Many years before Shotaro's arrival in Olivedale—when Quazo the Obsessed still ruled with his iron will—Dronstar, son of Gronstar, the Magic Minister, wandered outside his chamber, his footsteps restless against the stone floor. He had been standing there for what felt like hours, pacing back and forth, as the agonized screams of his wife echoed from behind the closed doors.
"Agh—get it out! Get this demon out of me! I beg you!"
Her voice was raw with suffering, each word laced with despair. Dronstar flinched at her cries, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to rush inside, to be by her side, to hold her hand and tell her everything would be fine—but he couldn't. He knew he couldn't. This was not their first attempt at bringing life into the world. For decades, they had tried. Six pregnancies, six times fate had cruelly snatched the child away—either dead in the womb or within a week of birth. And now, as his beloved wife screamed in agony, cursing the unborn child within her, Dronstar could not bring himself to enter.
He understood her pain, even if it wrenched his soul to hear her call their child a demon. He did not blame her. How could he? She had suffered more than anyone, and he had watched each failure steal pieces of her—mind, body, and soul. It had worn her down, turning her into a husk of the vibrant woman he once knew. No one spoke it aloud, but they all expected him to loathe her, to cast her aside, to take another wife, one who could give him a true heir.
But he knew the truth.
She was a runaway from the cursed island—Shavoc Cormac, named after the ancient general who had doomed it. She was a beastman, bearing the blood of the cuckoo, and by abandoning her homeland, she had awakened the curse that bound her ancestors. A curse that rotted her sacral chakra, poisoning her womb and denying her the right to create life. And still, she had chosen him. She had chosen Aetheria. She had chosen hope.
Dronstar clenched his fists and continued to walk. He walked and walked, unwilling to stop until the cries faded.
Then, silence.
Not the joyous silence of relief, nor the exhausted murmurs of a mother holding her newborn for the first time. This was a dreadful, suffocating void that pressed against his ribs like a lead weight. Dronstar turned slowly, his breath shallow. He already knew. The thunder of misfortune had struck once more.
He stepped inside.
His wife was on the bed, hunched over, clutching a thing wrapped in bloodied linens. A grotesque parody of a child. Just like before, it had no skin, no eyes, no tongue, no limbs—only a malformed, fleshy mass, neither male nor female, a cruel mockery of life. A thing that should never have been born.
His wife's mind had finally crumbled.
She did not sob. She did not scream. She only clung to it, whispering something under her breath, as if she could somehow will it into existence, as if she could somehow rewrite fate itself.
Dronstar could not look at her. He could not say It's alright; we can try again. He had said it too many times before, and now they both knew it would be a lie. There were no words left.
So he left.
He walked and walked, out of the castle, out of the town, past the forests, until the skin of his feet blackened and tore, until his legs swelled, until exhaustion finally took him and he collapsed beneath the cold, uncaring sky.
When he awoke, he was back in his chamber, the familiar ceiling above him blurred by the haze of fatigue. A shadow sat beside him, fingers interlocked in thought. The scent of incense and old parchment filled the air.
"What brings my old, dickless bastard here?" Dronstar rasped. His throat was raw, his voice hoarse.
Retep, the Pope of the Drakastradorn Church, snorted in amusement, though his expression was lined with unspoken sorrow. "The king is one obsessed motherfucker. I can't get through to him, so I came to see my heirless friend."
Dronstar lunged at him, only for his legs to buckle. He collapsed onto the floor, groaning in pain.
Retep burst into laughter before offering a hand to pull him back up. "Easy now. I know you're desperate, but throwing yourself at me won't help."
Dronstar glared. "What do you know about heirs, eunuch?"
Retep smirked, leaning back. "Why are you so obsessed with what's between my legs? If you want me to sire an heir for you, why don't you start by donating to the church?"
Dronstar let out a breath of frustration. "Damn it, stop joking."
Retep's grin lingered, but his gaze softened. "You started it first, Magic Minister. You do know I could have you burned at the stake for that, right?"
Dronstar raised his hands in mock surrender. "You won't, though. Will you?"
The Pope chuckled. "No, I suppose not. But who knows? Maybe I will have myself a roasted Magic Minister someday."
Then, he sighed and sat beside his old friend, his voice losing its teasing edge. "I know you've lost another child." His words were quiet, almost reverent. "I am truly sorry. I will beg the Goddess Bhrahman to grant that soul a place on her lap, eternally."
Dronstar, touched by the sincerity in Retep's voice, wrapped his arms around him in a brotherly embrace. "The dead may never hear your prayers, but my wife—pray for her, too. She hates herself for a curse she never chose. And yet, I love her. Even if I am left heirless."
Retep placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "The sister has my prayers. Always."
After a few rounds of chess and quiet conversation, Retep's sharp eyes caught the grief still buried in Dronstar's gaze. He hesitated before speaking. "You know… maybe, just maybe, there is a way for you to sire an heir. Not a bastard, but a true heir."
Dronstar stiffened. "What? How? Is that even possible?"
Retep ran a hand through his hair, looking uncertain. "You may not like it."
Dronstar grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "We're far past caring about what I like—just tell me!"
Retep sighed, standing up. He reached into a basket and handed Dronstar an orange. "Stay here. I'll be back."
Thirty-six minutes later—yes, he counted—the Pope returned from the cathedral's library, carrying a tome so ancient its pages looked ready to crumble. He set it before Dronstar, flipping to page 300,879, Section III.
And there, written in faded ink, was the law of old:
If one of higher blood is unable to sire a child… he must seek one of the Fifteen Golden Witches…
Dronstar's breath caught as he read on.
Convince her to bear his heir… and the child shall be of true blood.