Bound By Blood

Prologue

The Queen's screams were ear-piercing. Her grip on her husband's hand was nearly strong enough to break each finger. Her hair was slick with sweat, and her body was on fire. She was being ripped in two by the baby, making its way into the world through her legs. Exhaustion racked her body, and she was so close to succumbing to an eternal sleep. Bursts of shot through her body like tidal waves crashing against the shore. She felt like Death himself and didn't even question seeing his shadow looming in the corner of her room.

    The King watched as his wife fought between blessing them with a child and her own life. Tears flooded from his eyes, and at that moment, he felt completely helpless. Powerless. There was too much blood–far more than usual. Blood dripped from her ears and nose; even her tears were crimson. All the while she still held onto her love's hand.

    Doctors, nurses, and maids rushed around the room, doing whatever could be done to save the child and queen. A man stood to the side of her bed, watching the scene play out but offering no assistance. Death loomed in the room, holding his bloody scythe.

    Seven hours of labor had already passed. It was the most brutal seven hours to pass in years. The personnel around the room were in a panic as they tried to keep the Queen alive, as well as themselves. So many of them had already died by the powerful child being born. They bled out or had their muscles contract and snap them into knots. Royal births were not known for going well, but this was the first in history that would resemble a massacre. No child of royal blood was this powerful fresh out of the womb. The King had never known true terror until this moment. Until he watched as his wife slowly slipped from existence and his baby emerged.

    While she cried out in agony, he whispered in her ear. He would reminisce on their fondest memories. He recalled their first meeting, their wedding, and the day they found out they had conceived. Only now, he wished they never had if this was how it would play out.

    He kissed her earlobe and swallowed his tears, "Cyra. My beautiful Cyra," he whispered. "I cannot lose you."

Before he could say any more sentiments to his wife, she cried out one final time as the baby finally stemmed from her womb. Its' screams were louder than even Queen Cyra's, and with each kick of its tiny leg or throw of its fist, another person bled out or snapped like a twig. People fled the horror, none bothering to clean the child or cut the cord.

    The King did not move as sobs racked his body. Why the child hadn't killed him yet, he wasn't sure. He could only think of his wife and the life they would never have together. He lingered on the thought of how he must live in the same room she died in. He refused to acknowledge his child and refused his wife wouldn't come back to him. Instead, he turned to Death, who now lingered behind him.

    "You have been my oldest friend, but if you take her, you will forever be my enemy. And I will find a way to kill even you."

    Death just stared into the King's red and tear-rimmed eyes. "You may command death. But you do not command Death."

    "I am as much a god as you."

    Death only let out a slow laugh. "You are no god, friend. You're merely their toy." He took a step closer to the bed. "And not even the gods are above me."

    And with that, the King watched as Death lowered the tip of his scythe to Queen Cyra's chest. As he pulled it away, her body went completely still and lost its color. Death said nothing else before he turned and vanished.

    Three bodies were all that was left in the grand room, but only two of them remained crying. The baby quieted from screaming to silent tears. Finally, ever so slowly, the King stood and went to see the child that lay in his wife's blood. He wished he could kill it, wish it dead, and watch it happen as simply as it sounds. But without an heir, his bloodline would die. The divine gift would cease to exist.

Instead, he picked up his child, his daughter, and watched her writhe under his foreign touch. He slipped the dagger from his belt and cut the cord in two, severing the only connection his daughter would ever have with her mother.

    The King turned from the bed and passed through to the bathroom that was spared from the bloodshed. He set his daughter in the sink and began to gently clean off the vernix. As he washed her, he whispered things to her. However, they were not loving stories. These whispers were for a child who couldn't understand them. He told her she was a monster and that's all she would be. That she will be raised to never know her gift and kept hidden away. Hidden from the kingdom until she could be married off and hidden from him.

    And as he turned the water off, he vowed one more thing, "I will never love you, little monster."