Chapter 2
Palace Kyr, North of Sattoriya, Tartareia.
The wind knocks into the closed windows, shattering the glass and breaking the wooden frame in half. The turbulent storm is gaining strength. A loud, howling sound erupts in the air as the wind’s tendrils slither into the well-lit chamber.
The sky is a deep red as the two moons of Tartareia inch slowly towards each other, anxious to meet for the first time in eons. It is a frightening phenomenon, just as it is a curious one, and people outside are clamoring to get a good view of it.
There has not been a moon eclipse in two hundred fifteen thousand years. The last time it happened, the war between Tartareia and Aperion took a dark turn, resulting in the loss of many Tartareian lives, including some of the most eminent Sons of Tenebreis.
The tenth of Elid—the fifth month in the Tartareian calendar.
It signifies the loss of the battle of P’nisa; a loss that haunts Tartareia to this day.
Ten leaders of the Sons of Tenebreis lost their lives to Aperite swords.
It was a day of mourning for Tartareians everywhere, but it was also a day that marked a change in the realm’s leadership.
Aperion held most of the power, controlling hell, heaven and purgatory.
Tartareia had once been the realm where all evil souls went to receive their eternal punishment, but that changed once they lost the battle of P’nisa.
The Tartareian territory that hosted the eternal torment of corrupt souls turned into Katras, and it was incorporated into the Aperite House of Psyche.
A new, much lower realm was also created to house the souls of the fallen Sons of Tenebreis—a prison that they might never escape to gain reincarnation.
On that faithful day of Elid, Tartareia lost all its advantages.
But with great disappointment also came great resolve.
The House of Noiya became the ruling house of Tartareia, and Urteos, the Supreme Lord, implemented a new rule.
Tartareia would regain its powers—by any means possible.
Even if it meant going against the very fabric of its existence.
Every immortal Tartareian was given a mission—get the corrupt souls before the Aperite messengers got to them. Convert them. Use them.
A soul is the purest source of energy in the universe, after all, no matter how corrupt.
In the beginning, Tartareians only hunted corrupt souls.
But slowly, they realized that they could control them, too.
They could use their energy to augment their own power, but they could also use those souls as thralls—blood slaves that did their bidding and created more corrupted souls for them to consume.
They became the first demons, sent to mortal realms to debauch unassuming souls and push them towards sin and decadence.
Evil had always existed in the universe as a balancing force to good. Where there was good, there was also bad. That was the principle on which everything was built. But demons skewed that balance.
Thus, a new war began. But this time, Tartareia was in the lead.
The House of Noiya was celebrated for its initiative, and Urteos became revered for his foresight.
But just as all things rise, they must also fall.
The Sons of Tenebreis, Tartareia’s most powerful and elite warriors, said to be descended from the Seven themselves, became drunk on the power of those corrupt souls.
They consumed and consumed, until that corruption took root within them and sullied their own essence, leading to a manic madness that affected their judgements.
Tartareia might have had the upper hand in the war with Aperion, but within, the realm was crumbling from new conflicts. Corruption led to thirst of power. And thirst of power led to war.
Two hundred thousand years ago, Tartareia was consumed by civil war.
And it never stopped.
There were intermittent periods of peace, with ruling houses changing every ten thousand years or so. But they were only a bleep in the bloody history of Tartareia. Instead of fighting and killing Aperites, Tartareians were now fighting and killing each other.
When the House of Silla came to power, almost ten thousand years ago, Tor, the current Supreme Lord, managed to stop the war. But with tensions rising high, it’s only a matter of time before the next conflict sparks up.
With this new eclipse and the ominous feeling it inspires in people, everyone expects things to get worse—soon.
Cloudy storms gather in the skies as the wind blows once more. Rheus, the right moon, inches closer to Rhea. Moments trickle by. The inevitability of their union brings hopelessness into the breasts of the onlookers.
It will not be long now until they become one. Until Rheus and Rhea, the ancient god and goddess of the night will have one moment to last them for an eternity to come.
Every home in Tartareia is enraptured by the event, waiting with bated breath to see this rarity, but also anxiously awaiting the calamities to come. Yet there is something more. Something that is not openly spoken of yet condemned nonetheless.
Two hundred fifteen thousand years ago, when the last union of the moons occurred, Urteos was born.
The night that marked the greatest loss for Tartareia was the night Urteos was welcomed into the world.
Urteos who would usher Tartareia into a new age—one full of bloodshed and continuous animosity.
One where the Sons of Tenebreis were no longer brethren working for a common goal, but enemies fighting for their own interests.
Urteos changed Tartareia forever, and though he is long dead, his legacy is more alive than ever.
The eclipse associated with his birth became a symbol of death.
The union of the moons is the beginning of the end.
The agonizing cry of a woman echoes from deep inside the room. A flurry of servants run up and down in an attempt to fix the broken windows and prevent the others from meeting the same fate.
They cannot afford the cold.
“My Lady, you must breathe,” the lady’s maid murmurs as she presses a white cloth against the woman’s brow, wiping her sweat. “It will be over soon,” she says, giving a nod of approval to the other serving girl currently positioned at the end of the bed.
“Where is my husband? Where is he…” she trails off as another wail escapes her lips.
“He is getting the midwife as we speak…”
The sheets are tangled around her writhing, sweaty body. She digs her heels into the mattress as she tries to withstand the growing pains. The servant girl spreads her legs apart. Her lips flatten as she gives a nod to the lady’s maid.
“It is coming,” the girl whispers.
“No!” The lady shouts. “He cannot… I cannot… The babe must not be born…yet…”
“My Lady—”
“I can feel it. Any moment now… I need my husband. He can… stop it…”
“My Lady,” the maid gasps. “You are not implying…”
“He can delay the birth. I know he can.”
“But how can you delay it when you are already crowning?” The servant girl asks in a concerned tone. “The babe is coming, My Lady.”
The Lady pales. She turns her head, gazing out the broken windows, her expression one of horror.
“No,” she whispers. “It cannot be.”
The two moons are directly in her line of sight. Slowly, they move towards one another.
“You must push, My Lady. Now.”
“No, I cannot,” she shakes her head. Her hands are wrapped tightly in the sheets. Sweat trickles down her brow as she takes breath after breath, but not because she wishes to push. On the contrary, she is trying to keep the babe from coming.
“My Lady! If you do not push, he will die! I can see his head. He will suffocate unless…”
“He cannot be born yet!” The lady grits out. Her features strain with pain, but she doesn’t take her eyes off the window.
The light outside dims. Rheus makes his way to Rhea, covering her with his body.
“Just a bit longer,” the Lady whispers amid a cry of pain.
“You cannot wait any longer, My Lady,” her maid whispers in a grave voice. “The babe will die.”
“Let him,” the Lady mentions as she takes a deep breath. “Better born dead than born to bring death,” she adds grimly.
Her maids are horrified by her words, but they do not show it. They keep trying to keep her comfortable, wiping her brow and cleaning her body.
Rheus is now one with Rhea, perfectly fitted together.
A sharp cry erupts in the air.
The Lady gabs onto her maid.
“No… No…” she exclaims frantically, shaking her head. “Do something, please. Do not let him…” Her voice is drowned out by another, sharper one. A loud whoosh followed by a sudden infantile cry. Blood soaks the white sheets, seeping into the mattress and dripping onto the floor.
There is so much blood, the maids are horrified.
They have witnessed births before. They helped their Lady give birth to her firstborn, too. That birth was easy, smooth and quick.
This one quickly turns into a horror show.
The blood would not stop. And as it flows from between the Lady’s legs, a small body slides forward, wrapped in the umbilical cord.
The cry grows louder as no one moves a muscle. The baby writhes around, seeking to be soothed, yet no soothing is forthcoming.
“He’s a male, My Lady,” the maid informs her.
The Lady is in the verge of fainting. Shock is written all over her face. She can’t stop murmuring incoherent half-sentences.
“He should not have been born. Not now. Not now. Not now…”
The maids await her orders as they stare at the infant lying in the pool of blood.
Rhea and Rheus continue their lovemaking in the sky, and that is all the Lady can see.
The curse. The misfortune that would follow.
The death.
Just as he was born from a river of blood, he would unleash a sea of blood over Tartareia.
He was death himself. A bringer of death.
And she could not bear to be named the mother of such a creature.
While the Lady is still in her trance, staring out the window at the eclipse, the maid reaches for the babe.
He’s red. Ugly. Dirty. But he is just a babe, not death itself as the Lady believes.