Once upon a time, in a kingdom bordered by mountains and veiled in mist, there lived a man and a woman who loved each other deeply. Their home was modest but warm, tucked away in a quiet village far from the intrigues of the court.
The man was a scholar, known for his wit and wisdom, while the woman, his wife, was a healer who worked tirelessly to tend to the sick and the weary. Together, they dreamed of a peaceful life, free from the shadows of war and politics.
One day, the woman discovered she was with a child, and their joy knew no bounds. They whispered to the growing life within her, making promises of a future filled with laughter and love. But as the seasons turned and her belly grew round, something changed. The woman fell ill—terribly, dreadfully ill. Her skin grew pale, her strength waned, and soon she could barely rise from her bed.
The village physician, an old man with a furrowed brow and trembling hands, was summoned. He examined the woman and shook his head gravely. "The sickness is rooted deep," he said. "Without a special remedy, neither the mother nor the child will survive."
"What remedy?" the man asked desperately.
"There is a rare drug," the physician said, his voice low. "Its essence is said to work miracles. But it is dangerous, for it must be harvested from the highlands where the air grows thin and the land is wild. A few return from seeking it."
The man's heart ached, for he would do anything to save his beloved wife and their unborn child. But he was no warrior. How could he face the perils of the highlands?
It was then that a shadow darkened the door—a visitor from the past. A tall, thin man entered their home, cloaked in black and wearing a smile as sharp as a blade. He was a friend from the man's youth, though they had not spoken in years. "I couldn't help but overhear your plight," the man said, his voice smooth as silk.
"Perhaps I can help."
The father hesitated, for he knew this man was no ordinary friend. His name was whispered in rumors—rumors that spoke of wealth and power, and a hunger for things best left alone.
"What do you want in return?" the father asked warily.
"Only your gratitude," the man replied, though his smile lingered too long. "After all, what use is gold to me when I can save a life?"
With no other choice, the father accepted the offer. The man left and returned the next day with a vial of crimson liquid. "A single drop," he said, handing it over. "It will save her."
Desperation drowned out caution and the healer took the drop. Its effects were immediate—her color returned, her strength surged, and within days, she was able to rise from her bed as if she had never been ill. The father wept with joy, and the couple prepared for the birth of their child.
But as with all gifts freely given, this one came with a price.
When the baby girl was born, her cries pierced the night like the toll of a bell. Her hair was white as the pour snow, and her skin was fair as moonlight, but her eyes—they were strange. They shone with an unnatural hue, a glowing, shifting color that no one could name. The physician gasped when he saw them, for they were the eyes of those who had fallen into the grip of that crimson drug.
And with those strange eyes came a power—a terrifying, uncontrollable power. The babe's wails caused cracks to form in the stone walls of their home, and the fire in the hearth blazed to life, consuming the wood in moments.
The father was both awed and afraid. The crimson drug had not only saved the child's life but had magnified the magic she had inherited from his bloodline—a magic that had been dormant for generations. She was a gift and a curse, a miracle wrapped in danger.
For a time, they lived in secret, shielding the child from prying eyes. The father, the scholar and his wife tried to teach her control, but the power within her was wild, like a storm refusing to be tamed.
But secrets, no matter how carefully guarded, have a way of slipping into the light.
One fateful night, as the child's power flared and the earth trembled beneath their home, the shadow of the scholar's old friend returned. This time, he did not come alone. Soldiers clad in dark armor surrounded the house, their swords glinting in the moonlight.
The man stepped forward, no longer the humble friend he had pretended to be, but a king—an emperor of an empire, and one who coveted power above all else.
"You've hidden your gratitude long enough," the king said, his voice cold and sharp. "She belongs to me now. With her power, I will shape the world to my will."
The scholar tried to resist. He pleaded, fought, and begged, but his words fell on deaf ears. The soldiers struck him down, and his blood stained the floorboards of the home he had built with love.
The woman, the child's mother, was spared, though some say it was out of cruelty rather than mercy. For as she wept over her husband's lifeless body, the soldiers tore the screaming child from her arms and carried her away.