All believed that they were born for greatness. That somehow their meaningless existence will miraculously amount to something more if they believed enough, tried hard enough, and gave up everything for it. But not he; no. Not the singular and final child of Stella, grandchild of the Maimed Devil, great-grandchild of so many legends before him. The blood that runs through his vessel does not define him and does not grant him special meaning. He has been crafted from the individual fibers of the definition of this ‘greatness’ without ever being aware of it and perhaps he never will. For all he will ever know is that he is the epitome of such a word.

Divine will has been granted to him at an age of which he cannot comprehend. So he must bide his time, grow, learn and mature until he is capable of bearing the burden of what glory awaits him.

He struggles helplessly within the birth sac that has contained him for so long, his legs wriggling within the cage that keeps him, until it is that he is released. There is a singular touch to his golden marked figure before he is left to his own devices and slowly, but diligently, he writhes around in this pitch black world to find what he needs most. A trail of blood is left in his wake as his deliverer is lying unconscious before him. No sound pierces his sealed ears, no light filters through his latched eyelids, only the smell of that inviting teat drives him onward with grunts of determination.