...----------------...

...🌕 CHAPTER ONE...

There had never been a kingdom like

Makarios

Not in the southern valleys where drought swallowed villages whole. Not beyond the northern ridges where wars bled fields dry. Not across the eastern seas where merchants whispered of famine and plague.

Makarios stood untouched.

Protected.

As though cupped in unseen hands.

The land itself seemed aware of its blessing. Wheat bowed heavy and golden before harvest. The greatfriy River flowed steady and clear, never flooding too far nor shrinking too thin. Orchards ripened in precise season, as if following sacred instruction.

And the people — they smiled easily.

Children ran barefoot across the rocks without fear. Bakers left their doors open at dawn. Merchants traveled without armed escort.

There had not been a public execution in over thirty years.

It was not merely peace.

It was harmony.

And harmony, the people believed, came from faith.

Every twenty years, the Rite of Revelation was performed beneath the cathedral carved from white stone at the kingdom’s heart. The Prophet would descend to the ancient altar and return with the word of God.

For more than a century, those words had been merciful.

'Blessings upon harvest.'

'Protection from invasion.'

'Long life to the crown.'

The kingdom believed itself chosen.

And perhaps that belief made it so.

At the center of this golden age stood King Alaric and Queen Elowen.

They were not rulers of intimidation.

They were rulers of warmth.

King Alaric was steady and thoughtful, known to walk among builders and farmers alike. He listened before speaking. He carried the weight of the crown without arrogance.

Queen Elowen was sunlight made flesh.

She laughed in public gardens. She knelt beside the sick. She hosted feasts not only for nobles but for soldiers and seamstresses. It was said that if the Queen entered a room heavy with grief, it lightened.

The people loved her fiercely.

When it was announced she carried a child, the kingdom erupted into celebration.

Bells rang for hours. Wine was poured freely. Silk banners were stitched with gold thread bearing the symbol of the coming heir — a rising sun cradled by two open hands.

The future was secure.

Or so they believed?!

______________________________________________

The palace itself reflected the kingdom’s tidiness and grace.

White marble floors polished to mirror shine. Gardens trimmed into careful arcs and spirals. Fountains that sang softly rather than roared. Even the guards stood not rigid but dignified, their armor gleaming without menace, the maids worked with honor.

'Nothing was neglected.'

'Nothing rotted.'

'Even the air felt clean.'

The palace nursery had already been prepared though the child had months yet to grow. Pale cream walls, silver-thread curtains, a cradle carved from ash-wood, blessed at the cathedral altar.

Queen Elowen would often sit there in the evenings, one hand resting over her stomach, humming soft melodies passed down from

her mother.

King Alaric would kneel beside her, pressing his ear lightly against her belly, smiling whenever he felt movement.

“Our child will inherit a kingdom without fear,” he once said.

Elowen smiled gently. “Then let us raise them without teaching fear.”

They spoke not of politics in that room.

'Not of threats.'

'Not of power.'

'Only of hope.'

Outside, the capital mirrored their joy.

Artisanal painted murals of the royal family. Bakers crafted small sugared crowns. Priests spoke of destiny in warm, glowing tones.

Even the skies seemed gentler that year.

Sunsets stretched long and amber. Nights were calm, stars bright and near.

It was as if Makarios existed inside a protective bubble — untouched by the cruelty of the wider world.

Allies from distant kingdoms often remarked upon it.

“How does your land remain so whole?” they would ask.

The answer was always the same:

“We are faithful.”

And this faith had never once failed them.

The Prophet had served for three decades.

Malachir.

Soft-spoken. Observant. Devout.

He was not feared. He was respected.

When he walked through the capital, children bowed awkwardly and elders offered bread. He accepted neither glory nor coin. His white robes were simple, though immaculately kept.

He did not seek attention.

He sought clarity.

Though few knew it, Malachir carried more than mortal burden.

There were nights when he knelt alone in the cathedral long after candles burned low, whispering prayers not for prophecy — but for mercy.

He loved the kingdom.

He loved its people.

He loved the Queen’s laughter echoing across the courtyard.

And sometimes, when he stood at the altar, he felt something inside him ache.

Not doubt.

But awareness.

Because he knew what the people did not.

Blessings are not permanent.

Peace is not untouchable.

History moves in cycles.

And even the brightest kingdom cannot remain suspended forever.

But he did not speak such thoughts aloud.

Not yet.

On the morning of the twentieth year’s approach, the capital shimmered in preparation.

White banners were unfurled from cathedral towers. The six ceremonial braziers were polished. Choirs rehearsed hymns that had been sung for generations.

The Rite of Revelation was coming.

And no one felt fear.

Why would they?

For over a hundred years, every prophecy had promised abundance.

The Queen stood upon the palace balcony that afternoon, one hand resting proudly on her rounded belly.

Below her, the crowd gathered to catch sight of her.

King Alaric stood beside her, tall and calm, his arm gently circling her waist in support.

They looked like a painting of perfection, filled with hope and strength.

The future lies between them.

The sunlight caught in Elowen’s hair like a halo. The King’s expression was protective, but joyful.

A cheer rose from below.

“Long live the Queen!”

“Long live the heir!”

“Blessed be the coming age!”

Elowen smiled warmly, waving softly.

In that moment, nothing seemed capable of fracture.

No shadow touched the palace walls.

No whisper of unrest stirred the air.

Even Malachir, standing quietly at the courtyard’s edge, allowed himself a small, fragile smile.

Perhaps, he thought, mercy would continue.

Perhaps the cycle would be gentle.

Perhaps destiny would not demand its due this time.

Above them, the sky was impossibly clear.

The kingdom shone.

The people believed themselves protected by more than walls — by divine favor.

And for a breath in history, they were untouched.

The King leaned closer to his Queen.

“Our child will be born into light,” he said softly.

Elowen squeezed his hand.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Neither of them noticed the faintest tremor in the cathedral bells.

Neither of them saw the Prophet’s gaze lift briefly toward the horizon.

Where, far beyond the hills, the moon waited.

'Not yet red.'

'Not yet rising.'

'But patient.'

{A/N} was this okay first time writing something like this i got some help, but the rest is on me

...----------------...

...🌕 ****CHAPTER TWO****...

For one hundred and twenty years, the kingdom of Makarios had never known a dark

prophecy.

It was a kingdom built on ritual.

Every twenty years, when the twentieth winter thawed and the silver river ran full again, the people gathered beneath white banners and golden bells to witness the Rite of Revelation.

The Prophet would descend into the Prophecy Chamber beneath the palace cathedral. He would kneel before the Altar of the Eternal Flame. He would listen.

And God would speak.

For five generations, the messages had been merciful.

“Peace shall remain.”

“Harvest will overflow.”

“The borders will not bleed.”

And every time the Prophet emerged, pale and trembling but smiling, the people rejoiced. Children were lifted onto shoulders. Wine was poured into fountains. The Queen herself would walk barefoot among the citizens, blessing them with laughter and sunlight.

Makarios didn't simply survive.

It flourished, with every step

The land was generous, food was abundant

 The river glittered. No war had crossed their gates in decades. Traders from around the world called them blessed.

And above all, the Queen was loved.

Queen Elowen was not merely royal — she was radiant. She walked through markets without escort. She touched the hands of farmers. She remembered names, acted based on kindness not authority

When she announced her pregnancy, the bells rang for three days.

The kingdom had everything.

'It had faith.'

And faith had always rewarded them.

Until the twentieth year returned, and a new page will arise

The Prophet arrived early.

He did not wait for the official summons.

He rode into the capital beneath a gray sky, his white robes dusted with travel ash, his staff carved with the ancient sigils of Revelation.

People bowed as he passed.

They trusted him.

His name was Malachir.

He had been Prophet for thirty years. He had never spoken falsehood. Never twisted a message. Never dramatized what he heard.

And yet when he reached the church's steps, he did not enter.

He stood there.

Still.

As if something inside him resisted the door, something that will change the course of faith.

That night, he did not sleep in the palace chambers prepared for him.

Instead, he descended alone into the Prophecy Chamber.

The chamber was older than the kingdom.

Older than the throne.

It was carved into the bedrock itself, circular, domed, with six eternal braziers arranged in a ring around the altar. At its center burned the Eternal Flame — small, unwavering, neither consuming nor diminishing.

Malachir knelt.

He removed his staff.

He pressed his forehead to the cold stone.

“Speak,” he whispered.

Silence.

The flame flickered.

“Lord of the First Light,” he prayed softly, voice echoing, “for five generations You have given mercy. Let that mercy remain.”

The flame pulsed once.

And then the air changed.

The temperature dropped. Not cold — but heavy. Like the moment before a storm breaks.

A voice did not fill the chamber.

It filled him.

Images flooded his mind.

'A crown cracking.'

'A moon turned red.'

'A child opening her silver eyes.'

'Fire crawling across banners, the people screaming in terror'

'A throne kneeling in ash.'

Malachir gasped.

“No,” he breathed.

The vision deepened.

The Queen screaming under a blood moon.

The people shouting in the streets.

A tower rising alone against winter sky.

The words formed slowly.

Not commands.

Truth.

“A child of shadow shall be born beneath the blood moon.”

Malachir trembled, slightly

“She shall fracture the crown that fears her."

His hands shook against the stone.

“If she is slain before breath, the curse sleeps.”

His fists clenched in agony.

“If she lives, destiny will split.”

The flame flared violently.

He saw one more thing —

Not destruction.

A girl standing alone, crowned in silver, eyes steady, the kingdom kneeling not in ruin… but in reckoning.

Then silence.

The chamber returned to stillness.

Malachir remained kneeling long after the

vision faded.

He understood something terrible,

' He had come back and this to finished what He had started'

The prophecy was not simple doom.

It was choice, fate needed to be rewritten.

And choice would demand suffering.

“Why? Like this?!” he whispered.

No answer came, but then the flame flickered – sending an image of a person in black gender unable to say but the grin on their face spoke plenty. Finally the flame said nothing but this

 'His creation still lives'

But he understood.

History had grown comfortable. Faith had grown proud. The kingdom believed blessings were guaranteed.

Perhaps destiny required a breaking.

Malachir rose slowly.

He couldn't lie.

But, he could soften it.

He could choose silence.

But prophecy is not suggestion.

It is record.

And record must be kept.

He left the chamber at dawn, looking older than he had the night before.

Word spread quickly that the Prophet had entered the altar alone.

By midday, the cathedral courtyard was full.

The King stood at the top of the marble steps, crown bright under pale sun. Queen Elowen stood beside him, her hand resting gently over her swollen stomach.

She was calm.

Radiant.

Malachir climbed the steps slowly.

The crowd quieted.

For one hundred years, this moment had meant celebration.

This time, his silence lasted too long.

“Speak,” the King commanded gently.

Malachir looked at the Queen.

And for a flicker of a moment — he hesitated.

Because he knew.

He knew the people would panic.

He knew fear would rot faith.

He knew the Queen would suffer.

But destiny does not bend for comfort.

He lifted his staff.

His voice carried across the courtyard.

“Under the coming blood moon, a child shall be born.”

The crowd smiled.

A royal heir.

Blessing.

Then his voice hardened, faced with the terror coming he couldn't help but paused a little – but he had to carry on for this was faith be it fair or not

“A child of shadow and fracture.”

Murmurs rippled.

“If the child is slain before her first breath, the curse shall sleep.”

The Queen’s hand tightened over her stomach.

“If the child lives, the crown shall break, the throne shall kneel, and the kingdom shall face fire.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

Gasps.

Cries.

“No—”

“Impossible—”

The King’s face went pale.

Malachir continued, forcing strength into his voice.

“But hear this — destiny is not only destruction. The child shall choose. And the kingdom shall answer.”

The crowd did not hear the last line.

'They only heard curse.'

'Only heard break.'

'Only heard fire.'

Fear began that day.

And fear would feed what had not yet been born.

Malachir lowered his staff.

He met the Queen’s eyes.

She did not look afraid.

And that haunted him more than anything else, he was a dilemma — but still added

“If the crown fears her, it will break.”

“If the people hate her, the curse will feed.”

“If she is slain before breath, destiny will sleep.”

“And if she lives…”

The chamber shook.

“History will change"

______________________________________________

It's been a few weeks since the prophecy, and Malachri disappearance, but the kingdom was in much tremor to noticed such acts – the kingdom was covered in fear and terror, whispers began not just outside but inside the castle as well.

The people whispered and the rumors grew like wild fire, the king was stuck between protecting his kingdom – his wife, the future heir.

His ministers spoke with fear, each adding weight to his burden.

“Curse?”

“Kill it—”

“Protect the throne—”

The King’s expression hardened.

The Queen did not flinch.

The first crack came not in stone — but in sound.

A cathedral bell split mid-chime.

A hairline fracture crawled through its bronze surface.

No one noticed immediately.

But the crack was there.

Fear spread faster than fire.

The golden bubble shattered, finally and reality hits the kingdom like in waves

And that night, something changed in the sky.

The moon rose heavy.

 slowly

Red at the edges.

Whispers filled the streets.

The people who once sang now argued.

The King doubled the guards, wanting to protect at the same time change the course of destiny.

The Queen touched her belly more often.

And beneath the palace, in the silence of her unborn state — Lydia stirred in her slowly.

Not in malice.

In awareness.

The blood moon arrived weeks later.

Labor began at midnight.

The Queen refused to hide.

She refused to flee.

“If destiny demands my child,” she told the King, “then destiny will face me.”

So it began the new night were all changed the night history will take a turn – writing new pages.

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**** 🌓CHAPTER THREE****

The moon rose-red like spilled blood.

Not softly.

Not gradually.

It bled into the sky like a wound reopening.

Queen Elowen labored in the highest chamber of the eastern tower.

She had refused to hide in the lower rooms.

“If the sky itself wishes to watch,” she had said through pain, “let it witness courage.”

King Alaric stood beside her bed, his hands trembling though he tried to keep them steady.

 He had faced border disputes, winter shortages, even assassination attempts with calm precision.

But this—

This was beyond his authority.

Inside the royal chamber, Queen Elowen gripped the silk sheets as another wave of pain tore through her body.

The room smelled of iron, blood and incense. Candles trembled in their holders though the windows were shut.

King Alaric stood beside her, pale but steady, refusing to leave.

“You must rest,” the midwife urged.

“I will not,” he replied.

Elowen reached for him.

Her fingers were cold.

“Alaric…” she whispered.

He bent close.

“Our child,” she breathed, “will not be a curse.”

“You will both live,” he insisted. “The prophecy can be wrong.”

But even as he said it, the wind outside howled like something ancient had awakened, frightening his belief.

Below the palace, in shadow near the courtyard arch, Malachir stood unseen.

He had not been invited.

He had not been dismissed.

He watched the tower window where candlelight flickered violently, the bells ringing loudly than an alarm.

He knew the timing.

He knew what the Blood Moon meant.

He prayed not for prevention.

But for mercy.

Inside, Elowen screamed, raw — loud sounding through the walls

The sound carried through marble halls.

As soon as the moon reached its peak.

The child was born.

'A girl.'

'Her cry was sharp — not weak.'

'Strong.'

'Defiant.'

Something heavier.

.

The child had taken her first breath.

Lydia was born beneath the red moon.

The midwife lifted the infant.

Silver-dark hair. Pale skin warm with life. Eyes closed, but flickering beneath their lids as if already dreaming.

“She lives,” the midwife whispered

For a moment, there was silence.

The midwife lifted the infant.

Silver-dark hair. Pale skin warm with life. Eyes closed, but flickering beneath their lids as if already wishing to open them.

Elowen reached out her hand weakly and the mid wife handed her the child.

"Lydia, blessing of the moon" she smiled and kissed the child wanting not to part away from it.

 "There" she gave it back to him — her face Ghastly pale.

She looked at him one last time, and smiled through the pain.

“Love her.”

And then—

She exhaled.

And did not inhale again.

For a brief second, silence followed.

Then frost crept across the window glass.

The candles burned blue.

And Queen Elowen’s body went still.

The midwife gasped.

The King did not understand at first.

“Elowen?”

No answer.

He shook her gently.

“Elowen.”

Blood soaked the sheets, bleeding was obvious.

Her eyes remained open — but distant.

She had given everything.

'For the child.'

'For the kingdom.'

'For love.'

The baby cried again.

And outside, the cathedral bell cracked down the center.

Malachir closed his eyes, the felt it the shit in the air when the queen left.

"You knew but still gave birth to her"

 he whispered talking to the wind, it gave no answer as usual only the faint brush on his hair was felt.

Destiny must go on.

That night the Crown Trembled.

The Blood Moon rose without mercy.

It did not creep slowly across the sky — it surged upward, swollen and red, thick as spilled wine against the dark.

The prophecy had begun.

By dawn, the palace was divided.

Some wept for the Queen.

Some whispered of curse.

The court gathered before noon.

Nobles filled the throne hall in black and silver. Faces were pale, voices sharp.

“The Queen is dead.”

“The Blood Moon answered the prophecy.”

“This child cannot remain.”

King Alaric sat rigid on the throne.

He had not slept.

He had not held his daughter.

He had not looked at her twice.

His grief was raw — but instead of turning toward the child, it turned against her.

“If she is slain before her first breath, the curse sleeps.”

Those words echoed in his mind like a blade scraping stone.

But the child had breathed.

'Cried.'

'Lived.'

The court pressed harder.

“If she lives, the throne fractures.”

“Already the bell has cracked.”

“And now the Queen is dead.”

The King’s hands tightened on the armrests.

“She is my daughter,” he said, though his voice lacked strength.

“And your wife is gone because of her,” a noble answered coldly.

The hall fell silent.

That was the moment something inside him shifted.

Not fully hatred.

But fear.

Fear wrapped in grief.

He could not see Elowen’s sacrifice as love.

He saw it as consequence.

He did not see that she chose to give birth.

He saw that prophecy demanded blood — and took his Queen.

Malachir stood at the back of the hall, hood lowered.

Watching.

Listening.

Unable to intervene.

He saw what was happening.

The prophecy had warned:

“If the crown fears her, it will break.”

And fear was settling into the King’s bones.

That evening, the King made his decision.

The child would live.

'But not as heir.'

'Not as princess.'

'Not as daughter.'

'She would be hidden.'

'Locked away.'

'Raised in isolation.'

And when she turned sixteen—

When the second Blood Moon would rise—

She would be executed.

Quietly.

Publicly if necessary.

A sacrifice delayed.

To protect the kingdom.

The court approved.

Reluctantly.

The King returned alone to his chambers that night, mourning at the lose of his wife.

The nursery remained untouched.

He stood over the cradle where his daughter lay asleep.

Small.

Harmless.

Her chest rose and fell gently.

For a moment, something almost broke through him.

She looked nothing like a curse.

She looked like Elowen.

He clenched his jaw.

“Why?” he whispered — not to the child, but to the heavens.

“Why give her to me only to take her?”

Silence answered.

He mistook silence for cruelty.

He mistook grief for righteousness.

And in that misunderstanding, destiny deepened, harder than it should have.

Below the palace, Malachir stood in the dark.

He felt the weight of divine presence watching still.

Not judging.

Just there.

History had turned...

______________________________________________

The bells of Makarios rang for three days.

They did not ring in celebration, nor for prophecy, nor for the turning of seasons.

They rang for a queen who had given her last breath so another might take her first.

The white roses that once lined the palace gates were stripped and laid across the marble steps.

Citizens knelt in silence, their prosperous kingdom suddenly hollow. Mothers wept openly.

Soldiers removed their helms. Merchants closed their stalls.

The air itself felt dimmer, as though the sun was also in mourning.

At the center of the courtyard, beneath a sky stained faintly red from the fading Blood Moon, the Queen lay in silver robes, her hands folded peacefully over her still heart. She looked untouched by pain.

Untouched by sacrifice.

The King did not weep at first.

He stood rigid beside her coffin, crown heavy upon his head, eyes fixed on the child swaddled in dark silk—his daughter.

The prophecy echoed louder than the bells. Love warred with fear. Grief twisted into something colder.

And as the final stone sealed the Queen’s tomb, a thin crack spread across the palace floor.

The wind shifted.

Somewhere deep within the newborn’s cradle, something ancient stirred.

The curse had awakened.

And in with that, destiny deepened, harder than it should have.

Below the mourning ground, Malachir knelt in the dark.

He felt the weight of divine flame watching still.

'Witnessing.'

History had turned— sacrifices most be made.

The Queen had chosen love.

The King had chosen fear.

The first fracture of the crown had already formed.

It was not the bell.

It was the father.

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