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  ?? ****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 Revetion.

  The Prophet would descend into the Prophecy Chamber beneath the pace cathedral. He would kneel before the Altar of the Eternal Fme. 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 ughter and sunlight.

  Makarios didn't simply survive.

  It flourished, with every step

  The nd 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 Revetion.

  People bowed as he passed.

  They trusted him.

  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 pace 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, circur, domed, with six eternal braziers arranged in a ring around the altar. At its center burned the Eternal Fme — small, unwavering, neither consuming nor diminishing.

  Machir knelt.

  He removed his staff.

  He pressed his forehead to the cold stone.

  “Speak,” he whispered.

  Silence.

  The fme flickered.

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

  The fme 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.'

  Machir 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.”

  Machir trembled, slightly

  “She shall fracture the crown that fears her."

  His hands shook against the stone.

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

  His fists clenched in agony.

  “If she lives, destiny will split.”

  The fme fred 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.

  Machir 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 fme flickered – sending an image of a person in bck gender unable to say but the grin on their face spoke plenty. Finally the fme 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.

  Machir 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.

  Machir climbed the steps slowly.

  The crowd quieted.

  For one hundred years, this moment had meant celebration.

  This time, his silence sted too long.

  “Speak,” the King commanded gently.

  Machir 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 sin 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.

  Machir 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 st 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.

  Machir 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 sin 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 Machri 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 pace, in the silence of her unborn state — it stirred in her slowly.

  Not in malice.

  In awareness.

  The blood moon arrived weeks ter.

  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 begins the new night were all changed the night history will take a turn – writing new pages.

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