FROST
Chapter 93: You are Me—The Birth of the Demon’s Seed

Chapter 93: You are Me—The Birth of the Demon’s Seed

Long before the Guardian Realm was fully formed, when the Moonstone Academy had not yet risen from the ether of dreams and starlight, there existed a time of quiet unrest within the Lunar Kingdom.

It was a time when magic flowed more freely, raw and untamed, answering more to intent than discipline. In these early days, a child was destined to be born—a child whose birth was so consequential, so steeped in prophecy, that the entire realm seemed to shudder in anticipation.

To protect the Queen and the unborn prince from the many threats that came with such a fate—spies, curses, blood rituals, and twisted prophecies whispered through the corridors of rival courts—the royal seers decreed that the birth must not occur within the palace nor in any known location.

Instead, a sacred birthing rite was prepared deep in the Veiled Cradle, a cave hidden in a mountainous region shrouded by thick lunar mist, known only to a few.

The cave itself was ancient, a place that predated even the first Lunar Monarch. Its jagged entrance opened like the mouth of a great stone beast, fanged with icicles and moss.

The air was cool and heavy with the scent of earth, blood-root, and salt. Within, the stone walls were etched with faded runes from long-forgotten times—words that no longer held meaning, yet still pulsed faintly with ancestral magic.

It was here, on a naturally formed slab of silver-veined rock—shaped eerily like a sacrificial altar—that the Queen lay, drenched in pain and sweat, her body writhing as it tried to bring forth the child of twisted fate.

Only the most trusted had been allowed inside the Veiled Cradle: two midwives, Lady Lo and Lady Lishu, revered healers both; the Queen herself, her breath ragged and chest heaving; and the Lunar King, Caspian, dressed in a simple white ceremonial robe, standing at her side, though the child within her was not of his seed—but from a violence.

Outside the cave, the Twelve—those most powerful Sorcerers of the Lunar Kingdom—stood in a sacred circle, white cloaks flowing like ghostly banners in the darkness.

Each sorcerer had a staff crowned with a crystal that glowed with varying hues: moonlight blue, silver, lilac, and soft rose. Their hoods were drawn low, their eyes closed, lips murmuring the ancient chants in perfect harmony. They stood shoulder to shoulder, facing outward, guarding the cave from all sides.

The night was black and vast, save for the flickering of enchanted torches embedded into the stone walls, their flames unusually steady despite the strong mountain winds that howled beyond the sealing spell.

Sigils burned gently upon the stone at regular intervals, floating and rotating slowly in midair like celestial glyphs. These magical seals not only lit the cavern but also pulsed with wards meant to repel any form of dark enchantment, curse, or malignant spirit that might seek to breach the birthing sanctuary.

Inside, the Queen screamed again—her voice a melody of agony and strength. The sound echoed off the stone walls, resonating through the hearts of all who stood near.

Her white ceremonial dress, once pristine, now clung to her like a second skin, soaked in perspiration. Her once cascading hair, matted and clinging to her temple, gleamed dully in the low light.

King Caspian gripped her trembling hand with both of his. His knuckles were pale from the pressure. His usual grace and elegance had dissolved; now, he was simply a man caught in the eye of destiny. His mouth moved soundlessly at first, then found its voice in a cracked whisper:

"I–Is she okay, Lady Lo?"

He stammered, shifting his weight uncertainly, as if debating whether he should let go or hold on tighter. His gaze moved between the convulsing Queen and the wise midwife.

The Queen, despite her pain, clenched his hand tighter, grounding herself with the only warmth in the room not conjured by magic.

Lady Lo glanced up, her expression calm yet firm. "The crown is emerging, Your Majesty. She must push now. We are close—"

The Queen’s body twisted again with a groan, teeth clenched, back arched against the cold stone table. Lady Lishu, standing on the opposite side of the Queen, pressed steady palms against the Queen’s swollen belly, murmuring soothing incantations, urging the muscles to contract and release with rhythm.

But then Lady Lishu’s brows furrowed, her breath catching. She looked across the Queen’s form to the King, voice low but urgent.

"M-My King... the seal—" her voice trembled, "the seal you placed around the Queen’s womb... it’s slipping."

A surge of energy flickered through the air, noticeable even to the untrained. One of the hovering sigils above the Queen began to flicker erratically, losing shape. The smooth hum of protective magic turned jittery, disrupted.

From outside the cave, the Twelve simultaneously stiffened. The ground beneath them trembled lightly. One of them, High Sorcerer Thalior, opened his eyes with a sharp gasp. "Something is interfering. From within..."

Inside, the temperature dropped by several degrees. The Queen cried out again, this time her voice laced with more than pain—it was fear. A thin shadow, not cast by any of those present, briefly slithered along the cave wall like a serpent.

Caspian’s eyes widened. "What do you mean it’s slipping? I bound it myself—"

Lady Lo’s face was grim. "Your Majesty, something is testing the ward. Something within the Queen... or perhaps within the child."

Another contraction came, fierce and unrelenting. The Queen screamed once more, but it was not the cry of a woman giving life. It was something... deeper. Older. And all the torches flickered simultaneously, their blue-white flames flashing red for a heartbeat.

Lady Lishu paled. "The child... we must deliver him now, before the seal fully breaks—!"

But whatever magic stirred in the shadows was already awakening.

And the child, not yet born, pulsed with a power that the cave had not seen in ages—one that did not fully belong to either light or darkness.

The King’s brows furrowed deeply, his silver eyes shadowed with rising dread as the weight of Lady Lishu’s words settled in his chest. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he turned his gaze toward the Queen.

With measured care, he pried her fingers from his and guided her hand to the silverwood rod positioned beside the altar. The rod, carved with lunar sigils and bound in glowing threads of moonstone filigree, pulsed faintly under her touch.

It was a conduit meant to stabilize the flow of her magic—what little remained after the long months of carrying such a child.

"You must hold onto this, my love," he said gently, his voice quieter now, more fragile. "Let it take some of your pain."

Without another breath wasted, Caspian stepped around the altar and stood beside her swollen belly. The light in the cave was dim—only flickering torches and the low blue gleam of magical sigils cast shadows along the walls.

The cloaked Sorcerers outside continued their vigil, their white hoods pulled low, hands outstretched as they maintained the warding seal encasing the cavern. Wind howled faintly beyond the barrier, but inside, it was deathly still.

The King raised his hand over the Queen’s stomach. The air between his palm and her skin shimmered like disturbed water, and then—there it was.

An ancient seal, circular and complex, emerged like black ink rising to the surface of a page. The markings twisted and pulsed with unnatural rhythm, wrapping around her womb in a dark halo.

The sigils, originally inscribed in sacred ink by the Twelve themselves, now flickered violently, their symmetry warping and distorting as if something inside was resisting them—dismantling them.

Caspian’s hand trembled.

A sudden pressure gripped his bones, traveling up his wrist like ice. He winced, drawing a sharp breath. "T-The child..." he stammered, his voice hoarse, eyes widening as he looked at the seal. "The child is... cancelling the seal itself..."

A heavy silence fell.

The midwives froze, eyes locked on the markings now visibly unraveling like threads cut loose from a loom. The Queen let out a cry, her body arching despite the pain, her magic flaring wildly, uncontrolled.

Lady Lo’s lips parted in a gasp. "That’s not possible," she whispered. "That seal was cast with thirteen hands, thirteen wills... Including you, My King."

The seal pulsed violently once more, and the Queen cried out, her voice raw with agony, echoing through the stone walls like a soul being torn apart.

"My Queen," Lady Lo urged, her voice trembling with urgency, "you must push now—or else the prince—"

But she never finished the sentence.

The King’s breath caught in his throat. A chill swept through the chamber. He turned sharply to his right, drawn by a presence so unnatural, so cold, it felt like the temperature had dropped tenfold in an instant.

A shadow stood there.

It hadn’t been there before.

It loomed in the far corner—motionless, coiled in darkness so dense it seemed to ripple, as if reality itself strained to hold it back. The torches flickered wildly, their flames recoiling from the thing that now inhabited the room.

For a breathless moment, it did nothing.

Then—

The two midwives collapsed at once, their bodies folding like puppets with their strings severed. A sharp crack sounded as one of their heads struck the marble floor, blood blooming like ink in water.

Caspian moved. Reflexively. Instinctively. He stepped forward, shielding the Queen, his arm outstretched. Magic shimmered faintly at his fingertips, unsteady against the crushing pressure of the presence now enveloping them all.

The Queen could barely lift her head. Her body convulsed as if her insides were being torn apart—every muscle clenched, every nerve on fire. But beneath that agony, deeper than her physical pain, was a suffocating weight. The mana in the room had turned rancid—thick with malevolence. It pressed against her skin, burrowed into her bones.

Demonic.

Her eyes fluttered open through tears and sweat. The chamber spun. Her vision narrowed.

And then—she saw him.

He stood just beyond the stone archway, half-shrouded by shadows, as if the darkness itself was clinging to him like a second skin. His feet hovered slightly above the ground, untouched by dust or light. His long, tattered cloak swayed even though no wind stirred. Horns curved backward from his skull like blades forged from obsidian, catching a faint gleam from the torchlight.

His presence filled the space.

Overwhelming. Unholy. Inevitable.

Her breath hitched, the scream caught in her throat.

She knew that figure.

That monstrous elegance. That void where a soul should be.

The demon who had lured her into the forest on the night of the lunar eclipse.

The one who whispered promises in a language older than stars.

The one who defiled her beneath the cursed moonlight.

The one who left her with this child.

The one who never truly left.

His eyes glowed like dying embers—red, ancient, endless. And as they met hers, he smiled, slow and terrible, revealing teeth far too sharp for any mortal mouth.

She could not speak, could not weep, could not even summon hatred.

Only terror.

Still, the demon did not move.

He stood there, unblinking, as if savoring the moment—watching his creation come into the world through screams and blood.

As though everything—all the pain, the fear, the prophecy—had always been leading to this.