Most people enter the world welcomed by warmth. Their cries are met with joy, their existence celebrated. But I was different.
My birth was not a blessing. It was an omen.
It happened on the night of the Eclipsed Moon, a celestial event so rare that even the oldest records held no mention of its last occurrence. The two moons—Solara and Lunaris—aligned perfectly, casting the sky into an eerie twilight.
For some, it was a night of wonder. For others, it was a sign of misfortune but for those in the chamber where I was born, it was something else entirely.
A Birth Marked by Silence
The midwives later whispered that the moment I entered the world, the air in the chamber turned heavy, as though the very space around them was resisting my presence. The torches flickered, their flames shrinking as if suffocated.And then, the silence came.Not the peaceful kind. Not the absence of noise. A suffocating, unnatural stillness.
It was said that for several moments after my birth, I did not cry. My mouth opened, my tiny body writhed as if in distress—but no sound escaped my lips.
The midwives panicked. They shook me, rubbed my chest, murmured desperate prayers to the Divine Order.
And then—a sound came.
But it was not the cry of a newborn.
It was deep. Hollow. Resonant.
The torches in the chamber flared violently. Shadows stretched unnaturally against the walls, twisting as if in pain. The midwives froze, their eyes wide with horror.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.
And a moment later, I let out my first true cry—weak, fragile, like any other child.
But the damage had been done.
Those who witnessed it never spoke of what they had seen. But I would later come to understand—they never forgot it.
The Name No One Wanted to Speak
I was not named immediately.
In our kingdom, a newborn's name was usually chosen within a day, often with blessings from the temple priests. A name carried meaning, tied to fate itself. But in my case, the priests hesitated. No one wanted the burden of naming the Omen Child.
For weeks, I remained nameless. A hushed topic of conversation. A shadow.
Until finally, one of the elders, with reluctance, uttered a name.
Ethan.
A simple name. One that carried no great meaning, no prophecy of power or glory. Just a name—given because it had to be.
But even after receiving it, most people refused to say it aloud. As if naming me would bring misfortune upon themselves.
From the moment I could understand words, I knew I was different.
People avoided me. Servants whispered when they thought I wasn't listening. The villagers kept their distance. Some looked at me with pity. Others, with unease.
I didn't know why at first. I was just a child.
But then, as I grew older, I began to notice the way they looked at me.
Not with kindness. Not with warmth.
But with fear.
And though I did not yet understand the reason, one thing was certain—I was not meant to exist in their world.
The first time I heard it, I was six years old.
It was a cold night. The kind where the air feels heavier, where the world seems quieter than usual. I had been lying in bed, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling, unable to sleep.
And then, I felt it.
A presence.
It was not something I could see. Not something I could describe. But it was there—lurking just beyond the edge of my senses.
Then came the voice.
> "You do not belong to them."
It was deep. Ancient. Not of this world.
I sat up, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. My room was empty. The doors were shut. The night was silent.But the words remained. I did not scream. Did not run because deep down, even as a child, I knew the voice was right.