Tenebris walked the halls, his footsteps barely audible over the soft sobs echoing through the manor. His presence was never celebrated, nor even welcomed with joy. After all, he was what men called Death.

He made his way to the duchess’s chambers, where she lay lifeless, still bleeding from where she had been cut open to extract the child. Tenebris, however, was not there for her; her soul was already in his grasp, ready for the journey beyond. What intrigued him was her child, who was still very much alive. Even as the newborn cried, a testament to its strength, he could smell the familiar scent of the netherworld’s flowers. This child was of death.

Over the years, Tenebris watched the child, his suspicions gradually confirmed. The child was like him—anything they touched was doomed to die. Despite this, the child possessed an indomitable spirit, clinging to life even as their very existence caused the death of those around them.

But the bell tolls eventually, as it does for every mortal. Tenebris walked through the grassy field, now dyed red with spilled blood. He appeared before the child, now grown. They gasped for breath, on the cusp of death, yet their eyes still held hope. Even now, they faced him with such spirit, as if they could defy what was to come.

“You cling to life once more, at the expense of those around you,” he remarked, gazing at the horizon. “Perhaps you are destined to become the same as I."