The air in the palace was heavy with both life and loss. The Queen's labor cries echoed through the grand halls, a raw and visceral sound that seemed to reverberate off the marble walls and carry the weight of her strength and agony. Outside her chambers, the royal maids flitted about like restless birds, their hands trembling as they fetched warm cloths and basins of water. Their faces were taut with concentration, fear, and hope—a prayer that both the Queen and her child would emerge unscathed.
The Queen, though powerful in her own right, lay on the birthing bed, her face flushed and slick with sweat. Her brow furrowed in defiance of the pain, her jaw clenched tight as she fought to bring forth life. Her dark eyes burned with determination, but beneath the fierce resolve was a glimmer of vulnerability, a longing for the man who should have been at her side.
Outside the chamber, a soldier strode into the palace, his boots clicking against the polished floor. His armor was scuffed and bloodied, his face shadowed with exhaustion and grief. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders were stiff with the burden of his message. In his hand, he carried a small, ornate emblem—the mark of the demigod, a symbol of divine strength and royal succession.
As he reached the Queen's chamber, the first cries of a newborn pierced the tense air. The soldier paused, his hand hovering over the door, as if the sound had stolen his breath. Slowly, he pushed the door open, his gaze locking on the scene before him. The Queen's exhausted face softened for a brief moment as she beheld her child, but the pain of her husband's absence lingered in her eyes.
The soldier knelt before the newborn, his movements deliberate, reverent. With a steady hand, he placed the mark of the demigod on the infant's tiny chest, its golden glow illuminating the child's face. The Queen's head turned sharply at the sight, her breath hitching. Her eyes darted from the soldier to her son, understanding instantly what this act meant.
As the soldier stood and lifted the child high above his head, his voice rang out, "He is here! All hail David!" The cry was echoed by the people gathered outside, their voices swelling into a wave of jubilation. The noise surged through the palace, pulling the Queen from her stupor. She pushed herself upright, her trembling hands gripping the bedpost for support. Two maids rushed to her side, their arms wrapping around her as her legs threatened to give way.
The Queen's face was a mask of pain and disbelief. Her lips quivered, and silent tears carved paths down her cheeks. Her eyes, wide and glistening, fixed on the soldier as he walked back into the room, the child cradled in his arms. When he placed her son in her hands, her fingers trembled as she traced the mark on his chest. Her heart clenched, torn between pride in her son and the devastation of her loss.
Without a word, she gestured for the soldier to follow her. Her steps were unsteady but purposeful, each one a testament to her resolve. The soldier followed closely, his face etched with respect and sorrow. As they moved through the palace corridors, the silence was heavy, save for the soft coos of the newborn.
Finally, the soldier broke the quiet, his voice low and steady. "The King has died for us," he said, his tone reverent. "He saved the kingdom at the cost of his life. He did not think twice before laying down his life for us."
The Queen stopped in her tracks, her back to the soldier. Her shoulders shook as the weight of his words sank in. She clutched her son tighter to her chest, her tears falling freely now. Slowly, she turned to face the soldier, her expression a mixture of heartbreak and steel resolve. Though her voice trembled, it carried a quiet strength.
The Queen paused mid-step, her body stiffening as though a weight pressed down on her. Her back still to the soldier, she seemed to gather herself, her breathing shallow yet deliberate. Her shoulders shook, but when she turned, there was something fierce and unyielding in her eyes despite the tears streaking her cheeks. She clutched her son tightly to her chest, her fingers trembling slightly as if trying to anchor herself to the child.
"What you are about to see, you must take to the grave with you," she said, her voice steady but low, as though the walls themselves had ears. Her gaze bore into the soldier's, commanding absolute obedience. "No one must hear about this."
The soldier's brow furrowed in confusion, his lips parting as if to question her, but something in her expression silenced him. The weight of her words and the intensity in her eyes made his throat dry. He nodded slowly, his armor creaking slightly as his muscles tightened with unease. "I swear it," he said, though his voice carried uncertainty.
As if on cue, an invisible force gripped him. His body froze, his feet rooted to the ground. Panic flashed in his eyes as he struggled, his arms trembling as if fighting an unseen restraint. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temples. He gasped, his chest heaving, but he could not move.
The Queen turned her head slightly, her expression softening for a brief moment. "Move," she said firmly, but when he didn't, her brows knitted together. Frustration flickered across her face, and with a sudden, sharp gesture, she snapped him out of the hold.
The soldier stumbled slightly, blinking rapidly as though awakening from a trance. He exhaled heavily, his hands briefly bracing his knees as he caught his breath. He glanced up at the Queen, his face pale but resolute. She looked drained, her usually proud posture sagging under the weight of exhaustion and grief. Despite her weakened state, there was a quiet determination in the set of her jaw.
She lifted her foot and stomped lightly, the sound reverberating faintly through the stone floor. A rumbling noise followed, and the ground beneath them shifted. A hidden passageway revealed itself, stone grinding against stone as a concealed door slid open. The soldier's hand instinctively moved to his weapon, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, but he followed the Queen without protest.
The passage was dimly lit, the air heavy and ancient. The flickering light of torches cast dancing shadows along the walls, their faint glow highlighting the soldier's wary expression. His footsteps were cautious, his body tense, each step an unspoken question. The Queen moved ahead of him, her steps slow but deliberate, her son still cradled protectively in her arms.
When they reached their destination, the Queen halted, her face illuminated by a faint, eerie light emanating from the symbols etched into the stone walls. She began to chant, her voice low and rhythmic, carrying a cadence that seemed to resonate in the very air around them.
The soldier's eyes widened as he realized what was unfolding. His gaze darted between the Queen and the glowing symbols, his breath quickening. The realization hit him like a blow, and he took a half-step back, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of his sword.
"You…" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "You're a demon."
The Queen turned to him, her expression calm yet tinged with sorrow. "Yes," she admitted, her voice steady but soft, as though this truth was a weight she had carried for far too long.
The soldier's grip on his sword tightened for a brief moment before he released it, the tension draining from his body. He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Did the King know?" he asked, his voice steadier now, though his eyes still searched hers for answers.
The Queen nodded, her gaze unwavering. "He knew," she replied simply.
The soldier exhaled deeply, relief washing over his face. He straightened his posture, his respect for the King evident in the way he squared his shoulders.
The Queen turned back to the altar at the center of the room, her features softening as she looked down at her son. Her fingers brushed over his tiny face, her touch tender yet trembling.
The Queen turned to the altar at the center of the chamber, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion but her resolve unshaken. Her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, fixed on her son as though memorizing every detail of his tiny face—the softness of his skin, the delicate rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Her trembling fingers brushed over his cheeks, a gesture both tender and desperate. Her lips quivered, and her breath hitched, but she kept her composure, even as her tears fell silently onto the infant.
She resumed the incantation, her voice soft at first, each word a plea that reverberated through the air like a prayer to powers unseen. But as the spell intensified, so did her effort. Her voice grew louder, more strained, and her body began to falter under the weight of the ritual. Her knees buckled slightly, and she caught herself against the altar, her grip tightening on its edge. Sweat mingled with the tears on her face, her brow furrowed in fierce determination.
The soldier stood a few paces behind her, his face a mixture of awe and fear. His fingers twitched, unsure whether to reach for his sword or offer aid. His eyes darted to the Queen, then to the glowing runes that pulsated with a strange, otherworldly energy. His jaw clenched as the ground beneath him trembled faintly, a low rumble that sent vibrations through his boots.
Suddenly, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble more violently. The faint rumbling swelled into a deep, resonant quake. The soldier widened his stance instinctively, his eyes darting around the chamber as loose dust fell from the stone walls. His breathing quickened, and his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.
Her knees finally buckled, and she sank to the ground, the altar her only anchor. The glow from the runes intensified, casting the room in an ethereal light. The soldier froze, torn between awe and fear. He watched as the Queen cradled her son tightly, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead as her tears continued to fall.
Her voice grew faint, the incantation tapering off into a whisper. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air heavy with anticipation. The soldier's heart pounded in his chest as he took another cautious step forward, his armor clinking softly.
The tremors intensified, shaking the very foundation of the chamber. Dust cascaded from the ancient stone ceiling as the Queen staggered, her knees nearly buckling under the force of the quake. She leaned heavily against the altar, her once-commanding frame now trembling with exhaustion and the weight of her decision. Her grip tightened on her son, cradling him as though he were her only tether to this world.
The child, too young to understand the gravity of the moment, let out a soft whimper, his tiny fingers curling instinctively around the fabric of her gown. The Queen's gaze, filled with a heartbreaking mixture of love and sorrow, fixed on his innocent face. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, glinting like crystals in the faint, otherworldly glow of the room. Her lips quivered, and for a moment, it seemed as though words might fail her.
She drew in a trembling breath, steadying herself. Her hands, delicate yet firm, cupped the baby's tiny frame, holding him close to her chest as if trying to imprint this final moment into her soul. Her dark eyes softened, though the tears pooling in them reflected the ache of an unspoken goodbye.
"My son…" she whispered, her voice cracking as she fought to hold back the wave of emotions threatening to consume her. Her words hung in the air, fragile yet resonant. "I'm sorry. I have to leave."
Her lower lip trembled, and she paused, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The soldier standing nearby could only watch, his own face pale and drawn, his eyes flickering between awe and helplessness. The ground continued to quake beneath his feet, but he remained frozen, transfixed by the raw, unfiltered emotion in the Queen's expression.
The Queen leaned down, pressing her forehead gently against her son's, her tears mingling with the soft curls on his head. "I know you don't understand me," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, each word laden with pain and love. Her breath shuddered as she struggled to maintain her composure, the weight of her sacrifice evident in every quiver of her lips and flicker of her gaze.
She pulled back slightly, her tear-streaked face illuminated by the faint glow of the runes surrounding them. "But know this," she said, her voice firm despite the sorrow that laced it. Her fingers brushed over the baby's cheek one last time, her touch trembling but tender. "I… and your father… will always be watching over you."
The Queen's face softened, her expression one of bittersweet resolve. She held the child close for a final moment, her body trembling with fatigue and emotion. A faint smile, small and fleeting, graced her lips as she looked down at her son. It was a smile of hope, of love that transcended even the impossible choice she had made.