The grim clouds hung heavy over the ramparts of Castle Ravenscourt, a fortress whose stones had borne witness to countless winters. Within its cold, unforgiving walls, a solitary candle flickered in the queen's birthing chamber, casting long shadows over the sweat-drenched brow of Queen Maria. Her screams pierced the silence of the night, each one a dire portent in the ears of King Johann, who paced the hall outside like a caged direwolf. The clamor of his kingdom's misfortunes clung to him like the very cloak that draped his shoulders. Loss upon loss had driven him into the recesses of his own mind, where the shadows whispered promises of power and retribution. He heard the midwives' chants, their cadence a litany of desperation, and his heart grew ever colder.

Finally, the cry of a newborn pierced the somber air, a feeble yet defiant announcement of life. But the jubilation was strangled swiftly, as the wail of the child was chased by a silence most profound - the Queen's life song had reached its end.

Johann entered the chamber, his eyes falling not upon the swaddled babe, but upon the lifeless form of his wife. Maria lay pale and still, her chest silent, her spirit fled. He looked upon her, his face a mask of stone, but within his eyes raged a storm that could drown the world.

The child, Astel, was brought forth, a squalling mass of crimson and vulnerability. To Johann's eyes, the infant was naught but the harbinger of his deepest sorrows, the harbinger of Maria's demise.

As he stood there, a figure emerged from the shadows, ethereal and whispering like the wind through dead leaves. "Sorrow begets sorrow, O King," it hissed, "but the tides of fate can yet be turned."

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Johann, his heart now a fortress of ice, turned to the shadow with eyes full of hate. "Speak then, devil," he spat, "and be swift about it."

"The child," the devil crooned, pointing a spectral finger at the wailing infant. "Sacrifice him unto the darkness, and thy enemies shall fall like wheat before the scythe."

Without a moment's hesitation, a moment's glance at the innocent life that was his flesh and blood, Johann nodded. "Do it," he growled. "Turn the whelp into whatever creature you will. Just give me victory."

And so the devil reached down, its touch blacker than the foulest night, and the babe was transformed. His cries became roars, his skin grew coarse and dark, his form twisted into something grotesque and unrecognizable. Astel, the malformed star, was born not of love, but of a father's seething wrath and bitter vengeance. It bore the semblance of a monstrous parody of man, bereft of conscience or grace, cursed to wander in darkness save for the rare nights when the full moon's gaze would grant a temporary reprieve, a fleeting reminder of its stolen humanity.

King Johann looked upon the monster before him, no longer a son but a weapon, an abomination to be hidden away. "Take it to the sea-bound keep," he ordered his guards, his voice empty of paternal warmth. "Let it feed on the flesh of my foes."

As the creature that was once his son was dragged away, Johann addressed his subjects, his lies as cold as the heart that spoke them. "Our queen and my son have perished," he announced to the gathered crowd. Their mourning filled the air, a symphony of sorrow, as he promised retribution against their enemies.

But as the wars turned in his favor, as his foes were vanquished and his rule secured, King Johann found no peace. For in the depths of his blackened soul, he knew the true cost of his victory. He had won his wars, but at what cost?

The sea roared around the forsaken keep, and within, the beast that bore the name Astel screamed into the uncaring winds, a testament to a king's unspeakable sin.