1 1 The King That Was Promised
The full moon hung heavy in the night sky, bathing the world in an ethereal silver light. Inside a small cottage, nestled amongst the whispering pines of the Blackwood Forest, a woman lay in the throes of childbirth. Isabella Duval, her golden blonde hair damp with the perspiration of labor, lay upon a weathered birthing bed in the heart of the Blackwood Forest. As she grappled with the pangs of childbirth.
Her almond-shaped eyes, clouded with a mix of pain and determination, glistened with the moon's silvered touch.
Her cries echoed through the night, a midwife can be seen trying to usher out a baby. Isabella has given birth twice before, but this time something felt different, the whole pregnancy felt different. The air was thick with anticipation, and even the nocturnal creatures seemed to hold their breath, sensing the arrival of something extraordinary.
The midwife, a wise woman with hands weathered by the passage of time, moved with practiced grace. Her fingers, gnarled like the ancient trees surrounding the cottage, cradled the newborn as Isabella's agonized cries filled the night. The room seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, as if the very fabric of reality responded to the child's arrival.
The moonlit room bore witness to a birth that transcended the ordinary, and Isabella's every gasp echoed through the dense forest like a hymn to the night.
As contractions intensified, it occurred to her that she was making dinner for her children when contractions began, at this moment she remembers her kids have probably not eaten. She would have postponed labor if she could, but that wasn't an option. Guilt mingled with pain as she envisioned hungry faces awaiting a meal that was indefinitely postponed. With every push, the pain gets more severe, she has never felt a pain this severe in her life, her other two experiences with birth were fairly painless, this is something else. The baby inside of her felt like it was trying to Claw it way out.
Simultaneously, in a remote corner of the realm, an old sorceress named Elara, draped in mystical attire, slipped into a dreamlike trance. slipped into a dreamlike trance. Her milky eyes, veiled by a thin layer of mist, beheld the scene unfolding in Isabella's cottage. In her vision, she saw the vivid scene of a child being born under the full moon, surrounded by an aura of ancient magic.
As if on cue, a chorus of howls erupted from the depths of the forest, echoing through the night. Isabella's cries intensified, reaching a crescendo before abruptly cutting off.
A moment of silence descended, heavy with anticipation. Then, a soft whimper broke the stillness, followed by the unmistakable cries of a newborn.
Elara, still in a dreamlike state, With a knowing smile, she spoke with a calm raspy voice to her disciples, who were just four in numbers, "He is here, The Lupus Dei is here, The King that was promised is here. The full moon has brought a force to be reckoned with, the world will never be the same". She snaps out of her trance and crumbles to the floor.
Back in Isabella's dwelling, the newborn's cries echoed through the room, resonating with the distant howls of the wolves. Isabella, exhausted yet determined, cradled the infant in her arms. As the moonlight spilled over the room, she noticed a peculiar detail—a fine fur covering the middle of the baby's back, concealing a mysterious symbol.
Isabella's face was pale but serene, gazed at her son with a mixture of love and fear. His birth, coinciding with the full moon and the wolves' unearthly howls, had been far from ordinary. The mark on his back, a stark reminder of the unusual circumstances of his arrival, confirmed her worst fears.
Her husband, Viktor Duval, a commanding presence at six foot two, possessed deep blue eyes that held an enigmatic depth. His once-black hair, now touched by silver, added an air of seasoned wisdom to his distinguished appearance. His absence during this significant occasion left an unspoken void, though the nature of the event rendered his potential involvement limited.
He had left weeks prior on one of his many hunting expeditions, his whereabouts unknown. His absence during this momentous occasion was conspicuous and sketchy. His perpetual and conveniently timed ventures into the wilderness had always been veiled in secrecy. Isabella has harbored a perpetual curiosity about his undisclosed activities, a quiet wonder that has never found its way into spoken inquiry. The gifts he unfailingly brings back for the children have acted as appeasing tokens, causing her lingering suspicions to find a temporary place of rest.
Their once warm connection has frayed with the passage of years, and he, in his increasing enigma, no longer possesses the captivating charm that once drew her in. He comes and goes, barely saying a word to her. The distance between them is what made this child possible.
Isabella, now alone with her newborn, grappled not only with the challenges that awaited but also with the delicate task of concealing the truth about Ethan's true heritage from her husband.
A profound understanding settled within her—the trajectory of her life had irrevocably shifted. In a quest for a solution, Isabella sought out a blade, determined to remove the peculiar fur clinging to her baby's back. With a delicate touch, she wielded the blade, but an inadvertent slip led to a small cut on her son's skin. A moment of distress followed, marked by the baby's cries and a brief flow of blood. However, in a startling turn of events, the wound swiftly closed, leaving no trace of the deep cut. Isabella stood in stunned silence, her shock giving way to a profound sense of amazement.
In the midst of this miraculous occurrence, Isabella's daughter, Celeste, entered the room. The 4-year-old, wide-eyed with curiosity, offered to cradle her baby brother. Isabella, still processing the extraordinary events, gently declined, cautioning that the infant was particularly delicate today.Inquiring about her elder brother's whereabouts, Isabella turned to her daughter and asked, "Where is your brother, Celeste?" Without hesitation, Celeste replied, "He's fast asleep in the sitting room." Isabella, typically conscientious about her son's resting place, felt an uncharacteristic calm. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have risen to escort Marcus to his bed, but today was different; he could sleep anywhere, and this did not trouble her.
As the first rays of dawn painted the sky with hues of gold and pink, Elara gathered her disciples around her, all five of them. Her eyes, now alight with a newfound purpose, surveyed the faces before her.
"The time has come," she declared, her voice ringing with authority. "We must prepare for the coming conflict. The king that was promised has been born, and with him, our destiny unfolds".
The disciples leaned in, their expressions a tapestry of anticipation mingled with a hint of trepidation and fervor.
Amidst them stood Thorne Blackwell, an unassuming figure of average build, yet his piercing blue eyes betrayed a subtle intrigue. He is the youngest amongst Elara's disciples. A sly smile played upon his lips as he absorbed the unfolding events with an attentiveness that surpassed his peers, he seemed to crave this more than everybody in attendance. Clad in a dark cloak that draped him like a veil of mystery, he stood as a silent observer, his eyes aglow with an arcane knowledge that penetrated the very essence of the gathering.
Elara, sensing the urgency of her revelation, subtly gestured to Thorne, signaling the need for a private discussion. He followed her to the seclusion of her room, where the air crackled with an undercurrent of mystique.
In the dimly lit room, Elara drew Thorne close, her words carrying a weight of prophecy. "Go and find The Lupus Dei," she whispered urgently, her gaze penetrating. "His destiny teeters on a delicate balance between good and evil. Should the vampires seize him, the world as we know it will crumble."
Thorne, absorbing the gravity of the situation, and knowing that he is the only one capable of going on this quest, still asks, "Why me, great one?" Elara, a repository of ancient wisdom, responded with a calm assurance, "Each disciple harbors their own agenda. Yours, for now, aligns with mine, and I am not strong enough to do it myself. I sense your weariness with seeing our kind manipulated, tortured, and discarded by those bloodsucking creatures. We have declined in numbers, due to these deadly creatures, you more than anyone of us knows what these creatures are capable of. The time to fight is upon us, for the war has truly begun."
Acceptance settled in Thorne's eyes as Elara's words resonated with a personal truth. This was more than a mission; it was a call to arms fueled by a deep-seated vendetta.
