The birth of a Salvadors had always meant two things.
Hope…
and calamity.
Ancient records preserved within the sealed archives of the House of the Salvadonias spoke of it plainly. Whenever a true Salvadors was born—one acknowledged by the ancestors themselves—the world would rejoice. Kingdoms would celebrate. The people would sing.
And not long after, disaster would follow.
A demon tide that drowned cities.
A war that reshaped borders.
The fall of a throne that was once thought eternal.
So when the night came that Damon Salvatore was born, the world did not celebrate.
It held its breath.
Within the ancestral stronghold of the House of the Salvadonias, silence spread unnaturally through the marble halls. Torches lining the corridors dimmed as though starved of air. The wind outside the fortress walls stopped moving entirely, freezing banners mid-flutter.
Elders gathered outside the birthing chamber, their expressions grim.
None of them spoke.
They all felt it.
A pressure—slow, heavy, and suffocating—descended upon the estate, pressing against flesh, bone, and soul alike. Guards staggered, forced to brace themselves against the walls. Several dropped to one knee without understanding why.
Then the child cried.
The sound was sharp and brief, yet it echoed unnaturally far, passing through stone and steel as though they were nothing more than mist.
Inside the chamber, the midwife screamed.
The newborn's eyes had opened.
Blood streamed from them.
Not ordinary blood—thick, dark crimson that flowed freely from pale blue eyes etched with faint white, sparkling designs. The moment the blood touched the infant's cheeks, the pressure exploded outward in a silent shockwave.
The air warped.
Stone cracked.
Outside the fortress, far beyond the sight of any mortal, sealed beings stirred.
Deep underground, ancient demon relics trembled within their vaults.
Across the land, sensitive bloodlines felt a sudden chill crawl down their spines.
And high above a distant city, hidden within the shadows of a spire, a Spade-level demon froze mid-step.
Its pupils shrank.
Its breathing faltered.
"This presence…" it whispered, its voice trembling despite its power. "No—this pressure is impossible."
Its knees buckled.
The demon fell to one knee, claws scraping helplessly against stone as fear—pure, instinctive fear—gripped its heart.
"The Cry of the Ancestors," it muttered in horror. "The Salvadors have awakened another."
Back in the birthing chamber, the pressure intensified.
The newborn cried again.
This time, the pressure carried weight.
Demons hiding within the capital felt their strength drain as though something fundamental was being stripped away. Some collapsed outright. Others fled without knowing why, their instincts screaming a single command:
Run.
Then, just as suddenly—
Silence.
The pressure vanished.
The torches steadied. The air returned to normal. The world exhaled.
The blood stopped flowing.
Damon Salvatore stared up at the ceiling with calm, unblinking eyes. The pale blue had returned to normal, the faint white designs fading as though they had never existed.
He did not cry.
He did not struggle.
He simply looked… at peace.
Outside the chamber, one of the elders fell to his knees, his hands shaking uncontrollably.
"The records were true," he whispered. "The Cry of the Ancestors has answered."
Another elder clenched his staff so tightly the wood cracked.
"The birth of a true Salvadors brings fortune," he said slowly, his gaze dark with dread. "And calamity soon after."
A heavy silence followed.
"The people will rejoice when they hear of this child," another elder murmured. "They will celebrate his birth as a blessing."
"And they will fear," the first replied quietly, "what arrives because of it."
For centuries, the House of the Salvadonias had produced powerful heirs. Warriors. Leaders. Kings.
But only once in an era did the ancestors respond so violently.
Only once in generations did the Cry answer a newborn's call.
"Seal this night from history," the head elder commanded. "If the world learns the Cry has returned… they will come for the child."
He turned toward the chamber doors, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"For when a true Salvadors is born, the world does not remain unchanged."
Inside, Damon Salvatore closed his eyes and slept peacefully in his mother's arms.
Unaware that his birth had already shaken the land.
Unaware that something ancient had begun to stir beyond the horizon.
And unaware that the calamity spoken of in forgotten records had already started its slow march toward the world.