Read The Moon and Sun Saga: Crown of the Eternal Dusk :: Prologue

Prologue — The Child of Dusk

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The bells of Salastian rang through the dawn, their golden voices carrying across the marble spires and misty gardens of the capital.

The empire, once broken and bloodied, was alive again.

Flags embroidered with the twin sigils of the Sun and Moon fluttered in the wind — the phoenix crest of the Emperor intertwined with the silver crescent of his Empress. For the first time in two decades, the people of Salastian gathered not for war, nor for coronation, but for birth — the promise of a new era.

And yet, when the moment arrived, the sky did not greet the child with sunlight.

It darkened.

A hush fell over the gathered crowds as day turned to shadow. The air grew still, the warmth dimmed, and across the heavens, the golden disc of the sun was devoured by the moon.

An eclipse.

The priests faltered mid-prayer. The court whispered in awe — and in fear. For old superstition told that an eclipse was no blessing. It was the world holding its breath between life and death, light and shadow, mercy and judgment.

But within the birthing chamber, none of that mattered.

Elisana Laurel De Claire — once the forsaken empress, now the mother of an empire reborn — lay pale but serene beneath the silken canopy. Her hand clenched Marcus’s, her breath shallow, but her gaze unbroken.

And when the child’s first cry echoed through the chamber, the air itself seemed to tremble.

The eclipse reached its zenith.

The world held still.

And the emperor whispered, as if afraid the gods might hear,

“Seraphine.”

The name shone softly on his lips — a prayer, a vow, a redemption long in the making.

The infant’s eyes opened, bright as amber-gold in the dim light. For a heartbeat, they reflected the sun and moon together — two halves of a single truth.

The midwife gasped, bowing so low her forehead touched the floor. “She bears the mark, Your Majesty… the child of dusk.”

Marcus’s throat tightened. Elisana turned her head toward the window, where the last sliver of sunlight reemerged behind the moon. A faint smile touched her lips, weary but peaceful.

“Then let it be so,” she murmured. “Let her be the bridge — not between kingdoms, but between hearts.”

Outside, the eclipse waned, and the empire exhaled.

But not all omens fade with the shadow.

That night, as the palace celebrated beneath lanterns and starlight, an old priest stood alone at the Temple of Velmora, his candle flickering in the wind. His voice, cracked by age and fear, carried softly to the silent gods.

“The dusk child is born,” he whispered.

“And with her, the end of one age — and the beginning of another.”