Thunder rumbled across the dead skies.
The once-glorious Carello estate, now veiled in twilight and cursed winds, stood silent—save for the sounds of labor echoing from the highest tower. Beneath a crimson moon, Corrine screamed into the darkness as her body was torn open by something otherworldly.
Midwives—silent, spell-bound witches—stood by, trembling.
Blood poured, but not like any mortal fluid. It shimmered with gold and black, swirling like ink in water. Lightning cracked overhead.
Corrine gritted her teeth, sweat beading on her brow.
Then—a shrill cry broke the silence.
A newborn boy, wrapped in shadows, emerged from between her legs.
Eyes opened too early—aware—and glowing a deep, molten amber. The babe did not wail like humans. He growled, low and primal, before softening into a sound almost like a purr. His skin was pale, kissed with warmth that came not from sun, but from fire.
The midwives took a step back, afraid.
Corrine sat up, her hair wild, her body bare and soaked in sweat and power. Her eyes locked on the child. And then she smiled.
"My son," she whispered. "Born not of pain... but of purpose."
She took the boy in her arms, her heartbeat calming as his tiny fingers grasped her finger tightly. Already, dark marks etched themselves across his back—sigils, ancient and demonic.
She kissed his forehead.
"You are the beginning of the end."
Just then, a ripple passed through the estate.
A presence approached.
The witches gasped as the great black iron doors of the estate burst open without touch. A gust of wind flooded the hallways—warm, rich with spice and smoke. Footsteps echoed—slow, regal, inevitable.
And then he appeared.
A man cloaked in obsidian robes. His skin sun-kissed gold, his features impossibly handsome—like marble carved by divine hands. His raven-black hair spilled like silk, and his eyes... they were stars that had forgotten mercy.
Lucifer.
But this time, he came not in secret.
He came as a king.
Corrine's eyes lit with desire and awe. Her body trembled, not in fear—but in recognition.
He said nothing at first. Simply walked to her bedside, gazed at the child she held, and then at her.
Finally, he smiled.
"Our child," Corrine said breathlessly, her voice breaking. "My king... he is perfect."
Lucifer crouched beside her, his large hand cupping her cheek. "You've done well, my queen."
And then, without shame or hesitation, he kissed her—deep and possessive. A kiss not of tenderness, but of claiming. The air around them crackled with power.
As he pulled away, he looked down at the child and reached out.
The baby did not cry.
Instead, he reached up—his tiny palm resting against Lucifer's chest as if recognizing him.
Lucifer lifted the child high, presenting him to the blackened skies outside the broken window.
"Behold," he said, voice echoing with supernatural depth, "The Prince of Midnight. The first flame in my army. The child born of vengeance and ruin."
The storm outside seemed to kneel before the boy.
Corrine, bleeding and blissful, whispered, "What shall we name him, my lord?"
Lucifer looked down once more, his smile softening just enough.
"Aslan," he said. "He will carry your blood. Your wrath. And my fire."
Corrine repeated it like a prayer. "Aslan... my son..."
As Lucifer lay beside her, the infant in their arms, the future unfurled—a tapestry of flame, shadows, and shattered crowns.
And from the depths of hell and heartbreak, a new kingdom was born.
The land of Sabrah was distant—quiet and removed from the political heart of the witch realm. Nestled between the fading emerald forests and silver-flecked hills, Sabrah had once been a place of song, home to healers and memory weavers.
Now, it was the cradle of Brienne's exile.
A single woman stood atop a cliff, her once-gleaming robe tattered by weeks of travel. She held a newborn in her arms, a sleeping boy with dark hair and bright amber eyes—eyes not hers, but Calix's.
Behind her, a dozen carriages arrived—filled with the frightened, the broken, and the betrayed. Those who had fled the now-accursed Carello estate, where dark magic bled into the very bricks and whispered promises through the walls.
Brienne looked down at her child, then up at the rising sun. Her breath trembled.
"I stole your father," she whispered, "and I lost everything."
Her voice cracked with the weight of regret.
"But I won't lose you. I will build you a place untouched by demons and shadows. A new Carello. One that bears the name with honor again."
And so, Sabrah was reborn.
---
The Rise of the New Carello Witches
The land was hard. The people were few. But Brienne worked.
Brick by brick, spell by spell, she channeled all her strength into raising a stronghold from the ground. Where once her magic was used for seduction and deception, now it was for shelter and defense.
The estate grew with time: a circular fortress nestled beside the hills, surrounded by glowing trees Brienne cultivated herself. At its center stood a grand tower made of moonstone and white granite—The Phoenix Spire, named after the firebird that burned and rose again.
They called it New Carello.
Witches, orphans, and outcasts came. Many were young girls who had survived Corrine's wrath—rescued before her dark magic consumed them.
Brienne took them in.
She taught them, fed them, protected them.
No longer the false bride, the manipulator, the shadow behind Corrine—Brienne became a mother not just to her child, but to dozens.
Some called her The Weeping Phoenix.
Others whispered of a prophecy—that one of her children, born of the union between betrayal and royalty, would be the key to purging the Carello curse.