Zephyrron was known as the Forgotten City of the Gods. It was a dark, sad place where people who were rejected by the "Holy Kingdoms" were sent to live.
In this land, the sun never shined. Thick, heavy fog crawled through the land like snakes, and the sky was always black. Scary monsters lived in the shadows—creatures so frightening that even brave soldiers were afraid to confront.
The land was dying. The trees were dry, empty shells with no leaves. The only thing that grew stayed hidden in the dark.
Deep in the sharp mountains was the Cave of Dao, a dangerous tunnel where poor people looked for food. At the very end of the tunnel was the Temple of Dao. It was an old building that had stayed the same for thousands of years. People were terrified of it, and even the gods stayed away.
Stories told of a god who had died in that temple long ago. This god had broken the rules of the heavens and learned secrets that the other gods wanted to keep hidden. Because of this, the holy gods cursed the city and left it forever.
The leaders of the Holy Cities told everyone to stay away from the mountain. They called it a "mouth of demons." Anyone who went there disappeared, leaving nothing behind but the sound of their screams.
In the freezing cold, an old woman walked through the ruins. She was weak and tired, but she refused to stop. She wore a torn, bloody cloak and held a small bundle against her chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
"Don't be afraid," she whispered quietly. "The gods are gone, but I am here for you."
Every breath hurts. She was breathing in dust, and a wound in her side came from an imperial arrow throbbed with pain. Her body wanted to give up, but she kept walking. The baby in her arms was her grandson, the last of her family.
The baby's mother had died giving birth, leaving the child alone in a world that wanted him dead. The Emperor of Hadar, his father, had ordered the baby to be killed for one reason: All because of its black hair.
In the Holy Cities, people believed that white or gold hair meant a person was pure. But they believed black hair was a sign of evil that would destroy empires.
"The world is so cruel for such a baby," the woman whispered with tears in her eyes. "They hate you just because of how you were born."
A red moon appeared through the fog, lighting the path to the temple. The woman knew her time was running out. Just as she felt she could not go any further, the baby made a sweet, soft sound. This gave her the strength to reach the tall, black walls of the Temple of Dao. She knew no soldier would follow her here because they were too afraid of the curse.
She stepped inside and finally fell to her knees. She was bleeding from her mouth and her strength was gone. She had made it. Her eyes began to close, but she rocked the baby one last time.
"Hush" she said.
She sang a sad song, and her voice felt warm in the cold room. To her surprise, the inside of the temple was beautiful. It was full of green plants and colorful flowers that shouldn't be able to grow in the dark. In the middle of this garden was an old grave.
With her last bit of energy, she put the baby down next to the grave.
"Whoever is buried here," she coughed, "take my life instead of his. Please, let this child live."
She took out a small knife and gave her own life in a secret ritual. She knew this meant her soul would be lost in the dark forever, but she didn't care.
"Allow him to live… Please, don't let him die here." she whispered within her last breath. "Please... keep him safe."
Everything was silent for a while, only the sounds of running water could be heard inside the cave. Then suddenly, a soft light started to glow from the old grave. It felt like a giant eye was opening. The light grew larger and wrapped around the baby like a warm hug. The air felt heavy with a power that was older than the stars.
When the light faded, a small mark was left on the baby's forehead. It was the symbol of the Temple—the seal of the Fallen God.
The child was no longer just a poor orphan. He was now protected by a powerful, an ancient law: Anyone who tries to hurt this child will have a hundred generations of their family punished.
It was not a curse. It was judgment. A law that even gods in heavens could not defy.