The rite ended as all rites did—cleanly, beautifully, and with the faint taste of iron beneath the honey.
Asimi carried Alaric from the Hall of Sun and Moon with her chin held high and her expression composed, as though Julios's words had been nothing more than a child's careless jest. The court watched her go. Nobles in layered silks and glimmering gemstones bowed or curtsied with rehearsed grace. The civilian public, kept at a respectful distance behind gilded rails, murmured and craned their necks for one final glimpse of the newborn prince. Even the priests, with their incense and their solemn voices, seemed eager to let the moment pass, as if ceremony itself could smooth over the sharp edges of what had just occurred.
But the palace did not forget.
And Asimi did not forgive.
The corridor beyond the hall felt narrower, though it was still wide enough for three men to walk abreast. Marble columns lined the passage like pale sentinels, their bases carved with twin sigils—crescent and sunburst—worn smooth in places where countless hands had brushed them over centuries. A long runner rug muted footfalls, dyed deep midnight blue with threads of silver that caught the light and scattered it like starlight.
Asimi's attendants followed close behind: a nurse with a calm face and strong hands, two ladies-in-waiting whose smiles were too bright, and three palace guards in white-and-gold armor whose eyes never stopped moving.
Alaric lay against Asimi's chest, swaddled in soft cloth that smelled of soap and lavender. He could feel her heartbeat through the layers—steady, controlled, yet quicker than it had been in the hall. Her arms did not tremble. Her posture did not falter. But there was tension in the way her fingers curled slightly at his back, as if her body had decided that if the palace dared reach for him, it would first have to tear him from her.
A cluster of courtiers waited near the turn toward the nursery wing, as though they had drifted there by accident. Their garments were muted, their jewelry tasteful, their voices hushed in that way the aristocracy used to disguise hunger as politeness.
"Empress-Consort," one of the ladies greeted, dipping into a curtsy. Her hair was coiled into an elaborate knot pinned with moonstone. "Our congratulations. He is… quite striking."
Asimi's smile did not change, yet it somehow sharpened. "Thank you, Lady Veyra."
Another leaned in slightly, eyes lingering on Alaric as though he were a gemstone being appraised. "A rare visage," the woman murmured, voice sweet. "Silver and gold intertwined. It will make him memorable."
Memorable, Alaric thought, even as his newborn body shifted faintly. As if being imperial blood weren't enough.
Asimi adjusted him, not defensively—never that—but with the casual possessiveness of someone reminding the world that what she held was hers.
"Memorable is not always safe," Asimi replied lightly.
The lady's smile tightened at the corners. "Of course not. Yet the Empire will adore him. The people love novelty."
Another voice chimed in—male, older, amused. "And the court loves a story."
Asimi's gaze flicked to the man speaking: a minor lord by his insignia, a fox-faced expression, eyes too clever. He bowed with exaggerated respect.
"Lord Merrow," Asimi said, as if tasting the name.
"My lady," he replied, and his gaze dropped to Alaric again. "How fortunate that the prince will be given his own manor in the capital, like his siblings. A place that is… his."
The emphasis on his was delicate, almost nonexistent.
Asimi's eyes gleamed faintly—metallic silver catching torchlight. "Fortunate," she agreed, "that the Emperor is fair."
"Fairness," Lord Merrow said, smiling, "is such a complicated thing in a palace."
Asimi did not answer. She moved past them with unbroken grace, her skirts whispering like a blade drawn from its sheath.
Only once they were farther down the corridor, out of hearing of those honeyed voices, did one of her ladies-in-waiting speak in a hurried whisper.
"They're already circling," the woman said, fingers tightening around the folds of her gown. "Like carrion birds."
Asimi's voice remained soft. "Let them circle. Birds are easily shot."
Alaric's mind, buried in an infant's body, took in the exchange with a cold clarity. It was one thing to suspect politics. It was another to hear it spoken so plainly in the cadence of those who lived inside it.
The nursery wing was warmer than the ceremonial halls, filled with the scent of clean linen, milk, and faint herbal oils. Tapestries along the walls depicted gentle scenes: Lune in silver robes guiding travelers beneath moonlight; Aurora standing with a scimitar raised, her sunburst halo blazing. Here, the palace wore a kinder face, one designed to soothe infants and lull mothers into lowering their guard.
It was still the palace.
The doors to Alaric's nursery chamber were carved oak banded in bronze. An Imperial Faith symbol—moon and sun entwined—was inlaid at the center. Two guards stood at attention, their helms tucked under their arms. They bowed as Asimi approached, and one opened the doors with a careful reverence.
Warmth rolled out, thick and comforting. The chamber beyond was large—too large for one baby—furnished with a carved cradle, a wide bed draped in sheer curtains, and a hearth whose fire crackled softly. The walls were painted a pale sky-blue with constellations scattered across the ceiling in gold leaf, so that even daylight felt like dawn under stars.
Alaric's cradle sat near the hearth, positioned so the warmth would reach without being stifling. Above it hung a mobile of tiny silver crescents and golden suns that spun gently, moved by the faint currents of heated air.
Asimi stepped inside, and the attendants followed.
Immediately, the room filled with sound: the nurse murmuring instructions, a servant adjusting the fire, another laying out fresh cloths. In the corner, a young maid in a black uniform moved briskly with a tray of folded linens balanced on one arm, her other hand already reaching to straighten a curtain that had fallen out of place.
She was older than the other nursery maids, perhaps fifteen. Light golden-blonde hair was tied back neatly beneath a plain headband. Her posture was efficient—busy, always busy—and her amber eyes flicked over the room with a practiced awareness that did not match the simple role she wore.
Alaric's gaze snagged on her, as it had in the hall.
A name whispered itself again inside his head like a half-remembered spell.
Gina.
Asimi noticed the way his eyes shifted, because mothers noticed everything.
"Gina Othel," Asimi said without raising her voice. "You are assigned here now."
The maid halted mid-step and bowed low. "Yes, Empress-Consort."
Asimi's expression remained serene. "Ensure the nursery runs smoothly. I want no… accidents."
Gina's eyes lifted for the briefest moment, meeting Asimi's gaze with calm understanding. "As you command."
Othel, Alaric's mind repeated, connecting pieces. Duke Reginald Othel of Keres, Bulwark, the northern march. A maid from his line? Or simply a retainer? Either way, she moved like someone trained to notice danger before it became danger.
Asimi lowered Alaric into the cradle with exquisite care, her hands lingering on his tiny body as though reluctant to let go. Alaric's new lungs filled with warm air that smelled of pinewood smoke. The cradle's lining was absurdly soft, embroidered with tiny stars.
A baby's world, made luxurious.
A baby's world, made vulnerable.
Asimi leaned over him, and her silver hair slid forward like a curtain of moonlight. "Rest," she whispered, brushing her lips to his forehead. The kiss was warm, and it settled something inside him—an anchor in a place that felt too large, too strange.
She straightened, turning toward the attendants. "Everyone out."
The nurse blinked. "Empress-Consort, the prince—"
"I said out," Asimi repeated, still soft, yet the room obeyed instantly as though her words had become law. "Leave two guards at the door. Gina remains."
The nurse hesitated a heartbeat too long and then curtsied, gathering her things with quick hands. The other servants filed out, murmuring assent, their footsteps fading down the corridor.
Soon the chamber held only Asimi, Gina, and Alaric in his cradle.
The silence that followed was not empty. It was watchful.
Asimi walked to the hearth, staring into the fire as though it might confess secrets. "They started already," she said quietly.
Gina stood near the foot of the cradle, hands folded in front of her, posture attentive. "The Crown Prince's remarks were heard," she replied. "The court will repeat them."
Asimi's mouth curved faintly. "And sharpen them."
Gina did not disagree. "Yes, Empress-Consort."
Asimi's fingers tightened around the edge of the mantel. For a moment, the perfect beauty of her features hardened into something colder, something that belonged more to the palace than to any mother.
"My son will not be prey," Asimi said.
Gina's gaze remained steady. "Then we make the nursery a cage with teeth."
Asimi's eyes shifted to her, and the faintest approval glimmered there. "You speak boldly for a maid."
"I speak truthfully," Gina answered, and then lowered her gaze slightly, not in fear, but in respect. "My Duke taught his household that silence is what allows blades to slip between ribs."
Alaric watched the exchange with that odd, dissonant sensation of being both infant and man. It was unsettling to lie helpless while women discussed murder around him with clinical calm.
Asimi turned back toward the cradle. "There are factions," she murmured. "Even among the servants. The first Empress's legacy still has claws."
Gina nodded once. "Crown Prince Julios's attendants are the worst of them."
Asimi's eyes flicked to Alaric. "He is fourteen. His cruelty is already practiced."
Gina's voice lowered. "Cruelty is a craft. The palace teaches it early."
Asimi exhaled slowly. Then, as though forcing herself back into softness, she approached the cradle again. Her fingers hovered just above Alaric's cheek, tracing the air as if touching him without touching him.
"He is so small," she whispered, and for an instant the steel fell away, leaving only exhaustion and fierce love. "And yet they look at him like… like a threat."
Gina's eyes flicked to Alaric's hair—silver threaded through gold. "He is anomalous," she said simply. "People fear what does not fit into their categories."
Asimi's lips pressed into a thin line. Then she reached into the pocket of her gown and withdrew a small vial of liquid, pale as moonlight.
"From the ceremonial basin," she said. "Blessed water. The priests swear it is pure. And yet…"
She uncorked it. A faint scent drifted out—clean, cold, with an undertone that made Alaric's stomach twist in instinctive discomfort.
Gina stepped closer. "May I?"
Asimi handed her the vial.
Gina held it up to the light, and her amber eyes narrowed. She did not drink it—wise—but she dipped the tip of a clean silver pin into the liquid and then held it above the hearth flame.
The pin's tip darkened.
A faint, acrid smell rose—bitter and wrong.
Asimi's gaze sharpened. "Poison."
"Not enough to kill an adult," Gina replied quietly. "Enough to weaken an infant. Enough to make him sickly. Enough to make others say… he is unfit."
Asimi's breath caught, and for a heartbeat Alaric felt her fury like a heatwave.
"Who," Asimi whispered.
Gina's jaw tightened. "It could have been added at any point after the blessing. In the hall. In the corridor. Even before the rite began."
Asimi's fingers curled into a fist. "So they have already reached into sacred things."
"They will reach into anything," Gina said.
Asimi stared at the vial as though it were a serpent. Then she turned and poured it into the hearth.
The pale liquid hissed as it hit embers, flaring briefly into a thin blue flame before vanishing.
Asimi stood very still.
Then she began to sing.
It was not loud. It was not theatrical. It was a soft, lilting melody that seemed to thread through the air like silver ribbon. The notes were gentle, warm, the kind of song a mother sang to soothe a child—and yet there was power in it, the subtle pressure of magic settling over the room.
Alaric felt it wash over him like a blanket.
His newborn body, tense and restless, eased. His breathing steadied. Even Gina's shoulders relaxed by the smallest measure, as if the song had reached into her and coaxed her heartbeat into calm rhythm.
Bardsong.
Asimi's awakened gift was not a blade or a shield. It was something quieter and, in a palace, perhaps just as dangerous: the ability to shape hearts.
When the melody ended, the room felt steadier, as though the walls themselves had been reinforced by comfort.
Asimi looked at Gina. "No one speaks of this," she said.
Gina bowed. "No one will hear it from me."
Asimi's gaze drifted down to Alaric. "But we will remember," she murmured. "We will watch."
Outside the nursery, distant voices echoed faintly—courtiers dispersing, servants hurrying. Somewhere far away, the palace's daily life continued, indifferent to poison and politics.
Asimi leaned close to Alaric again. "Sleep," she whispered, smoothing his cloth. "You are safe."
Alaric wanted to believe her.
But he was James Silver, and he knew better than to trust safety in a world that handed out "gifts" with hooks inside them.
Asimi remained for a time, seated beside the cradle, one hand resting lightly on its carved edge. Gina moved silently around the room, checking windows, counting linens, inspecting every object that might be tampered with. Once, she paused by the door and listened, head tilted, as though she could hear intent in footsteps.
When the palace bell chimed the late hour, Asimi finally rose.
"I will return before dawn," she told Gina.
"Yes, Empress-Consort."
Asimi's silver hair caught the firelight as she leaned and kissed Alaric once more. "My little star," she murmured. "Outshine them."
Then she left, her gown whispering away into the corridor beyond, and the door shut with a soft, final sound.
Gina remained.
She sat in a chair near the hearth, posture upright, hands resting in her lap. She did not sleep. She watched the cradle, the shadows, the corners of the room. The fire crackled, and the mobile above Alaric's head spun slowly, crescent and sun turning in endless quiet orbit.
Alaric's newborn eyelids grew heavy, pulled downward by biology and warmth. Yet his mind remained stubbornly awake, chewing on everything he had seen.
Poison in blessed water.
Smiles like knives.
A palace that taught cruelty as craft.
Somewhere deep inside him, the faint shimmer that had appeared in the hall returned—more insistent now, as if the stillness of night had finally given it room to breathe.
The air above his cradle rippled.
A translucent pane of light unfolded before his eyes like glass drawn from moonlight.
[System: Initializing…]
Alaric's tiny fingers twitched. His breath caught. The letters were crisp, unmistakable—English shaped into clean lines and bracketed certainty, a language no one else here should have known.
The pane flickered once.
Then stabilized.
[System: Bound Entity Confirmed][Host: Alaric Voss Ecthellion][World: Zoridia][Framework: D&D-Inspired Parameters Active]
Alaric's heart thudded, startlingly loud in his small chest. He tried to focus, and the window responded as though it could sense his intent.
[Race: Deva][Attunement: —][Status: Infant][Class: Locked][Level: 0]
His eyes widened. Attunement blank? That made no sense. Deva were bound to Lune or Aurora at birth. His father was Aurora, his mother Lune. Perhaps his own attunement had not manifested yet. Or perhaps—
Or perhaps the entity that had chosen him had interfered.
The System shifted, and new lines appeared with a faint chiming sound that only he could hear.
[Attributes]STR: 22DEX: 16CON: 16INT: 12WIS: 20CHA: 10
The numbers hit him like a wave of vindication.
James Silver, the man who had once min-maxed builds and agonized over point-buy, stared at the absurd Strength score and felt something like laughter bubble up inside him—silent, because his infant body could not laugh properly yet.
Twenty-two. Even at level zero.
His gaze flicked downward as the System added more, lines sliding into place with calm inevitability.
[Mana: Dormant][Spheres: Locked][Skills: None]
Then, beneath it, as if the System had hesitated for dramatic effect, another section appeared—faintly darker, almost hidden.
[Hidden Gifts: Present]Gift I: Awakens at Age 8 — (Hidden)Gift II: Awakens at Age 16 — (Hidden)
Alaric's breath trembled.
It was real.
Not a dream. Not delirium. Not a fantasy he would wake from back in his mother's house with an alarm clock screaming at him to go file paperwork.
He was here. He was small. He was surrounded by wolves.
And he had a door no one else could see.
The System window remained steady, waiting—patient, neutral, indifferent to poison and palace politics.
In the chair by the hearth, Gina shifted slightly, her gaze snapping toward the cradle as though she had sensed something. Her amber eyes narrowed, studying Alaric's face.
Alaric blinked.
The System window vanished instantly, folding back into nothing as if it had never existed.
Gina watched him for a long heartbeat, then exhaled softly and returned her gaze to the shadows of the room.
Alaric lay still, staring up at the constellations painted in gold on the ceiling.
The palace would keep coming for him. He understood that now with a certainty that felt too old for his tiny body.
But he had been given numbers.
Given a framework.
Given, perhaps, the only sort of fairness the palace could not corrupt—growth measured in cold truth.
And as the fire crackled and the moon-and-sun mobile spun above him, Alaric Voss Ecthellion made a vow in the quiet of his mind:
He would not be prey forever.