The day the villagers rose against the king, the wind itself seemed restless. Dark clouds crawled across the sky, shrouding Gravenmoor in a lightless hush. The church bell tolled not for prayer but for rebellion. Men and women gathered before Thornwell Manor, their torches burning like angry eyes in the dusk.
Inside, the great hall trembled with their chants — "Down with the cursed blood! Down with the king who shelters the beast!"
Alaric Thornwell, weary and haunted, stood by the grand window, staring down at the crowd. His hands shook, not with fear, but with despair. Beside him, Clara held baby Lucien close, her arms trembling as the child stirred in her embrace.
Lucien was a year old now — a beautiful, strange thing. His hair glimmered like midnight silk, his eyes deep crimson, glowing faintly whenever emotion rippled through him. He rarely cried; when he did, the sound made chandeliers tremble and glass quiver as though the air itself could not bear his sorrow.
Now, sensing his father's unrest, Lucien began to fuss. Clara whispered, "Shh, little one," rocking him softly, but the child's gaze was already fixed on the window, on the torches outside.
"Stay back, Clara," Alaric murmured, voice breaking. "If they reach the gates, there'll be blood."
Before she could answer, a stone shattered the window, scattering shards across the marble floor. Clara gasped, shielding the child with her body. Alaric drew his sword, but the crowd's roar drowned his command.
Then — silence.
Lucien's eyes flared red. His small hand stretched outward, fingers twitching in the air. The flames outside flickered, then bent backward as if a storm had struck from within. One by one, torches snuffed out. The villagers froze.
A sound began to rise — not a cry, not a scream, but a low, melodic hum from the child. The ground quaked. The torches dropped from trembling hands. Shadows rippled out from the manor gates, sweeping over the courtyard like smoke come alive.
Those who stood closest fell to their knees, clutching their heads, faces twisted with terror. They saw things — visions only the cursed could summon: their own sins, their betrayals, their darkest fears reflected in a child's eyes.
"Lucien…" Clara whispered, voice full of awe and dread. "Stop, my love. Please."
The hum faded. The torches sputtered back to life. The villagers fled, tripping over themselves in blind panic.
Silence again.
Alaric dropped his sword, staring at his son — his salvation, his curse. "He… protected us," he breathed.
Clara cradled Lucien tighter, her heart thundering against his small chest. The baby smiled then — a tiny, perfect smile that felt like sunlight piercing through storm clouds.
And though the air still trembled from what he'd done, the glass shards scattered across the floor began to lift, one by one, rearranging themselves with soft chimes until the window stood whole again.
Alaric fell to his knees. "He's not evil," Clara said, tears glistening on her cheeks. "He's only what this cruel world made him be."
Lucien cooed and touched her face.
For the first time in months, Alaric looked at Clara — really looked. The warmth in her eyes, the way Lucien's small hand reached for both of them. He felt a pull in his chest, something fragile and human that defied fear.
"Marry her," Lucien murmured, voice too soft, too impossible for a child his age.
Alaric froze. Clara gasped.
But the baby only smiled again, as if he knew something they did not — as if the red moon itself had whispered a prophecy through his lips.
Outside, thunder rolled, echoing like a vow.