THE DEVIL VESSLE

In the kingdom of Theodonria, the night was heavy and strange. No moon graced the sky, not a single star dared to shine. Shadows stretched long over the palace walls, and the hooting of owls gathered upon its roof like a silent omen. It was a night that carried fear in its stillness—a night so dark that even the bravest guards whispered prayers under their breath. To the old villagers who remembered, it was a night that felt too familiar. The night reminded them of the Day of Mourning, a tragedy etched into the kingdom’s history, a wound never spoken of aloud. It was also the night a child was born. A prince. The fourth son of King Wolmort. Darien Wolmort. But his birth was not greeted with joy. For from the moment he first opened his eyes, something about him felt… different. Something that made the air grow colder. Something that made the midwives tremble. And though the kingdom celebrated the birth of another royal heir, the shadows that clung to that night never left him. Inside a royal chamber, silence pressed heavy against the walls. Upon a grand bed of velvet and gold, a man tossed and turned, his brow damp with sweat, his breath uneven. His face, strikingly handsome yet troubled, twisted as though in pain. He was the fourth prince of Theodonria. Prince Darien Wolmort. For years, his nights had been plagued by the same torment. Since the age of eighteen, dreams had clawed at him—dreams he could never escape. In them, he felt a presence pressing against his soul, something vast and merciless, as though a second being lived inside him, fighting to claim what was his. He always heard the same whisper in those dreams. “You are me. I am you. Soon… once she is born, I will take over our body.” Those words haunted him, repeating through the years, gnawing at the edges of his sanity. But tonight was different. Tonight, the voice had changed. “It is my time now. Your time is over, young prince.” The words slithered through the darkness of his mind like venom. Darien tried to open his eyes, to pull himself out of the nightmare, but his body would not obey. He was trapped, drowning in a sea of black where even his breath felt stolen. The only light in the chamber came from the faint moon, hidden yet struggling to pierce through the window. Its pale glow fell upon the prince’s still form. And then—suddenly—his eyes snapped open. Not the familiar blue eyes that his people admired. But eyes of crimson. A deep, burning red. Darien sat up slowly, the corner of his lips curving into a smirk—a smile that did not belong to him.