expressions of indescribable horror, their very souls shredded into nothingness.
The Archbishop gasped, staggering back. "No… this… this isn't…"
The man—dying, broken—let out a wet chuckle.
"You thought you understood the curse?" he rasped. "You… were wrong."
His body convulsed.
His soul began to unravel.
He could feel it—his memories being shredded, his existence being erased.
His name—gone.
His past—forgotten.
His very presence in the world—vanishing.
Yet as the darkness swallowed him, as his essence crumbled into oblivion, he looked at the baby one last time.
The infant no longer cried.
It simply stared, golden eyes unblinking.
For the first time since its birth, it was silent.
And then—
The man ceased to exist.
Not dead.
Not even a corpse left behind.
Simply… erased.
The curse had taken him.
And the baby remained.
Alone.
The cursed child.
The harbinger of Eternal Severance.
The loneliest being in all existence.
In the losyerè town
Darkness receded in slow, uneven waves as Mary drifted back to consciousness. Her body felt heavy, as though weighed down by something far beyond exhaustion. A dull ache settled in her bones, yet there was warmth—a faint, persistent warmth that clung to her skin like an echo of something unseen.
She blinked, her vision adjusting to the dim candlelight flickering against the walls. The scent of medicinal herbs hung in the air, mingling with the lingering traces of blood and sweat.
Then, a voice—deep, steady, and composed.
"Madam," Heinrich said, standing beside the bed, his gloved hands cradling a small bundle. "You have given birth to a boy."
Mary's breath caught in her throat. A boy.
Slowly, painfully, she turned her head, her gaze falling upon the child in the butler's arms. Wrapped in soft white cloth, the newborn lay motionless, his tiny chest rising and falling in silent breaths. His damp hair shimmered in the candlelight—silver, not the pale blond of noble blood, nor the soft gray of age, but a shade like molten moonlight.
And when his eyes fluttered open, they were blue—a deep, piercing blue, as if reflecting a sky untouched by time.
Something in Mary trembled.
Not with fear, nor mere exhaustion, but with the weight of something unseen. A shift, a fracture in the order of things, like a thread had been pulled from fate's grand tapestry, and now the weave would never be the same.
Heinrich's grip on the child was firm, yet there was a stiffness to his posture—an unease rarely seen in the man who had served her family for years.
"Madam," he said, his voice quieter now, "what shall he be called?"
Mary parted her lips, but for a moment, no words came.
Then, as though the name had always been there, waiting to be spoken, she whispered:
"Luca."
A hush settled over the room, heavier than before.
"I shall call him Luca," she repeated, her voice steadier this time.
Heinrich gave a slow nod, yet something in his gaze remained distant. Almost wary.
"Very well," he said, adjusting his hold on the child. "Luca it is."
Outside, the winds of Losyerè howled through the streets, carrying with them the whispers of a fate yet unwritten.
--To be continue