When The Sun Bleeds

The sky bled red that night.

A blood-red eclipse hung over the empire of Velmoria, casting its cursed glow upon the world. The streets, once brimming with life, were drowned in eerie crimson light. It was as if the gods themselves had painted the sky in warning an omen that something terrible had arrived.

Within the Imperial Palace, torches flickered restlessly as the sound of labored breathing and muffled sobs filled the grand chambers.

The Empress was in labor.

Her pale hands clenched the silk sheets beneath her, her body wracked with pain. The palace midwives whispered prayers, their hands trembling as they worked to bring the prince into the world. But no prayers could stop what was coming.

Outside, the Grand Temple of Velmoria suddenly caught fire.

Flames erupted from the sacred shrine as the blood eclipse reached its peak. The fire burned unnaturally fast devouring the temple's ancient pillars as if the gods had set it ablaze themselves.

The people of Velmoria watched in horror, some falling to their knees, others fleeing in blind panic.

"A divine punishment!" they cried.

"A curse upon the empire!"

And in that very moment amidst the flames, the screams, and the blood-red sky

the child was born.

The infant did not cry at first.

For a fleeting moment, there was only silence. Then, as if the world itself commanded it, the child let out his first wail.

It was an unearthly cry one that sent shivers down the spines of everyone in the room.

The old oracle, a man who had served the imperial court for decades, staggered into the chamber, his breath ragged. His eyes, once filled with wisdom, were now wide with horror.

He had seen something. A vision too terrible to ignore.

His frail body shook as he raised a trembling finger toward the newborn prince. His voice—usually calm and composed—trembled with fear.

"This child… this cursed child… shall bring ruin upon Velmoria."

A cold chill spread through the room. The midwives gasped, stepping away from the infant as if his mere presence tainted the air.

But the oracle did not stop.

"He shall walk the path of flames. The crimson sky is his witness. And in the end…"—his voice dropped to a whisper—"he shall burn everything to ashes."

A terrible silence followed.

The emperor, who had been kneeling beside his wife, did not move. He did not reach for the child, did not acknowledge him. He simply stared at the woman he love the only person who had ever truly softened his heart.

The empress's once radiant face had lost all color. Her eyes, which had shone with kindness, were now lifeless.

She was gone.

Killed by the very life she had brought into the world.

The emperor slowly rose to his feet.

The room waited in agonizing silence, watching for his reaction.

Would he cradle his son? Would he reject him?

He did neither.

Without sparing the child a glance, the emperor turned to his most trusted general. His voice, when he spoke, was cold as steel.

"Take the boy away."

The midwife holding the child froze.

"Your Majesty—?"

The emperor's gaze darkened.

"I do not wish to see him."

A command. A sentence.

The emperor of Velmoria once a man of love and passion became a man of stone and silence that night.

And so, the prince took his first breath alone.

And so, too, would every breath after.