The Forsaken Heir of Ten Thousand Realms

Chapter 8 — The Night of Abandonment

“Some stories begin with love. Theirs began with being thrown away.”

Night fell harshly on Emberfall Village.

A storm gathered above the rooftops, stirring dust and dead leaves through the narrow alleys. Windows shut early. Dogs hid under porches. Even the wind felt afraid.

Two infants—one boy, one girl—shivered in an old wicker basket as they were carried under the cloak of darkness.

Lyra’s tiny fingers clung to the frayed cloth.

Arin, barely awake, whimpered against the cold.

Joren Vale cursed under his breath as thunder rumbled overhead.

“Damn these brats,” he spat, struggling with the basket. “Should’ve drowned them when we had the chance.”

Mirra, walking beside him, hissed sharply, “Quiet! Elden said no bodies. Just leave them. Quick and clean.”

“Clean?” Joren sneered. “We already burned their house.”

Mirra slapped his arm. “Shut up!”

Behind them, the burned remains of Rylan’s cottage still glowed faintly—embers simmering beneath the ash. The smell of smoke clung stubbornly to their clothes.

And somewhere deep beneath the rubble…

the heartbeat inside the stolen artifact box had finally gone silent.

But its purpose had already been served.

Tonight, the twins’ fate would be sealed.

The slums of Emberfall—called The Gutter by villagers—lay at the edge of the forest. Broken houses leaned like drunken skeletons. Mud and trash filled the narrow lanes. Sickly lanterns flickered weakly, unable to pierce the heavy fog.

It was the kind of place where even stray dogs didn’t wander.

Joren kicked aside a crate and spat.

“Perfect place for trash.”

Mirra shivered. “Ugh. Smells like death.”

They reached the very end of the slums—a collapsed stable with half its roof missing, walls blackened from a fire many years old.

Elden, waiting there with a hood over his head, stepped out of the shadows.

“You’re late.”

Joren thrust the basket forward.

“Take them, then. And let’s finish this.”

Elden peered inside.

Arin’s pale eyes blinked up at him—confused, frightened.

Lyra reached up weakly, as if asking to be held.

Elden didn’t flinch.

He showed no pity.

Only calculation.

“Do it,” he ordered.

Mirra hesitated for the first time.

“They’re just… babies.”

Elden glared.

“And that is the only reason they’re still alive. If the Phoenix Clan comes looking, we say we never saw them.”

Joren scowled. “They won’t come. They threw their ‘princess’ into a dungeon. Why care about the brats?”

“Because their blood is dangerous,” Elden muttered. “And dangerous things must be hidden.”

Mirra whispered, voice trembling, “What if someone finds them?”

“Then they’ll die slowly,” Elden said carelessly. “There is no food. No warmth. Nothing. They won’t even last till dawn.”

Joren nodded coldly. “Good. Less trouble.”

He turned to leave.

But the thunder cracked violently, splitting the sky with a jagged white flash. Rain began to pour—cold, heavy, merciless.

Lyra cried, terrified.

Arin reached for her, as if trying to shield her with his tiny body.

Mirra bit her lip.

“They’ll freeze like this…”

“That’s the point,” Elden said.

Joren spat one last time.

“Good riddance.”

They left.

Boots splashing through mud.

Voices fading into the storm.

The twins were alone.

Arin tried to sit up, but his body was too small, too weak. He fell back into the basket, crying softly. Lyra’s little hands sought warmth, but found none.

Lightning illuminated their surroundings—rotting beams, broken tools, a rusted bucket, torn sacks of moldy grain.

Everything screamed one truth:

This place was a graveyard.

And they had been left here to die.

They cried until their voices cracked, but no one heard them. The rain drowned their sobs. The darkness swallowed their fear.

Hours passed.

They cried until they couldn’t anymore.

Arin’s little hand found Lyra’s.

Lyra turned her face toward him, pressing their foreheads together instinctively—seeking warmth, seeking comfort, seeking life.

The storm raged on.

But they endured.

And someone was watching.

A hunched figure sat under a broken awning across the alley—wrapped in rags so torn they looked like dripping moss. His beard reached his chest, and his hair fell in tangled ropes over his shoulders. No one knew his name.

The villagers called him “Old Rot”, the useless beggar who muttered to shadows and laughed at the wind.

Tonight, he was unusually silent.

He watched the twins with unreadable eyes—gray, sharp, strangely lucid beneath the grime and madness.

“This is interesting…” he murmured.

A flash of lightning reflected in his gaze, revealing something ancient behind the wrinkles.

He leaned forward.

“Phoenix blood… mixed with mortal shadow…” he whispered, voice trembling with excitement. “So this is where fate chooses to toss its greatest pieces.”

He shuffled closer, every footstep slow, deliberate.

The twins stilled.

Arin looked up, pupils dilated with fear.

Lyra’s fingers glowed faintly again—just enough to cast a tiny golden halo in the basket.

Old Rot’s breath caught.

“Oh… oh my… Blessed heavens…”

He dropped to his knees, leaning so close rain dripped from his hair onto the infants. “You two shouldn’t exist. No wonder the world wants you gone.”

His lips curled into a smile—one both warm and chilling.

He reached toward them with shaking hands—

But then snapped them back.

“No. Not yet. The heavens are watching.”

He straightened, back cracking like old wood.

He lifted his head to the sky.

“You fools above… You tossed these children away. You think fate can be bent by cowards.”

He spat into the mud.

“But I… I see the storm within them. The prophecy will breathe again.”

He turned back to the babies.

“In time,” he whispered, voice trembling, “I will see what you become.”

He stepped backward, melting into the shadows.

And the storm quieted suddenly—

As if the world were holding its breath.

Cold wind swept through the stable.

Arin’s crying faded into shallow breaths.

Lyra’s shivers grew weaker.

Their bodies were shutting down.

The rain softened.

A dog barked in the distance.

And then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Hesitant.

A silhouette appeared at the entrance of the collapsed stable—a tall man carrying a lantern.

His breath caught the moment he saw the basket.

“Oh no… not again…” he whispered.

His face fell into agony.

Recognition.

Grief.

Regret.

He rushed inside, kneeling before the basket.

“Twins…” he whispered. “Just like her prophecy said…”

He reached for them.

And the moment his fingers touched the basket—

A faint scream echoed across the stormy sky.

Not human.

Not mortal.

A Phoenix wail.

The man froze in terror.

The twins went silent.

And far… far away…

Seraphina jerked awake inside the Celestial Furnace.

She clutched her chest, gasping.

“My children…”

Fire surged violently around her.

Something had awakened.

Something was changing.

Something was coming.