The Stitched Queen

The night Sabinne was born should never have existed.

For centuries, the sky above the Kingdom of Elarion had remained flawless, as if reality itself had learned obedience. No storm crossed those sacred lands without the permission of its god, Aurelion. The seasons moved in perfect order. Dawn always arrived at the same moment, unchanging, unwavering, like a promise carved into the world.

Everything was orderly. Perfect.

Until that night.

At first, it was subtle. The stars did not fall. They vanished, one by one, as if something unseen was gently extinguishing them. The sky did not collapse at once—it hesitated, dimming in silence, as though it had not yet understood what was happening to itself.

Then came the eclipse.

Slow. Unnatural. Impossible.

A black moon slid across the sun, swallowing its light without resistance. The world froze for a moment, suspended between disbelief and instinct, before chaos finally broke loose.

Golden halls of the Celestial Palace filled with rushing footsteps. Priests moved through corridors that had never known fear. Something ancient had shifted above them, and no prayer seemed strong enough anymore.

Bells echoed across Elarion. Horses screamed inside locked stables. Birds abandoned the skies all at once, as if fleeing something they could not see but instinctively understood.

And for the first time in countless ages… cold entered the Kingdom of the Sun.

Inside the royal chambers, candles flickered violently, their flames bending as if the air itself had begun to breathe. Maids moved in controlled panic, careful not to speak too loudly. The scent of blood filled every corner of the room.

Leona Teller lay upon black silk sheets embroidered with gold. Her long white hair spread across the pillows like spilled moonlight. Even in exhaustion, she carried something unsettling—an ancient presence that did not belong to ordinary mortality.

Beside her, priestesses whispered sacred prayers, their voices trembling despite discipline, trying to stabilize an energy none of them truly understood.

This was not a normal birth. Everyone knew it. No one dared say it.

Aurelion stood nearby.

Even beneath the eclipse, light clung to him. Golden robes reflected faint radiance, solar markings shimmering across his bronze skin like living scripture. Yet his expression was not calm. It was waiting. Listening.

Time stretched unnaturally.

Then—

A cry broke the silence.

Sharp. Real. Alive.

For a moment, the world softened.

Leona exhaled.

The priestesses steadied themselves.

Even Aurelion’s gaze shifted slightly, as if something inside him had loosened.

The child was born.

A newborn’s cry filled the chamber, and for an instant, it felt almost normal. Almost.

Then Aurelion looked down.

And everything changed.

One of the priestesses went still. Her face drained of color as she stared at the infant as though she had seen something that should not exist in any version of reality.

“What is it?” Aurelion asked.

No answer came.

He stepped forward slowly.

And when he saw the child, silence deepened again—but differently.

The baby had stopped crying.

Her eyes were open.

Crimson. Too aware. Too still.

Within each iris, two pupils formed unnatural shapes—one thin like a serpent’s slit, the other shaped like a broken heart.

Aurelion did not move at first, as if even a god needed time to understand what he was seeing.

Then snow began to fall inside the Kingdom of the Sun.

Not white.

Black.

The flakes drifted through the eclipse like ash that had learned how to fall gently, settling over royal gardens and marble floors alike.

“It is an omen…” one priestess whispered.

“No… this cannot be… the prophecy…” another replied, voice breaking.

Fear spread too quickly to contain.

The newborn turned her head slightly and looked directly at Aurelion.

Not like a child.

Like recognition.

Leona, still weak, lifted her head.

“Is she alright?” she asked.

Before anyone could answer, a priest collapsed. Blood streamed from his eyes.

“I saw them…” he whispered, trembling. “I saw the gates…”

His shaking hand pointed at the child.

“She… she was sitting upon the Throne of Hell…”

He did not finish.

His body fell lifeless to the floor.

The chamber did not react. It simply paused, as if the world itself had forgotten how to continue.

Aurelion slowly lifted his gaze.

For the first time in existence… the God of the Sun felt fear.

Then the child smiled.

And every candle in the chamber ignited at once.

The eclipse ended at dawn. But Elarion did not return to what it was. It never would.

Rumors spread through the palace like something alive. Servants avoided speaking her name. Priests refused to look at her cradle. Some swore shadows moved on their own near her bed at night. Others said winter had never truly left—the snow had stopped, but the cold remained in everything.

In the gardens, golden flowers bloomed effortlessly around Fae Teller, but withered wherever Sabinne stood. The difference between the sisters revealed itself early, and never softened.

Fae, the eldest, was everything Elarion desired in a divine heir. Her golden hair shone like dawn itself, and tiny sparks of solar light appeared when she laughed. The priests called her The Child of Dawn, and she believed it completely.

She grew surrounded by praise, servants, and certainty. She learned she was special. Chosen. Superior.

Sabinne learned something else entirely.

Silence.

She was rarely visited. Nursemaids avoided holding her for long. Some refused to meet her eyes. Others requested to be replaced after spending only minutes near her.

Even as a child, Sabinne noticed.

Children notice more than adults assume.

People smiled at Fae but stiffened around her. Corridors grew colder when she passed. Servants lowered their heads too quickly, as if afraid she might look too closely.

And Cronika…

Cronika was different.

The middle sister rarely spoke. She observed instead—silent, distant, unreadable. Her silver hair carried a faint bluish sheen, shifting with light. Her eyes changed color in ways that made no sense.

She did not play. She did not laugh often. She spent hours staring at clocks or at Elarion’s unmoving sky, as if she could see something just beyond time itself.

That afternoon, the three sisters were in the palace gardens.

For the first time, Sabinne approached Fae.

In her hands, she carried a small white flower from the fountains.

“I thought it was pretty…” she said softly. “For you.”

Fae looked at it, then at her, and frowned.

“You touched that?”

“Yes…”

“Then I don’t want it.”

The rejection was simple, but it cut deeper than it should have.

“Flowers die when you get close to them,” Fae added casually.

A maid tried to intervene, but Fae raised her voice slightly. “It’s true. Everyone says it.”

Sabinne said nothing. She already knew the answer she had been given her entire life without words.

Something was wrong with her.

Cronika sat near the fountain in silence. Her gaze drifted from the flower… to the shadow behind Sabinne.

Too large.

Too aware.

With eyes faintly glowing in the dark.

Cronika blinked.

And it was gone.

Sabinne left alone.

She walked through long corridors until she reached the greenhouse near the outer walls. One of the few places where silence felt real.

Black vines crawled along the walls. Strange flowers bloomed only when she was near.

She sat by the window, knees pulled to her chest.

The feeling returned.

Burning.

Empty.

Hunger.

Not for food. Not for water.

Something deeper.

Something waiting.

Then a small black bird entered through the window.

Sabinne stood slowly, afraid it would leave.

But it didn’t.

It simply watched her.

And for the first time that day… she smiled.

Years passed.

Fae became a symbol of perfection. Cronika disappeared into forbidden knowledge. And Sabinne became forgotten.

At fifteen, her hair had turned black as the eclipse night she was born under. Crimson reflections appeared in her eyes when anger surfaced, though she tried to hide them.

The hunger never left.

Only changed.

Stronger when she was alone. Weaker when others were near.

So she learned distance.

And others learned fear.

Flowers died when she passed.

That day, during the Festival of Dawn, Sabinne stood near a pillar, trying not to exist.

Then laughter reached her.

Fae.

The golden princess moved through nobles like sunlight itself, adored and untouchable.

When her eyes landed on Sabinne, she smiled.

“Little sister…”

The hall quieted.

“I was telling a story,” Fae said.

“What story?” Sabinne asked.

Fae’s smile widened.

“How some flowers insist on growing in cursed soil.”

Laughter followed.

Sabinne felt something tighten inside her chest.

“Stop.”

More laughter.

“Fae… enough.”

But Fae raised her voice.

“Did you know animals avoid her? That servants get sick near her?”

Whispers spread.

“Stop,” Sabinne said again.

“Or the black vines? Or the shadows following you at night?”

Something inside Sabinne shifted.

Ancient.

Hungry.

“STOP.”

The ground shook.

Candles died one by one.

Darkness swallowed the hall.

And Sabinne fell.

Something broke.

Not the world.

Her.

Shadows rose—not smoke, but living things.

Horns tore through her skull. Wings burst from her back. Crimson markings spread like molten rivers beneath her skin.

Her eyes became two scarlet moons.

The air itself died.

Even Fae froze.

“A… monster…”

Sabinne heard it.

And it hurt more than anything else.

Because it came from her sister.

Her own sister.

The shadows exploded.

Glass shattered. Stone cracked. Guards were thrown aside like dolls. Divine light was summoned—and consumed instantly.

Elarion finally understood.

The third princess was not cursed.

She was something far worse.