Chapter 1: The Night of Her Birth

A storm raged across the skies, tearing through the night like a beast unchained. Winds howled against the towering spires of the palace, rattling the golden lanterns that lined the grand halls. The heavens had opened, casting sheets of silver rain upon the world below. It was a night of omens.

Inside the Kael estate, nestled within the heart of the empire, a woman's anguished cries echoed through the corridors. Lady Kael, heir to an ancient and noble lineage, lay on a bed of silk and embroidered tapestries, her face glistening with sweat. Her hands gripped the sheets, knuckles white, as another wave of pain crashed over her.

"Just a little more, my lady!" The midwife's voice was urgent, but steady.

A shadow loomed at the edge of the chamber. Lord Kael, her husband, stood stiffly, watching. His jaw was set, his hands curled into tight fists behind his back. He had never feared battle, nor the enemies that sought to bring his house to ruin. But this? This was different. He was helpless here.

A final, piercing cry.

Then, silence.

And then—a wail. Soft at first, but growing. A child's first breath, her first sound in this world.

Lady Kael gasped, her body trembling from exhaustion, but her lips curled into a relieved smile. "Let me see her," she whispered.

The midwife took the newborn, wiping away the blood and fluid, and then—she froze.

A sharp intake of breath.

Lord Kael stepped forward, brow furrowing. "What is it?"

The midwife didn't speak. Her hands trembled as she turned the infant over, running shaking fingers across her small, fragile body.

Then, she looked up, eyes wide with horror.

"My lord… my lady… she has no mark."

A terrible stillness filled the room.

Lady Kael's breath hitched. "No… that can't be."

Every child was born with a mark, a sacred gift from the gods. It was not merely a symbol—it was power, fate, identity. The mark dictated one's place in society, determining the ability they would awaken at the right age. Some received simple blessings—a touch that could soothe pain, hands that could mend broken things. Others were bestowed with great and terrible gifts, feared by kings and worshipped by the weak.

But even before the mark revealed its power, all people could wield lesser magic—the ability to lift small objects, to open doors with a thought, to weave flames no larger than a candle's flicker.

Without a mark, one had nothing. No power. No place. No right to exist.

And their daughter's skin was untouched.

Unmarked.

Impossible.

The midwife stepped back, shaking her head. "This is unnatural. My lord, you must—"

Her words were cut short.

A flash of steel.

A wet gurgle.

Blood sprayed across the chamber walls.

The midwife collapsed, her eyes wide with shock as her hands clutched at her throat. Lord Kael stood over her, his dagger dripping crimson, his expression unreadable. The only sound was the soft gurgling of her final breaths before she slumped to the ground, lifeless.

Lady Kael pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. "By the gods…"

Her husband turned to her, voice low and cold. "No one can ever know."

She swallowed hard, looking down at the baby in her arms. The child had stopped crying, as if sensing the gravity of the moment. When Lady Kael finally met her husband's gaze, she saw the unspoken vow in his eyes.

Their daughter had not been born.

At least, that was what the world would believe.

The chamber reeked of blood. The lifeless body of the midwife lay in a darkening pool, her eyes frozen in silent horror.

Lord Kael wiped his blade clean with practiced efficiency, his mind already moving ahead. Killing her had been necessary—but death alone did not erase the truth.

He turned to his wife. "Summon Rael."

Lady Kael hesitated only a moment before nodding. She reached for a nearby bell and rang it once, the chime soft yet deliberate.

Within moments, the heavy wooden door creaked open, and Rael, their most trusted servant, stepped inside. He was young—barely twenty—but he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had already seen too much of the world. Lord Kael had spared his life years ago, pulling him from the brink of execution, and since then, Rael had sworn unwavering loyalty to the Kael family.

His dark eyes flickered over the scene—the corpse, the dagger still in his lord's hand, the bundle in Lady Kael's arms. And yet, his face betrayed no emotion. He simply bowed his head.

"What must be done, my lord?"

Lord Kael met his gaze. "No one can know of this child."

Rael nodded once. Without another word, he bent down, lifting the midwife's body with practiced ease. He moved swiftly, careful not to let a single drop of blood stain the silk carpets as he carried her away into the shadows.

Lady Kael let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her fingers tightened around the small bundle in her arms. The baby had remained strangely silent, as if she, too, understood the weight of what had just happened.

"What shall we name her?" she whispered.

Lord Kael looked at his daughter for the first time since her birth. The lantern's glow illuminated her delicate features, her tiny fingers curling against the soft fabric of the blanket. But it was her eyes that held him captive.

They were unlike anything he had ever seen—a unique shade of purple, deep and otherworldly, like amethysts reflecting candlelight.

A quiet sense of dread curled in his stomach.

"She does not need a name," he murmured. "She does not exist."

But Lady Kael only cradled the child closer. Her heart ached at the thought of never calling her daughter by name. And so, defying her husband's words, she whispered to the baby, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"Aris," she breathed.

And so, the nameless child had a name.

The next morning, the halls of the palace in Empire of Vareon were filled with hushed whispers. The birth of a noble heir was always a grand affair, but the news that spread through the kingdom was not one of celebration—it was of loss.

Lady Kael remained confined to her chambers, pale and silent, while Lord Kael accepted visitors in a dimly lit hall in his mansion. Nobles and courtiers arrived in mourning robes, offering their sympathies for the child who had never drawn breath.

Among them was High Priest Lior, a man draped in heavy robes of deep violet, his fingers adorned with rings carved with ancient runes. His words were soft, his expression carefully schooled into sorrow. But his eyes…

His eyes gleamed with something else entirely.

When he approached Lord Kael, he placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "A tragedy," he murmured. "The gods give and take as they please."

Lord Kael's jaw tightened. "Yes."

Priest Lior glanced toward the eastern wing—the private chambers where Lady Kael remained. A subtle flicker of suspicion passed across his face, but he said nothing. Instead, he bowed and turned to leave.

The moment he stepped beyond the palace gates, he spoke to the acolyte beside him.

"Something is not right."

"What do you mean, Your Grace?"

Priest Lior's gaze lingered on the towering palace behind him.

"I do not believe the child is dead."

Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.

Aris grew in the quiet spaces of the Kael estate, hidden away from the world's gaze. She never left the high walls of her family's private chambers, never saw the gardens beyond the silk-draped windows.

Her mother held her in secret, rocking her to sleep beneath the silver glow of lanterns. Her father stood at a distance, never allowing himself to grow attached. And Rael—the quiet shadow—watched over her with careful eyes, always present, always silent.

One night, as Lady Kael nursed the infant in her arms, she brushed a lock of soft hair from the baby's forehead and sighed.

"Your father is wrong," she whispered. "You do exist, my little Aris."

The baby's deep purple eyes blinked up at her, wide and knowing.

And in the stillness of the chamber, a single flame flickered—without wind, without touch, without a whisper of magic.

A sign.

A warning.

Or perhaps… a promise.