THE RED KING - JACAERYS VALERYON [MALE OC]

DEAL WITH THE DEVIL • 02

THE RED KING◽️. #mature audiences only.

The castle of Aurea was shrouded in a tense, almost tangible silence.  The usual bustling of servants and guards was replaced by the hushed whispers and anxious glances toward the queen's chambers. I, Queen Elara Wyllt, lay in labor, surrounded by midwives and healers, as the future of our kingdom hung in the balance.

  The birth was arduous and long.  The pain was unlike anything I had ever experienced, but the thought of finally bringing our heir into the world kept me strong.  King Daeron, my husband, waited anxiously outside, forbidden from entering the birthing room by ancient traditions.  The hours dragged on, each moment stretching into an eternity.

Finally, the moment arrived. With a final, agonizing push, the baby emerged. The room fell silent, the only sound the midwife's gasp of horror. I craned my neck, desperate to see my child, but the expressions of those around me filled me with dread.

  "Your Majesty," the head midwife said softly, her voice trembling.  "The child... he is stillborn."

A wail of despair erupted from my throat as I reached for my lifeless son.  The tiny body was pale and unmoving, his skin a ghastly blue. Tears streamed down my face as I clutched him to my chest, my heart breaking with each passing second.

King Daeron burst into the room, his eyes wild with fear and desperation.  He took in the scene, his face contorting in grief as he saw our son, lifeless in my arms.

"No," he whispered, his voice cracking. "This cannot be.  We need an heir.  Aurea needs an heir."

King Daeron paced the halls of the castle, his mind racing.  He could not accept this fate. There had to be a way to save his son, to bring him back from the brink.  Desperation led him to consider options he would have otherwise deemed unthinkable.

It was then that he remembered the dark witch who had once visited Aurea, a follower of the Lord of Light.  She had spoken of powers beyond comprehension, of magic that could bend the very fabric of life and death. Summoning his most trusted guard, Daeron sent for the witch, his mind set on a desperate course of action.

Within hours, the witch arrived.  She was a tall, gaunt woman with piercing eyes and a presence that seemed to darken the very air around her.  She carried with her an aura of foreboding, but Daeron was beyond fear.

"Can you bring him back?" Daeron demanded, his voice filled with a mix of hope and dread.

The witch examined the lifeless form of the infant prince, her eyes narrowing as she assessed the situation.  "It is possible," she replied slowly.  "But the price will be great."

"Anything," Daeron insisted.  "I will pay any price."

The witch's eyes gleamed with a dark understanding. "Very well," she said.  "The life of the child can be restored, but in return, a life must be given.  When he reaches his seventeenth year, your life will be forfeit."

Daeron hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Do it."

The witch set to work immediately.  She drew intricate symbols around the infant, chanting in a language that seemed to echo from the depths of time itself.  Flames flickered and danced around the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Daron watched in a daze, his grief momentarily overshadowed by a flicker of hope.

A warmth began to emanate from the witch's hands, a glow that spread to the infant's body.  The air grew thick with energy, a palpable force that seemed to pulse in time with the witch's chants.  Slowly, color began to return to the baby's cheeks.  His tiny chest heaved once, then again, as he drew his first breath.

Gasps of astonishment filled the room as the baby opened his eyes.  They were a piercing blue, reflecting the flames around him.  His hair, once dark like his parents', had turned a striking shade of silver-white, a mark of the magic that had brought him back.

Daeron wept with joy and relief, holding his son close. But the witch's warning echoed in Daeron's mind.  He knew that his joy was borrowed time, that the price of his son's life was his own death when the boy reached seventeen.

The witch watched them with a knowing gaze. "Remember the price, Your Majesty," she said. "When the time comes, it must be paid."

Daeron nodded solemnly, his resolve firm.  "I understand. Thank you."

As the witch departed, the castle slowly returned to its normal rhythm, though the story of the miraculous birth spread quickly. Mylo Wyllt, the heir to the throne, had been brought back from the brink of death through powerful and ancient magic.

His silver hair became a symbol of his unique destiny, a reminder of the cost his father had willingly paid.

In the years that followed, Mylo grew strong and healthy, his chaos magic beginning to manifest in subtle ways. The people of Aurea revered him, unaware of the dark bargain that had ensured his survival. And as his seventeenth year approached, both he and his father could feel the weight of the impending price.

King Daeron never spoke of the witch's prophecy to anyone, not even Elara. He watched his son grow with pride and love, knowing that his own life was the price of Mylo's future. When the time came, Daeron faced his fate with courage, leaving behind a legacy of sacrifice and a kingdom poised for greatness under Mylo's rule.