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In a quiet kingdom nestled near the feet of a sacred mountain, where the clouds sometimes brushed the hills like lazy sheep, a child was born.
No stars fell.
No animals bowed.
No gods wept, no earth shook.
He arrived with a wail like any other babe — red-faced, squirming, and mortal.
And yet…
He was beautiful.
Not the kind of beauty that bards sing of in drunken praise, or that maidens dream of by moonlight. This beauty was something else entirely — something wrong. Round cheeks, soft skin, silver tufts like moonlight caught in a cradle, and eyes far too clear for a world like this.
The midwives gasped. The queen stared in awe. The king frowned, just slightly.
"This is no normal child," one whispered.
"But he cried like one," another replied.
And that was the truth. He brought no miracle. No omen. Only silence — the kind that follows a snowfall, soft and unsure.
They named him Eryx.
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As a babe, he was round, soft, and so adorable that servants couldn't help but giggle when they passed his cradle. He'd blink up at them with wide silver eyes, then sneeze like a kitten and clutch at their fingers. He looked like something spun from moonlight and honey, too pure for dust or dirt.
But with every giggle, every glance, the whispers grew.
"That child... too lovely, isn't he?"
"Is he even mortal?"
"No good ever comes from beauty like that."
So the king and queen, afraid not of what their son was, but what others would make of him, locked him away in the castle. Not with cruelty, but caution. They built walls of silk and gold around him, raised a palace of playthings and tutors, and forbade him from being seen by common eyes.
But Eryx?
Eryx was happy.
He didn't know the world beyond the gates. Why should he miss it? His world was full of soft pillows, sunlit windows, and his mother's gentle voice weaving stories of monsters, heroes, and stars that could speak. He laughed easily, ran in the halls barefoot, sang to birds who perched on his windowsill, and named clouds drifting past.
Only birds who have known the sky hate the cage.
Eryx did not yet know the sky.
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As years passed, his beauty sharpened.
The baby-fat gave way to porcelain lines. The silver of his eyes deepened, cold and unblinking at times. He still laughed like a child, but sometimes — just sometimes — people would look too long. Too hard. And they would feel cold, like they were staring at a blade hidden in silk.
By the time he was eight, the kingdom's walls could no longer contain the whispers.
The king and queen, though they loved him dearly, feared what fate might do to a child who looked like a god and laughed like a fool.
So one morning, without fanfare, they made a decision.
They would send him away — not in exile, but in trust. To a place where wise feet walked and ancient beasts whispered. To the mountain.
The mountain where heroes are carved.
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