Born By Shadows

Part 1

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.

Thanks for reading and tell me how was the first chapter.

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