"I'm telling you! That baby is a demon! We have to kill him now!"
The voice cracked like thunder through the birthing chamber, sharp and final.
The door stood slammed shut—barricaded from within by trembling hands and sheer desperation.
A lone woman stood before it, blood still streaking her legs, gown soaked in the agony of childbirth. Yet she stood tall, defiant, like a lioness shielding her cub.
Her breaths came ragged, but her eyes—fierce and ablaze—held no fear or pain. Only fury.
On the bed behind her, swaddled in soft linen, lay a newborn child. His tiny chest rose and fell with the softest rhythm.
A button nose, a faint pout, lashes like fine silk resting on plump, cherubic cheeks. He hadn't even opened his eyes yet.
He was beautiful.
Peaceful.
Innocent.
Unaware.
The world wanted him dead.
And the man shouting for his death was the so-called Hero of the Kingdom. The man revered by millions.
He had burst in unannounced mere moments after the cries of birth echoed out, looked upon the child once—and drawn his blade.
The mother's voice shook but didn't falter. "You will not touch him."
"Open the door, Seraphine," the hero ordered, eyes flashing. "You don't understand what he is."
"I do." Her hand pressed against the wood behind her, her back shielding the child like a wall of flesh and will. "He's my son. My miracle."
The air grew heavy with power. Not dark, not cruel. Something older. Something... grieving.
The child stirred, a tiny fist clenching above the linen wrap, but still he slept—peace untouched by the storm around him.
And Seraphine, her body barely healed, her soul raw and open, stood with eyes full of fire and tears. "You will not have him," she whispered.
There was no greater strength than that of a mother shielding her child from the world.
And no greater tragedy than the world wanting to take him.
The door burst open with a deafening crack.
Wood splintered. Hinges screamed. The force of the blow sent Seraphine flying across the room—her frail, blood-worn body slamming hard against the stone wall.
Pain bloomed across her back, but she did not scream.
She couldn't.
Her eyes darted—straight to the cradle.
To her son.
Still sleeping.
Still breathing.
And then—she heard it.
A voice in her mind. Cold and smooth. Like silk soaked in blood.
"Give me your son... and I'll save him from the hero. Your soul, your name, your place in this world—all will be mine. But your son will live."
The whispers of the devil.
In a world where Heroes walked with holy blades, there too must exist something to oppose them.
At the end of the hero's righteous path, always stood the devil.
They were temptation, corruption, ruin.
But in that moment—for Seraphine—they were salvation.
She looked at her son. Her miracle. Her everything.
He deserved a life.
Even if it was wrapped in shadow.
Even if it meant never seeing him again.
So, with the blood draining from her veins, and the strength of a dying flame—
She said yes.
The Hero raised his sword, righteous fury burning in his eyes.
He struck, clean and sharp, the blade cleaving the air as it came down upon the child—
But it met only empty cloth.
The cradle was vacant.
Gone.
The Hero froze.
His sword trembled.
"No…" he muttered, eyes wild. "No—what have you done?"
He turned to her, rage and disbelief crashing through him.
"What have you DONE!?"
Seraphine leaned against the wall, barely upright. Blood pooled beneath her.
But her lips curled into a smile. Faint. Tired.
Victorious.
"You forced me," she whispered.
And then—her body slumped.
The light faded from her eyes.
She had held on… just long enough.
Long enough to protect her child.
Long enough to defy the world.
Long enough… to choose damnation over death for her son.
***
Years had passed since that day.
The truth of what happened in the Kaelith household was buried—smothered under layers of lies, rewritten history, and heroic propaganda.
Seraphine the traitor, they called her now.
The madwoman who tried to summon a devil.
And the Hero? The man who "saved the world" from her.
The tale had been told so many times that even those who once knew the truth began to doubt it.
The world had moved on.
But somewhere far from the eyes of the kingdoms, in a tranquil garden where blossoms danced on the breeze and the sun filtered through veils of green, a young boy sat behind a woman.
He knelt silently, dutifully working his fingers into her shoulders, pressing along the delicate lines of muscle and bone. The woman—a mature beauty with flowing hair and a sharp, knowing smile—let out a soft moan with every press.
"Mm~ just like that," she whispered, voice laced with playful satisfaction. "You're getting good at this, darling."
The boy's face turned crimson.
Every sound she made, every pleased sigh, made his hands stutter. He was trying to focus—but she wasn't helping.
Her robe slipped just enough to expose the curve of her back, pale and flawless, and the boy gulped.
He looked away, ears burning.
She chuckled, sensing his discomfort, and leaned back ever so slightly.
"Oh my~ what's the matter? Getting flustered by your own handiwork?"
He froze.
A moment passed.
And then—
Thud!
He drove his fist—not hard enough to wound, but firm enough to definitely hurt—straight into the center of her back.
"Aghhh!" she shrieked, jerking upright.
"Stop teasing me!" he shouted, cheeks puffed and fists trembling.
She turned to him, pouting dramatically while rubbing her back. "That hurt, you little demon."
He turned away, arms crossed.
"Then stop making weird sounds when I'm trying to help…"
She blinked… and then broke into laughter, melodic and real.
"Ah, that's not how you treat your mother," she said with a pout, rubbing her back. "You should treat me with love."
The boy shot back without missing a beat, "Then act like one!"
She gasped dramatically, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh my~ I can't have you blushing over your own mother now, Rudy. That's not good."
Rudy's face went crimson.
"Wha—! I—I'm not—!"
And just like that, he bolted.
He ran off, face red as a tomato, stumbling over his own feet in his hurry to escape.
Behind him, his mother's laughter echoed through the garden.