HIDDEN TEARS HIS QUEEN

The wind howled through the trees like a living thing wild, relentless, thick with ash and murmurs older than time.

Elara Draven stood at the center of the ancient grove, her cloak snapping in the wind, blood trailing from her palm as it dripped onto the cold surface of the obsidian altar. Moonlight, pale and unwavering, spilled through the tangled branches above, casting silver shadows across the runes that encircled her. They pulsed faintly, each one thrumming with a restless, ancient energy.

She didn't flinch.

Not even as the forest watched her, its silence heavy with judgment.

"One child," the prophecy had warned. "Born of blood, marked by flame, hidden from fate."

And tonight, the mark would awaken.

In her arms, a tiny whimper stirred. Avelyn, barely a few weeks old, curled against her chest, her skin soft and unmarred. Innocent. For now.

Elara's lips brushed her daughter's forehead in a trembling kiss. "Forgive me," she whispered, eyes glistening. "This is the only way."

From the darkness behind her, a second presence emerged steady, measured, dangerous in its stillness.

Thorian Draven stepped from the shadows, his sword untouched at his hip, but his eyes, golden and intense burned with conflict. Her mate. Her warrior. The man who had begged her to choose another path.

"Elara," he said, his voice gravel and grief. "We don't have to do this. The elders... they don't have to know."

"They will," she replied, never turning from the altar. "The moment she learns to walk, they'll sense it. Feel it in her blood. And they'll fear her for what she is."

"She's our child," he growled, stepping closer. "Not a weapon."

"She will be both," Elara said softly, "and more."

The runes answered her words, flaring to life no longer dormant. The grove trembled as the ancient magic stirred, as if recognizing the power in the infant's veins.

She turned to the altar and gently laid Avelyn down upon the stone. The baby cried out, her tiny fists clenching at the sudden cold.

Elara drew the ceremonial dagger once more. Her hand didn't shake.

In the language of the old blood, she spoke the words, each syllable steeped in power. Her blood trickled into the carved grooves of the altar, fusing with the symbols etched deep into the stone. They drank it greedily, like fire racing through cracked earth.