Chapter 6 — The First Nine Months
Date: 18 March 2010 — the day Árman Azevedo was born.
The first week of his life was quiet, peaceful, and surprisingly ordinary. Despite the extraordinary circumstances of his conception and birth, the newborn boy was treated just like any other baby by the world around him. Nurses, staff, family friends, and even the distant public only saw a healthy, beautiful infant. His silken white hair, golden eyes, and perfect features were unusual—but not suspiciously so. They were seen as rare beauty, a blessing, perhaps, but nothing more.
Inside the Azevedo estate, life settled into a rhythm. Leonardo and Isabella Azevedo adjusted to parenthood slowly, learning the intricacies of feeding schedules, late-night crying, and the delicate way to hold such a fragile being. Despite their wealth and power, they wanted Árman's first days to be normal—no fuss, no overwhelming attention, no pressure to make him "special." The paternal grandparents, Augusto and Helena Azevedo, who lived with the family, were doting but careful not to smother him. Their love was warm, enveloping, but not intrusive; they encouraged Leonardo and Isabella to make their own decisions while gently offering guidance.
Across the street, in their own estate, Árman's maternal family—Dr. Ricardo Duarte, Sofia Duarte, and Isabella's siblings Gabriel, Carolina, Mariana, Renato, Luiza, and their children—kept a respectful distance. Visits were frequent but not overwhelming. Every couple of days, someone would come over to see the baby, share smiles, and offer gifts, but always leaving him in his parents' care. The family's attention was affectionate but not forceful, allowing the little boy to grow at his own pace.
In those early months, Árman did everything a normal infant did. He cried when hungry, gurgled happily when content, and slept often in the soft cradles designed specifically for him. His parents marveled at his beauty, his golden eyes seeming unusually perceptive even for a newborn, but no one suspected the extraordinary mind hidden within. To them—and the world—he was simply a perfect, healthy baby, a miracle in the most natural sense.
By the time he was one month old, Árman had begun to notice sounds and movement around him. He would follow voices with his gaze, especially those of his parents and grandparents. Helena would hum lullabies to him in the evenings, and Augusto would sit quietly reading, occasionally glancing at him with pride. The household staff maintained a gentle routine, always ready to attend to him, but never pushing boundaries. The nanny Rita would often hold him for hours, rocking him while softly singing songs, while Dona Marlene made sure every blanket and outfit was meticulously arranged. Chef Bernardo occasionally brought small treats for the adults, and the younger maids, Lívia and Rosa, always peered curiously at him, cooing in delight.
By three months, Árman was developing the small, simple habits every infant does: smiling in response to his parents' faces, cooing and laughing at gentle sounds, and recognizing familiar people. He began holding small objects with his tiny hands, though nothing out of the ordinary. His family often commented on how "alert" and "beautifully expressive" he was, admiring the subtle emotions his golden eyes seemed to convey. But in truth, he felt nothing beyond what a baby naturally experiences—curiosity, comfort, and the warmth of being loved.
At six months, he was rolling over, reaching for toys, and babbling in soft, joyful sounds. Visits from his maternal family became slightly more lively as his cousins grew fascinated with him. Lucca Duarte would gently touch his tiny hands, trying to coax a laugh, while Beatriz "Bia" insisted on singing songs she had learned at daycare. Sofia Costa carefully held him while talking softly, and Pedro Costa sometimes shouted too loudly, causing him to blink in surprise before settling back into comfort. His uncles and aunts admired him endlessly, but always within the boundaries set by Leonardo and Isabella. The visits were social and happy, never overwhelming.
By nine months old, Árman had begun crawling, though his progress was typical of an infant his age. He explored the soft carpets of the living room, his tiny hands brushing against the polished marble floors and the plush rugs in the family's play areas. The estate, vast and meticulously organized, was his playground. He was fascinated by the sunlight streaming through the tall windows, by the reflection of chandeliers in the mirrors, and by the faces of the people who loved him. Every day, he experienced new sensations: textures, sounds, and sights that filled his world with discovery—but again, nothing superhuman or abnormal.
In the evenings, the Azevedo household would gather in the large central hall. Leo often held him on his lap while explaining simple things about the house and the gardens outside. Isabella would gently rock him in a cushioned chair, humming lullabies she remembered from her own childhood. Augusto and Helena Azevedo watched proudly, occasionally taking over to allow the parents a moment of rest. Even the staff, from the butler Sr. Álvaro to the nanny Rita, treated him with the utmost care and affection, always ensuring his surroundings were safe and comforting.
Across the street, the Duarte family continued to visit with regularity. Gabriel and Carolina would occasionally bring small gifts, Mariana and Renato offered advice from a distance, and Luiza provided playful attention, always leaving him in the safe embrace of his parents. These visits, while frequent, were never overwhelming. The balance between attention and normalcy allowed Árman to grow up in a life of love and security, with no knowledge of the extraordinary potential he carried within.
By the end of his ninth month, Árman could crawl confidently across the soft carpets, sit without support, and reach for toys and objects around him. He laughed and babbled freely, always returning his golden gaze to whoever was nearby, recognizing familiar faces and voices. To the world, he was an utterly normal, healthy, beautiful infant. To his family, he was a miracle. And to Árman himself, though he carried infinite potential, the world was simply the place he was experiencing—quiet, warm, loving, and ordinary.
Nothing about him suggested the power, the intelligence, or the destiny that lay dormant within. To the world, he was simply Árman Azevedo, the beautiful, adored, and perfectly normal baby of the Azevedo family. And this would remain true for years to come—at least until he began to awaken to what he had been granted before birth.