**** ??CHAPTER THREE****
The moon rose-red like spilled blood.
Not softly.
Not gradually.
It bled into the sky like a wound reopening.
Queen Elowen bored 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 Aric 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 Aric 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.
“Aric…” 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 pace, in shadow near the courtyard arch, Machir 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 arm.
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.
"Here" she gave it back to him — her face Ghastly pale.
She looked at him one st 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 gss.
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.
Machir 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 pace was divided.
Some wept for the Queen.
Some whispered of curse.
The court gathered before noon.
Nobles filled the throne hall in bck and silver. Faces were pale, voices sharp.
“The Queen is dead.”
“The Blood Moon answered the prophecy.”
“This child cannot remain.”
King Aric 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 sin before her first breath, the curse sleeps.”
Those words echoed in his mind like a bde 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 cked 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.
Machir 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 isotion.'
And when she turned sixteen—
When the second Blood Moon would rise—
She would be executed.
Quietly.
Publicly if necessary.
A sacrifice deyed.
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 y 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 pace, Machir 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 st breath so another might take her first.
The white roses that once lined the pace gates were stripped and id 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 y 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 body, 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 pace 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, Machir knelt in the dark.
He felt the weight of divine fme 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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Borrdcat
Do please correct me on the spelling mistakes. ????
