The moon that night was unlike any other.

Heavy and swollen, it bled across the sky—an ominous crimson orb hanging low over the royal palace of the Jeon dynasty, as if the heavens themselves had descended to witness what was to come. Blood-red clouds smothered the stars, leaving no trace of their guiding light. The wind had stilled. Even the night seemed to hold its breath.

Inside the east wing of the palace, beneath a vaulted ceiling gilded in gold leaf and painted with celestial beasts locked in eternal dance, Queen Minah writhed in the throes of labor.

Her screams tore through the air—raw, ragged, and relentless—echoing along the polished marble corridors like the cries of something being torn apart from within.

Maids rushed frantically in and out of the chamber, their hands trembling as they carried fresh linens, steaming bowls of herbal infusions, and cloths soaked in warm water. The sharp scent of crushed roots and medicinal leaves lingered heavily in the air. None of it helped. Nothing eased the Queen's agony.

Her body trembled violently, slick with sweat that clung to her skin like a second layer. Strands of her once-perfect hair clung to her face, now a tangled crown of suffering. Her nails clawed at the silken sheets beneath her, her breath coming in broken gasps.

"The time is now," whispered the midwife, Cho-Sun.

She was an elder, her back slightly bent with age, her hands lined with the memory of countless births—princes and paupers alike. She had seen children born beneath eclipses, through storms, and in the dead silence of winter nights. Yet tonight, even she felt it—that quiet, creeping unease that settled deep in her bones.

The birthing chamber, usually radiant and grand with its intricate carvings of phoenixes rising and tigers prowling, felt suffocatingly dim. Oil lamps flickered weakly, their flames trembling as though frightened. Shadows clung stubbornly to every corner, stretching longer than they should.

At the far edge of the room, priests stood in a rigid line, their heads bowed as they murmured chants of protection beneath their breath. Their voices were low, urgent—threaded with something dangerously close to fear. Not one of them dared look away from the Queen.

Beyond the silk veil that marked the sanctum's boundary, King Jeon Haneul paced.

Back and forth. Again and again.

Royal tradition forbade him from entering the birthing chamber during labor, yet his presence pressed against the room like heat from a raging fire. A man forged by war and hardened by rule, he was not one to falter—but tonight, his composure cracked. His hands trembled at his sides. His jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

This was no ordinary birth.

It had been foretold.

A child of light would be born beneath a blood moon—a child destined to unite fractured lands and rule with the favor of the heavens themselves.

A child of prophecy.

And then—

It came.

A cry split through the chamber like a blade of sunlight piercing storm clouds.

Sharp. Powerful. Alive.

The sound silenced everything.

Cho-Sun let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding as she gently lifted the firstborn, her hands trembling despite her years of experience. She unwrapped the child with reverent care, as though handling something sacred.

"A son," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "The light has come."

As if in answer, the firelight brightened, flickering stronger, warmer. The infant stirred, then opened his eyes.

Gold.

Not brown. Not hazel.

Gold—like molten sunlight captured within fragile irises.

A collective gasp rippled through the room. Even the priests faltered, their chants breaking mid-verse as awe overtook them.

"Jeongukk..." Queen Minah breathed, her voice trembling with relief and reverence. Tears streamed freely down her flushed cheeks. "My son of the sun."

At last, the veil was parted.

King Haneul entered.

His boots struck against the marble with measured weight, though his steps slowed as he approached. His gaze, so often cold and unyielding, softened the moment it fell upon the newborn.

He reached out—hesitant, almost unsure.

Tiny fingers curled instinctively around his thumb.

The King exhaled, a quiet, fragile sound. "He is blessed."

For a fleeting moment, warmth settled over the chamber.

Peace.

Relief.

Hope.

But it shattered just as quickly.

Queen Minah's body convulsed violently once more.

A scream tore from her throat—sharper this time, edged with panic.

"No!" she gasped, clutching Cho-Sun's wrist with desperate strength. "It's done—I've already given birth!"

Cho-Sun's expression drained of color. Her hands moved swiftly to the Queen's abdomen—and stilled.

"There's another."

Silence fell.

Heavy. Suffocating.

A twin?

The prophecy had spoken of only one.

Minah's eyes widened in horror as realization struck. "No... no, no—there mustn't be!"

Her next scream was not just of pain—but of terror.

With grim urgency, Cho-Sun worked quickly, her movements precise despite the tension thickening the air.

And then—

The second child was delivered.

Silence.

No cry followed.

The stillness that descended was unnatural—wrong.

The baby did not wail. Did not gasp.

Did not breathe.

Instead, something else stirred.

Shadows.

At first faint, barely noticeable—then growing, thickening, coiling like tendrils of ink spilled into water. They gathered around the newborn, curling protectively, possessively.

The flames of the lamps dimmed.

The air turned cold.

Even the braziers sputtered as though suffocated.

Cho-Sun stepped back instinctively, clutching the child to her chest. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

The infant's skin was pale—too pale. Cool to the touch. Smaller than his brother. Fragile.

Yet—

Alive.

His eyelids fluttered.

Then opened.

Black.

Not dark—endless.

No whites. No color. No light.

Just depthless, consuming obsidian.

A murmur of horror spread through the chamber like wildfire.

Queen Minah turned her face away, her expression twisting with revulsion. "That... thing is not my son."

One of the priests stepped forward, his voice cutting through the silence—cold, absolute.

"This child was not foretold. The first is the prophecy. The second..." He paused, eyes narrowing. "The second is an error."

He gestured toward the infant, unease evident even in his rigid stance.

"A child born in silence, cloaked in shadow, bearing both the form of a prince and the mark of a girl... This is no blessing. This is an omen of ruin."

The King's jaw tightened.

Instinctively, he drew Jeongukk closer to his chest, his body angling away from the second child—as if shielding the light from the dark.

"He didn't even cry," someone whispered. "It's unnatural."

Cho-Sun swallowed hard, her voice trembling but firm. "He lives. Quiet, yes—but alive."

"Kill it."

The command fell like a blade.

Cho-Sun froze. "Your Majesty—"

"I said kill it!" Minah's voice broke into hysteria, her composure unraveling completely. "No one must know. Not the court. Not the people. Only one son was born—that is the truth. Do you understand me?!"

The King said nothing.

Slowly, he turned his gaze to the second child.

There was no confusion.

No hesitation.

No trace of fatherly warmth.

Only cold, unyielding hatred.

"Captain Do-yun."

From the shadows, a cloaked figure stepped forward—the commander of the royal guard. His face was carved from stone, unreadable.

"Take the child to the high mountains," the King ordered. "End this."

Do-yun bowed.

The night swallowed them whole.

Beyond the palace walls, past the winding river that split the kingdom in two, and into the jagged southern mountain pass—where ancient legends claimed the gods had buried their greatest mistakes.

The child remained silent throughout the journey.

Not asleep.

Watching.

Unblinking.

Unafraid.

At last, the guard halted beneath an ancient tree, its massive trunk hollowed with age. Its twisted bark resembled faces frozen in grief, as though the forest itself mourned something long forgotten.

Wind whispered softly through the branches above. The moon hid behind thick clouds.

Do-yun dismounted.

He unwrapped the child carefully.

The baby did not move—only stared up at him, mouth slightly parted, as if waiting.

His blade was already drawn.

One strike.

That was all it would take.

That was the order.

Yet—

He could not move.

Slowly, he sank to one knee.

For a fleeting, fragile moment, he saw not a curse... not a monster...

But a child.

Small.

Helpless.

Human.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely carrying through the wind. "Forgive me."

The child blinked once.

And that was enough.

With shaking hands, Do-yun lowered the blade.

Instead, he laid the infant gently upon a bed of moss beneath the roots. He wrapped the blood-stained silk tighter around the tiny body, shielding it from the cold.

Beside him, he placed a dagger—not as protection, but as mercy. If death came, let it be swift.

He rose, forcing himself not to linger.

Not to look back.

Mounting his horse, he rode into the darkness, his spine straight—but his heart unraveling with every step the animal took.

Behind him, the shadows stirred.

Curling closer.

Protecting.

And high within the trees—

Something watched.

Its silver eyes gleamed in the dark.

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The moon that night loomed heavy above the cliffs—vast, dimmed, and half-veiled behind drifting mist, like a watchful eye that refused to close. Its pale light bled across jagged rocks and ancient trees, turning the world silver and shadowed. The wind had stilled, yet the forest did not rest. It listened.

Pine and damp earth scented the air, laced with the chill of melting snow that trickled down unseen paths. The branches barely moved, but the silence felt wrong—too deep, too aware. As though something unseen lingered between the trees, waiting.

Beneath that uneasy sky, two figures walked along a narrow, moss-covered trail.

Jin pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, shivering despite herself. The cold had crept beneath her skin, settling somewhere deeper than the mountain air should reach. Her long dark hair lifted and danced with the faint breeze, strands catching the moonlight like threads of silver.

Beside her, Namjoon walked with steady steps, though his gaze wandered the forest more than the path. Every so often, his fingers brushed against hers—light, fleeting touches, as if to reassure her.

I'm here.

You're not alone.

They had left everything behind weeks ago.

The lowlands. Their families. Their names.

A life already written for them.

Jin—the chancellor's daughter, raised among silk and politics, meant to marry power, not love.

Namjoon—a farmer's son, with rough hands and a mind full of poetry, never meant to stand beside someone like her.

But they had chosen each other.

And the mountains, harsh and unforgiving, had given them something the world never had.

Freedom.

"Let's not go too far," Jin murmured softly, her voice barely disturbing the silence. "The fire will die soon."

"Just a little more," Namjoon replied, his tone gentle but distracted. "I like this... walking with you. It feels like the world's gone quiet just for us."

Jin smiled faintly, leaning just a little closer to him. "It does feel like that, doesn't it?"

But the moment lingered too long.

The quiet stretched.

And then—

Something broke it.

A sound.

Soft.

Fragile.

A cry.

Namjoon stopped mid-step.

Jin nearly stumbled into him. "What is it?"

He didn't answer immediately. His head tilted slightly, listening.

"There..." he whispered. "Did you hear that?"

Jin held her breath.

At first—nothing.

Then again.

A faint, broken sound. Not quite a cry. Not quite silence.

Her arms prickled with goosebumps. "It sounds like... someone's hurt."

Namjoon's expression tightened. "Or something else."

The forest seemed colder suddenly.

The shadows deeper.

"Let's go back," Jin said quickly, her fingers tightening around his sleeve. "We shouldn't be out here—"

The sound came again.

Weaker this time.

Helpless.

Namjoon hesitated.

Then shook his head. "I need to check."

"Namjoon—"

"What if someone's out here?" he insisted quietly. "What if they need help?"

Jin's grip faltered.

Fear flickered across her face—but so did something else.

Reluctance.

Concern.

Slowly, she nodded.

They moved forward together, more cautiously now. Each step felt heavier, as if the earth itself resisted them.

The sound led them off the path, deeper into the trees—toward a place where the ground turned bare and twisted roots clawed out of the soil.

And there—

Beneath the gnarled base of an ancient tree—

They saw it.

A bundle.

Small.

Still.

Stained dark.

Jin's breath caught. "What... is that?"

Namjoon didn't answer. He stepped closer, his heartbeat suddenly loud in his ears.

The bundle shifted.

And a faint sound escaped it.

A baby.

Bloodied cloth clung to the tiny form, stiff and damp. Dirt smeared its fragile skin, its limbs curled weakly inward as if trying to disappear.

But that wasn't what made Namjoon freeze.

It was what surrounded him.

Shadows.

They moved.

Thin, smoke-like tendrils curled around the child's body, shifting and coiling like living things. Not attacking.

Watching.

Waiting.

Jin stepped back instinctively. "Namjoon... don't."

He crouched anyway, drawn closer despite himself.

Then—

The baby opened his eyes.

Black.

Endless.

Empty of anything human.

Jin gasped, clutching his arm. "Those eyes... that's not—this isn't normal."

A faint glimmer of silver hair caught the moonlight, soft and strange against the darkness surrounding him.

Namjoon's chest tightened.

Something was wrong.

Deeply wrong.

"We shouldn't touch it," he said suddenly, standing up again, taking a step back. His voice had lost its softness. "Jin... this isn't just a child."

She stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Look at it," he insisted, his tone low but firm. "Left here in the mountains? Wrapped in blood? Surrounded by... whatever that is?" His jaw clenched. "This is not something we bring home."

The baby made a weak sound.

Not crying.

Just... there.

Jin looked between Namjoon and the child, conflict tearing through her expression.

"But he's alive," she whispered.

Namjoon shook his head. "That doesn't mean he's safe."

"For us?" she asked.

"For anyone."

The shadows shifted slightly, curling tighter around the baby's limbs.

Jin swallowed hard. "So we just leave him? To die?"

Namjoon didn't answer.

Because the answer was yes.

He forced himself to turn away. "We can't risk it. We've already lost everything—we don't even know what this is."

Jin didn't move.

"Jin," he said more firmly. "Come on."

The baby made another faint sound.

Weaker.

Colder.

Something in Jin broke.

"I can't," she said.

Namjoon froze. "What?"

"I can't leave him," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Look at him... he's freezing."

"He might not even be human!"

"And if he is?" she snapped, tears rising in her eyes. "If he is, then we're leaving a child here to die alone in the cold!"

Silence fell between them.

Heavy.

Painful.

Namjoon looked back at the bundle.

At those unnatural eyes.

At the shadows.

Then at Jin.

Her hands trembled—but she didn't step away.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Jin... if we take him, everything changes."

"I know."

"We don't have enough food. Enough warmth. We barely survive as it is."

"I know."

"And if someone comes looking for him—"

"Then we protect him."

Her answer came without hesitation.

Namjoon stared at her.

And slowly—his resistance began to crack.

The baby let out the faintest whimper.

That did it.

Namjoon cursed under his breath and dropped to his knees beside the tree.

"Damn it..." he muttered.

Carefully—hesitantly—he reached forward.

The shadows stirred.

Curling.

Watching.

His hand paused mid-air.

Then—

He lifted the child.

Cold.

Too cold.

The baby's tiny body barely reacted, limp against his hands.

Namjoon immediately pulled him close, tucking him beneath his cloak, pressing him against his chest for warmth.

The shadows followed.

Not resisting.

Not attacking.

Just... staying.

Jin let out a shaky breath.

"You're holding him," she whispered.

Namjoon closed his eyes briefly. "Yeah... I am."

He looked down at the small, fragile face nestled against him.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

"...We're not leaving him," he said quietly.

Jin nodded, tears slipping free. "No. We're not."

Inside the cave, warmth slowly returned.

The fire crackled weakly at first, then stronger as Jin fed it more wood. Light filled the small space, pushing back the shadows—but not completely.

Some of them remained.

Close to the child.

Namjoon laid him gently on a fur rug, carefully unwrapping the bloodstained cloth.

Jin prepared warm water, her hands steadier now, though her heart still raced.

"I'll clean him," she said softly.

Namjoon stayed beside her, watching closely.

As Jin wiped away the blood and dirt, the baby stirred faintly. A soft sound escaped him—not quite a cry, but something closer now.

And then—

She froze.

"Namjoon..."

He immediately leaned closer. "What is it?"

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Look."

He did.

And stilled.

Between the baby's legs—there was no clear form of a boy.

Instead, a small, delicate opening.

Neither fully male.

Nor fully female.

Namjoon blinked, stunned. "What... is he?"

"I don't know," Jin admitted quietly.

A long silence followed.

Then she reached for the cloth again.

"Help me," she said.

And he did.

No more questions.

No more hesitation.

They cleaned him gently, carefully, as though he had always belonged in their hands.

When they finished, he looked smaller somehow.

Softer.

Just a child.

Namjoon lifted him again, holding him close.

The baby let out a weak cry—his first true one.

Jin rushed to his side, taking him carefully. "Shhh... it's alright," she murmured, rocking him. "You're safe now."

She warmed goat milk over the fire while Namjoon watched, still quiet, still processing.

"How do we feed him?" he asked.

"With a spoon," Jin replied. "It will have to be enough."

They fed him slowly.

Patiently.

And he drank.

Hungry.

Desperate.

Alive.

Jin smiled faintly through her exhaustion. "He's starving..."

Namjoon didn't respond immediately.

He was watching the child.

Something in his expression had changed.

Softened.

"...He's ours now, isn't he?" he said quietly.

Jin looked at him.

Then nodded.

"Yes."

She hesitated, then asked softly, "What should we call him?"

Namjoon exhaled. "I don't know..."

Jin glanced down at the baby, who had finally begun to settle against her warmth.

"...Jungkook," she said.

Namjoon looked up. "Jungkook?"

"It means the center of a nation," she whispered. "And somehow... he already feels like the center of our world."

A small smile touched Namjoon's lips.

"...It's perfect."

They both leaned down, pressing soft kisses to the baby's tiny forehead.

Jungkook.

Warmth and shadow.

Silence and breath.

A question—

And perhaps, one day...

An answer.

And no matter what he was—

Or what the world would say—

They would keep him.

Because now...

He was theirs.

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The mountain night pressed close, thick with a silence that felt almost alive—watching, waiting, listening. It curled around the cliffs and trees like a shroud, heavy and endless beneath a pale, distant moon. The wind had quieted, yet the cold remained sharp, slipping through every crack in stone and bone alike.

But inside the small cave carved into the mountainside, a fragile warmth flickered against the darkness.

Firelight danced along the rough stone walls, soft gold against gray, pushing back the cold just enough to make the space feel like something more than survival—something closer to home.

Namjoon lay back against the straw mattress, exhaustion weighing down his limbs, yet he did not dare close his eyes.

Not when the baby was in his arms.

Jungkook's tiny body rested against his bare chest, wrapped carefully in strips torn from Jin's cloak. The fabric was rough, uneven—but it was warm. Warmer than anything the child had known before.

Still, he trembled.

So small.

So cold.

His silver hair shimmered faintly under the firelight, soft strands clinging to his damp forehead. And around him—like a second breath, a second skin—the shadows lingered. They curled faintly along his arms, his legs, shifting with slow, careful movements.

Not threatening.

Just... there.

Namjoon swallowed hard, his fingers trembling slightly as he brushed a strand of hair away from the baby's face.

"You're safe now," he whispered, voice low and unsteady. "You hear me? No one's going to hurt you."

The words felt too big.

Too fragile.

But he said them anyway.

Jin knelt beside him, her presence soft but grounding. Her hands still trembled from everything that had happened, yet when she reached out to touch Jungkook's cheek, her fingers were gentle—steady with something deeper than fear.

Her eyes shimmered in the firelight.

"Our son..." she breathed, the words barely more than air. "Our baby..."

Namjoon glanced up at her.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then slowly, he shifted, making space—and Jin leaned closer. Their foreheads touched, resting together just above the child cradled between them.

Three breaths.

One fragile warmth.

One impossible bond.

The shadows moved.

Not sharply. Not violently.

Softly.

They slipped from Jungkook's small body, stretching outward like hesitant fingers, brushing against Namjoon's wrist—then Jin's.

Jin stiffened.

Namjoon noticed immediately. "What is it?"

She didn't pull away.

"They're... touching us," she whispered.

Namjoon's gaze dropped.

The shadows lingered around their skin, cool and weightless—like mist that had learned how to feel.

They didn't tighten.

Didn't harm.

They simply... stayed.

As if learning.

As if deciding.

Namjoon let out a slow breath. "They're not hurting us."

Jin shook her head faintly. "No..."

Her fingers curled slightly, as if instinctively reaching back.

"They feel..." she hesitated, searching for the right word. "...lonely."

Namjoon looked down at the baby again.

At Jungkook.

And something in his chest tightened painfully.

"Then he's not anymore," he murmured.

He adjusted his hold, pulling the child closer against his heart.

"I won't let him be."

Jungkook stirred.

A small, broken sound escaped him—soft, fragile.

A cry trying to form.

Namjoon's breath hitched instantly. "He's waking—"

Jin moved without hesitation, gently taking the baby into her arms. She cradled him against her chest, rocking him slowly.

"Shhh... it's alright," she whispered, her voice soft despite the tremble in it. "You're warm now... you're safe..."

The baby whimpered again, his tiny fingers twitching weakly against her.

"He's still cold," Jin said quietly, panic flickering beneath her calm. "Namjoon, he's so cold—"

Namjoon was already reaching for another cloth, wrapping it around Jungkook more securely.

"We'll keep him warm," he said firmly, though his voice cracked slightly. "We'll figure it out."

Jin nodded, though her eyes filled with tears.

"We have to," she whispered.

The hours stretched slowly into the night.

They did not sleep.

Not really.

They couldn't.

Instead, they took turns holding Jungkook—passing him carefully between them whenever one's arms grew too tired, though neither truly wanted to let go.

Namjoon hummed softly under his breath, an old tune he barely remembered, his deep voice steady and grounding.

Jin followed with quiet lullabies—ancient songs from her childhood, once sung in grand halls, now echoing gently against stone walls.

The baby listened.

His small body slowly began to relax.

The trembling eased.

His breathing steadied.

Each tiny change felt like a miracle.

They fed him again—warm goat's milk, carefully spooned into his mouth. At first, it spilled clumsily past his lips, but slowly—so slowly—he began to drink.

Hungry.

Desperate.

Alive.

"He's learning," Jin whispered, watching closely, hope trembling in her voice.

Namjoon nodded. "He's strong."

Stronger than he should have had to be.

At some point, Jungkook shifted again—this time reaching.

His tiny hand lifted weakly, brushing against Jin's wrist.

Jin froze.

Then slowly, she smiled through her tears.

"He's reaching for me..."

Namjoon's chest tightened at the sight.

Without thinking, he placed his hand gently over both of theirs.

"So small..." he murmured.

"So ours," Jin replied softly.

Beyond the mountains—

Far below—

The palace stood in cold, unmoving silence.

Its towering walls gleamed under torchlight, unmarred, untouched by the struggles of the world beyond.

Inside, warmth existed—but not the kind born of love.

Queen Minah reclined against embroidered silks, her posture elegant, her face composed—but her eyes held no softness. Only sharp, calculating stillness.

"The child of light," she said quietly, almost to herself, "will bring glory to this kingdom."

King Jeon Haneul stood near the cradle, his gaze fixed upon the infant within.

Jeongukk.

Wrapped in gold-threaded silk.

Bathed in soft candlelight.

Perfect.

The king reached down, brushing his son's cheek with careful fingers. His expression softened—pride, certainty, something close to reverence.

"Our future," he murmured.

Minah's lips curved faintly. "Our legacy."

The room glowed with warmth.

But it was hollow.

Because when silence fell—

And thoughts wandered—

Neither spoke of the second child.

No grief.

No doubt.

Only absence.

The guard's report had been enough.

The shadow child was gone.

And so, to them—

He no longer existed.

Back in the cave, the fire burned low.

Its light flickered gently, casting long shadows across the walls.

Namjoon sat with his back against the stone, Jungkook once again resting against his chest. Jin leaned beside him, her head resting lightly on his shoulder.

Exhaustion pulled at them both—but neither let go.

"We can't stay here long," Jin murmured after a while.

Namjoon nodded slowly. "No."

"There's a village further down the mountain... small, quiet. They might help us."

He was quiet for a moment.

Then, "We'll go at dawn."

Jin hesitated. "And if... they come looking?"

Namjoon's arm tightened slightly around Jungkook.

"They won't find us," he said.

There was no hesitation this time.

No doubt.

"Not him."

Jin looked at him.

Really looked.

And saw it.

The change.

The same man who had refused—

Who had tried to walk away—

Now held the child like something sacred.

Unbreakable.

She smiled faintly, leaning closer.

"We'll give him a life," she whispered. "A real one."

Namjoon looked down at the baby.

At the silver hair.

The fragile breaths.

The shadows that now curled softly around all three of them.

"...We already have," he said.

Jungkook stirred once more, letting out a soft, sleepy sound.

Namjoon adjusted his hold instinctively, careful, protective.

Jin reached out, brushing a gentle kiss against the baby's forehead.

"Jungkook," she whispered.

The name settled into the air.

Soft.

Certain.

Namjoon smiled faintly.

"The center of a nation," he murmured. "And somehow... the center of us."

Jin nodded.

"Yes."

Outside, the night remained cold and endless.

Inside, something small—but powerful—had begun.

Not prophecy.

Not fate.

But choice.

And love.

And the fragile, defiant promise of a family that should not have existed—

Yet did.

Because no matter what the world believed...

The child of shadow had not been abandoned.

He had been chosen.

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