"Son! Please!! Spare my life, I'm your father!!!", A battered-looking man, soaked in his own blood begged as a young man towered over him.
"Father?!" Kairos huffed in disgust as he grabbed the man's hair and flung him across the room, then he stretched out his hands and the man appeared before him as he gripped his neck tight and lifted him off his feet.
"Ery…. Eryndor!" The man choked.
"Eryndor is dead. I'm Kairos"
The man's face turned pale as he struggled to breathe but it was to no avail. He had already succumbed to the cold hands of death when he was suddenly released and he fell hard, bashing his head against the floor.
"You won't die an easy death, you don't deserve it", Kairos spat as he took slow, predatory steps toward him, and the king, his father kept crawling back with each step he took toward him.
"But you have killed more than enough, thousands of lives have been taken for this. Aren't you satisfied?!"
"You killed my mother and wiped out her entire Clan. You ordered for the execution of my sisters and murdered all who showed care to me. You turned me into what I am. I became a demon cause of you. Who are you to tell me what to do?!" He yelled in fury as the walls of the building started vibrating.
"I'll never be satisfied even if I kill you now, cause that's just a drop of my wrath and Vengeance"
**********
~Twenty-Five Years Ago.
In a mountain area, surrounded with the soft glows of the morning sun, its golden rays spilling over the sprawling marble palace that crowned the heart of the mountain.
Servants bustled through the wide corridors, their footsteps muffled by rich carpets adorned with intricate patterns. Some carried trays laden with fruits and wine, others bore scrolls and documents meant for the ministers. Their faces, though etched with concentration, bore the quiet pride of those serving a kingdom of such magnificence.
Guards stood at their posts, clad in shimmering armor that glinted in the light streaming through stained-glass windows. Their gazes were sharp, their stances unyielding as they surveyed the grandeur they protected. A few exchanged brief words, their low voices blending with the faint clink of metal and the soft whispers of servants passing by.
In the throne room, the air was heavier, charged with a sense of gravity. The space was a testament to Orinthia's wealth and history. Gilded columns soared towards the vaulted ceiling, adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of past conquests and alliances. The throne itself, a masterpiece of carved gold and emerald, sat on a raised dais, an imposing symbol of authority and power.
At its base, three figures were engaged in a hushed yet fervent conversation, while one sat on it. Their voices, though low, carried an intensity that hinted at the weight of their discussion.
The first was a man cloaked in royal blue, his posture regal, yet his expression marked by a weariness that suggested the burdens of leadership. This was King Alden, a ruler known for his wisdom and fairness, though the years had begun to etch their mark upon his face.
"It has been over two thousand years since the prophecy was revealed," said Lord Cedric, his voice measured yet tinged with unease. His sharp eyes, lined with the wear of time and responsibility, scanned the three figures standing before the throne. He paused briefly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, before continuing, "Yet, the child hasn't been born."
Lady Seraphina, cloaked in crimson robes and known for her fiery wit, narrowed her piercing eyes. "Perhaps the High Priest was wrong in his interpretation," she suggested, her tone cautious yet pointed. Her words lingered in the air, daring contradiction.
The elder beside her, a stout man with a voice as deep as thunder, scoffed. His name was Elder Thalric, a staunch traditionalist and firm believer in the ancient prophecies. "The High Priest has never been wrong in his interpretation," he said firmly, his gaze challenging hers. "To question his vision is to question the Creators themselves."
"Let us not rush to conclusions," King Alden interjected, his voice calm yet authoritative, silencing the brewing argument. "The prophecy revealed neither the exact date nor the time the child would be born. And moreover," he leaned forward, his tone deliberate, "Ten of the women in my court are currently with child."
A brief silence fell over the room, broken only by the faint sound of footsteps in the distance and the occasional clink of armor from the guards stationed by the massive doors.
Lady Seraphina arched a brow. "So, you suggest we wait? Watch over all the women until their children are born and then determine if one of them is the chosen child?" Her skepticism was evident, though her words carried no disrespect.
"Precisely," Alden said, his gaze steady. "We cannot force the gods' hand nor dismiss the prophecy that has guided Orinthia for centuries. All we can do is prepare and protect."
Lord Cedric nodded but frowned slightly. "And what of the threats the prophecy warned us about? It spoke not only of the child's birth but also of the darkness that would rise alongside it."
Elder Thalric grunted. "Then we must strengthen our defenses, double the guard, and ensure no harm comes to the court or its people. If the child is to be born here, Orinthia must be a fortress."
King Alden exhaled deeply, leaning back into his throne. "Indeed, but let us tread carefully. Panic breeds chaos, and we must not alarm the kingdom with talk of ancient prophecies."
"Then what shall we do in the meantime?" Lady Seraphina asked, her voice softer now, though no less determined.
The king's eyes flickered with resolve. "We watch. We wait. And we prepare for the unknown."
As his words echoed through the throne room, the figures fell into thoughtful silence.
The scene shifted to a very different part of the palace, a place vibrant with life yet heavy with intrigue: the Women's Court. This secluded section of the royal residence was home to the king's queens and concubines, a lavishly adorned space filled with tapestries, perfumed air, and an ever-present undercurrent of rivalry.
Yet amidst the splendor, an unsettling scene was unfolding.
In the farthest corner of the courtyard, a heavily pregnant woman knelt on the cold marble floor, her face twisted in pain. Her delicate hands gripped her swollen belly as if shielding the life within from the cruelty raining down upon her. A cane, wielded with vicious precision, struck her back repeatedly.
The one delivering the punishment was none other than Queen Beatrix, one of the king's favored queens. Her fine emerald gown swirled with every strike, the jewels adorning her fingers catching the sunlight, making her appear as a vengeful goddess. Yet her beauty was marred by the cruelty in her eyes and the venom in her words.
"You worthless thing without an Origin!" Queen Beatrix spat, her voice a mixture of rage and disdain. "You and your entire clan are nothing but a stain on this kingdom!" She raised the cane again, the sound of it slicing through the air cutting through the silence of the courtyard.
The pregnant woman flinched but did not dare cry out. Her head remained bowed, her tangled locks hiding a face that, even in suffering, held an ethereal beauty. This beauty, though unwanted, was her curse, one that had drawn the king to her in the first place.
"How did you worm your way into this palace?" Beatrix sneered, her lips curling as she leaned closer to her victim. "You seduced the king, didn't you? With that cursed face of yours. But do not forget, you are nothing here. Nothing!"
The woman's shoulders trembled, not from fear, but from the effort it took to hold back her tears. Her voice, soft yet steady, broke through the queen's tirade. "I never wanted this... I never wanted to be here."
Queen Beatrix's grip on the cane tightened, her knuckles whitening. "Liar! You must have done something, you bewitched him, perhaps. But I will make sure you remember your place."
The woman's thoughts drifted, not to her present torment, but to the moment everything had changed. The night the king had forced himself upon her, took her innocence, stripping away her freedom and chaining her to this prison as his concubine. Her beauty, a blessing once celebrated by her people, had become her greatest curse.
"Stop this at once!"
A commanding voice cut through the courtyard, silencing even the birds that chirped in the nearby trees. The queen froze mid-strike, turning slowly to see a tall figure approaching. It was Lady Mirabelle, one of the elder concubines who held considerable authority in the Women's Court. Her gray eyes flashed with disapproval as she took in the scene.
"Queen Beatrix," Mirabelle said sharply, her tone leaving no room for argument, "Have you forgotten the king's decree? No harm is to come to any woman in this court, least of all one carrying his child."
Beatrix's jaw tightened, but she lowered the cane, tossing it aside with a huff. "Do not think this is over," she hissed at the pregnant woman before storming away, her gown billowing behind her.
Lady Mirabelle knelt beside the woman, her touch gentle yet firm. "Come," she said softly, "you must rest."
The woman looked up, her tear-streaked face a mixture of gratitude and despair. "Why do you help me?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Mirabelle's expression softened, a flicker of something unspoken crossing her face. "Because no one else will," she replied, helping the woman to her feet.
As they walked away, the pregnant woman cast one last glance over her shoulder, her heart heavy with fear for the life growing within her. Although the prophecy was unknown to her, a part of her, a mother's instinct whispered that her child was destined for something far greater than the cruel world they were born into.